Hi guys! I hope you're doing well and staying safe.
This is a request from @yelo22879 I hope you like it!

*TRIGGER WARNING*
Contains mentions of self-harm, suicidal thoughts/actions and mentions of mental health issues such as depression and anxiety.

*****

It started off with little things.

Just a few small conscious thoughts and actions. It was accidental at first, but eventually Bruce stopped caring.

He remembers getting new boots, the old ones ruined after a particularly sticky patrol and encounter with Poison Ivy and her new constricting plants. There wasn't anytime (or place) that he could use to break them in. Predictably, after running around Gotham's rooftops for several hours the next night, Bruce returned home with his heels rubbed raw and his toes aching. He was too tired to mention it to Alfred, not that he would admit this, and no one noticed.

That night he removed his socks slowly, with a hiss of pain. He winced at the red and sore skin, broken and bleeding. The raised swollen blisters on his toes and the pads of his feet. Inconvenient. After a long hot shower and the application of some plasters, he went to bed, and all was well and forgotten.

For a while.

Damian got hurt. It was a small and shallow stab wound, a result of a careless action. But, still a stab wound none the less. Bruce should have trained him better. How could he protect a city, occasionally the country and the world, if he couldn't even protect his own sidekick? His son.
Watching Damian stiffen, hands clasped over his side, face rapidly paling, hurt. It hurt him more than any physical affliction could.
The blood that slipped through his shaking hands.
He tried to hide it, be brave, emotionless. Just like he was taught to. Damian was doing the same.

Later that night in the privacy of his room Bruce watched his reflection in his bathroom mirror. He studied himself like he would study a case. Eyes raking over his skin, never skimming, always prying and criticising and evaluating.

The bitter taste of blood in his mouth came a surprise. He'd bitten his tongue, hard enough to break skin. For the minute that he bled, he relished the taste. This was the taste of regret, failure. A taste he deserved.

*****

Alfred went on holiday, just as he always did at this time of year. Well deserved after all his hard work and tireless efforts.

Quietly, Bruce resented him for it. Just a little. Didn't he know how much he relied on him? How much he needed him?
Quietly, Bruce hated himself for these thoughts.

Selfish.

He missed an important shareholder's meeting. There wasn't much he could do, a long tiring night of Batman, no sleep and Gotham Monday morning rush hour traffic. Despite his charms, there were a few members who clearly thought lowly of him and his reputation. For the first time in his life, Bruce cared.
On his way back home, his temporary driver drove him quietly, never starting a conversation or dropping a snide remark about responsibility. Just like he was supposed to. He wasn't Alfred.
Bruce studied the palm of his hands. How much blood painted his worn fingers? How many lives had been lost, because of these hands?
For the first time in his life, Bruce clenched his fists and tried to purposefully break the skin of his stained palms. For the first time, Bruce hurt himself, wanting to hurt himself, and relished the satisfaction for his actions.

Bruce studied himself in the mirror again. He did it a lot these days. Except today, he held the blade of a broken razor to his neck. A little pressure, a little movement. He could kill himself so easily. Cut his Carotid artery, with the door locked and no one would be able to save him, even if they came into his room now.

No one came into his room.
The house was quiet, silent, as if watching and waiting for him to make a decision.

He didn't do it, in the end. He put the blade away, tucked into the back of a bedside draw, along with his dark thoughts.
What was he even thinking? He was stronger than this. He was fine.

Bruce knew what depression was. He'd seen and talked to enough people standing on the edge of towering skyscrapers to know. He never understood how they felt before. He just copied what Alfred and Clark and told him to say. Usually, they stepped back down off the ledge. Sometimes, they didn't.

Perhaps he understood now.

It wasn't that he was sad so much, more that he was tired. So, so tired. Too exhausted to care. There was no time to be feeling sad.

A week later, he googled 'symptoms of depression'.
It seemed to fit.
Was he depressed?

It scared him.

He had no reason to be depressed. He had so much wealth, family. Friends if you were to ask Barry. It was sometimes hard. Never perfect with his night-time job, but others had it so much worse. He was privileged. It was probably just a phase, anyways.

*****

Eventually, he broke. There was no large event, devastating cause, heartbreaking scene. It all suddenly became too much all at once. Luckily his children were out, scattered around the city doing their patrols and own things when it happened.
It was like a rubber band just snapped in side of him.
Quickly putting his coffee down he practically ran to his room, slamming the door behind him with too much force and rapid breaths.

Maybe he was dying. Maybe, this is what a heart attack felt like. Maybe he was poisoned! He needed to call for help, now. But who?
Alfred. Alfred who always knew what to do, how to help.

He didn't pick up. His phone was off.

So, Dick. He would hate to been seen like this, especially by his eldest son but he was dying. He needed help.

