waiting
Summer ends, the leaves change, the snow falls, and the flowers grow again in an endless cycle that is proof the world is still moving on in some semblance of normality but he is frozen in Wayne Manor, his broken body never fully healing. He hides Batman's suit in a compartment in the cave that slides under the ground because he can't look into those hollow, patronizing, mocking eyes, eyes that say, "You failed," and he can't understand why because he won. But he doesn't go to the cave anymore. Whenever he sees the mask, he feels a sinking something in his chest and it feels suspiciously like defeat.
The grounds swallow him until he can never leave them while the world outside changes. The people give his White Knight a day, an act, a prison. He sees the fruit of his sacrifice but it stands on so shaky a foundation that he's constantly on edge, waiting for it to topple and reveal his lie. He bites his nails until there are none and stops shaving regularly. Any mirror he passes shows him a shadow of what he once was, a stranger. He covers them up, then takes them down.
The windows, he doesn't cover, even though most of the time he wants nothing more than to do just that to the portals affording a view to the city that no longer wants nor needs him. He tires of waiting for something to go wrong so that he may rise again, a savior, a symbol, until he half believes that those so easily deceived people don't even deserve it anymore, until he half believes that he doesn't deserve this insane hope that he may someday rise from the ashes of this, his greatest defeatvictorydefeat.
He waits, shying away from his reflection, hiding from the harsh, unforgiving eyes of the Batman, the absence of Rachel like a weight on his body that presses relentlessly on his lungs and is as powerful as it is subtle.
Bruce waits, until he forgets exactly what it is he's waiting for.