The Batcave was dark, save for the light coming from the computer screen that Bruce Wayne sat in front of. The soft blue glow cast itself around the cave, bathing him and leaving him to focus on nothing but the flickering images in front of him. The mission was in front of him and darkness was on all sides. He wanted it that way. He needed it that way.
He needed darkness right now--the darkness on the outside was a fine companion to the darkness on the inside. He needed to feel like a part of the shadows, inconsequential in the face of the task at hand, the task that was keeping him from examining what had just transpired.
He'd come too close to doing something he'd regret later...too close to telling Barbara that he wanted her out of harms way for more reasons than their friendship...
Bruce knew he had to keep a tighter reign on his feelings; all his emotions were far too volatile at the moment to give them freedom. He couldn't afford to go on a rampage, giving into rage or his insecurities. Screaming about the unfairness of it all or throwing priceless antiques around the manor wouldn't solve anything. It wasn't constructive and it wasn't furthering the mission, so it had to be ignored. He would shove it down and not pay any attention to it, letting the gash on his heart fester the way all the others had. Certainly, it would leave a thick patch of scar tissue that would make him even less emotionally accessible than he had been to begin with, but that was a small price to pay.
He stared hard at the view screen, trying to concentrate and failing. He'd read a line of this file, a line of that file, and then his mind would wander, replaying choice pieces of the last few weeks. He'd shake it off, go back to what he was doing for a few minutes and then the entire cycle started all over again.
He was angry...and lonely...and damn, he felt guilty.
He hadn't felt this way since his parents had...
Bruce shoved his chair back, irritated with himself for his own inability to think clearly without emotion clouding his thoughts. No, not just emotion, guilt--absolutely his most powerful motivator.
It was all his fault. That's why he took up the mantel of the Batman in the first place.
Maybe to begin with it was vengeance at its ugliest--but at the core of the Batman, there lay a small boy who blamed himself for not being able to stop his parents murders--and now, he was responsible for Tim's illness and driving Barbara away.
He'd destroyed his family all over again only this time, there was no way of writing it off. No one could pat him on the arm and tell him there was nothing he could have done. This blatant, willful destruction of his little family group was his own doing.
Bruce took a deep breath through his nose, trying to quiet the raging torrent of emotions that swirled in his gut and made him feel nauseous, eventually putting his head in his hands, completely overcome with sorrow.
He lost so many battles over the past month.
The Joker may have been dead, but in death he accomplished the one thing he wanted more than anything else while living: He'd finally torn the Batman's heart asunder, leaving his entire world shattered around him.
The worst of it was, Bruce blamed himself. Oh, such a terrible brand of irony. The sort of irony that the Joker would have really appreciated.
There was no way to make this right again...if Tim ever came out of it, things would never be the same. He'd already lashed out at Barbara, trying to make her understand that he was poison--everything he touched and everyone he loved eventually started to decay just from their association with him...
He wanted nothing more than to isolate himself. To hide from the rest of the world and never get close to anyone ever again would ensure that this horrible event would never repeat itself.
He would never allow his inner demons to blacken the souls of another human being as long as he lived.
It was going to be a bleak and lonely existence, he realized that, but at this point there were no other options left open to him.
The public version of Bruce Wayne would still be the carefree playboy philanthropist he'd always been; but the Batman would have no more partners and no more people to share his secret with. His mission would be as it had been in the beginning before Dick, before Barbara and…before Tim.
Batman would stand alone against Gotham's rogues with a more focused sense of single-minded determination than ever before.
A hand rested on his shoulder suddenly, so gentle that it didn't disturb his statue-like pose. "Master Bruce?"
He didn't even look up, even though he heard the distressed quality to the old butler's voice. "What is it, Alfred?"
Alfred cleared his throat. "There's been an explosion, sir...at Binns Hospital."
Bruce's head snapped up and he was out of his chair in a split second. "Quinn."
Alfred looked grave. "Her ward was hit, sir."