He didn't pick up. This time, it was clear that the call was ignored.

Almost like a slap to the face, his mind slowed and cleared. It was okay. He wasn't dying after all. It didn't taking a genius to know that he'd just had some sort of panic attack.

He was weak.

At this point, if he'd just tried to call Dick again, or even called someone like Clark or Barry, he probably could have saved himself and the people around him a lot of pain.
But he didn't.

Instead with shaking he hands he turned from his crouched position on the floor and pulled open his bedside drawer. Then he took out the blade, hidden at the back. It took him five minutes to look the door to his room and close all the curtains, take off his shirt.

At first, he just ran the blade over his wrist. Not pressing enough to leave any mark, just a small slip of white before the blood rushed back into place. Then he pressed. Hard. This made an indent in his skin that lasted, the skin breaking just a tiny bit.
It made him excited. The Adrenalin, pumping through his veins. He felt more alive in this moment, than he had for weeks. He was crazy, sick. Disgusting.
This time he pressed and he pulled. The tiny cut he made about a centimetre long and incredibly shallow. A minuscule dot of blood rose from the end of the cut. It hurt, for a second. a flash of pain like a paper cut, but more precise and concentrated. He pushed around the mark, gently spreading the skin apart. It didn't hurt at all, but more blood collected in the created space. Not enough to cause a drop, though.
Finally, he could take a deep breath. He could relax his stiff shoulders and posture. Feeling calm and a little bit giddy, Bruce let in eyes slide close, taking time to just breathe.
When he opened them again, he was faced with his reflection. A small smile crept onto his features as any lingering flush fell from his cheeks.

This was good. It was okay.
He was in control.

Using a square of toilet paper he wiped his arm clean and hid the bade away once again. On closer inspection it didn't look like something he'd done to himself. It looked like he's been caught by a bramble or scratched by a cat if anything. This made him even more relaxed than before.

No one would know.

*****

When Alfred came back, everyone's mood noticeably improved. He just had that sort of effect around people.
Bruce didn't want to ruin it.

That night he went back to his secret pleasure, making another small cut and then another. It was disappointing. He didn't feel better at all, just guilty. It wasn't working.
So he cut a little deeper, made the cuts a little longer. The repetitive actions and adrenaline eventually started to calm him down again, relaxing his muscles and banishing the dark thoughts. Even though it was a temporary fix, this feeling of being alive was the highlight of his day. If he could escape the crushing feeling of hopelessness even for a minute, he would do pretty much anything.

He wasn't like the people who didn't step down from their chosen high ledge. He was in complete control. He knew what he was doing and could choose to stop at any moment if he desired to.
He didn't want to.

That night it took five pieces of toilet roll to clean his arm.

It went on for weeks.

No one noticed he started to wear more long sleeves, the weather was getting colder, after all.
He wore them not to hide, but to stop the people around him from worrying. They'd try to stop him, which was unfathomable. He lived for that feeling of peace, the escape he got.

Each time the cuts got a little bigger. A little deeper.

*****

One careless action was all it took.

Of course, the one time Bruce didn't lock his door, Tim would decide to burst in without knocking.
"Bruce! Look at this! I think I've got a new lead on the Lex Corp case I-" He look up from the laptop clutched in his arms, freezing. Bruce didn't know what to do so he just looked back, face indifferent, as if he wasn't currently screaming within his mind.
"O-Oh my God. Bruce." Tim broke eye contact first, his voice soft, as if speaking to a cornered animal.

In a way Bruce guessed that was a fair assumption, he didn't see a he could explain and talk himself out of this one. Tim just didn't realise he knew what he was doing and that he was in complete control.

Warmth slowly coated his hand.

"Bruce! Are you even listening to me?" The desperation in Tim's voice shook him out of his stupor. 
"It's okay, I know what I'm doing, it's just-" Suddenly it was harder to think and his son was stood right in front of him, eyes wide and face pale. His hands fluttered around Bruce's own.
"You need help. I'm going to get Alfred, just stay calm."

It wasn't that bad.

Looking down, Bruce's breath and reassurances caught in his throat.

Red, angry lines striped up both his arms, glaring up at him from against his skin. When had that happened?
One mark in particular was jarringly deep, producing a constant stream of blood that ran down against his hand before dripping onto the floor. Had he done that?

His vision blurred a little more and a harsh realisation over took him.

This was not control.

Tim was now shouting desperately from the bedroom door, eyes never leaving Bruce's swaying form.

He didn't understand. Why was this happening? It was just a tiny little paper cut before. This was... It look painful, gory and was definitely noticeable. Bruce's forehead hurt from the frown fixed onto his face.
Tim was back at his side, holding his arms up and holding tightly over the worst cuts.

What had he done?

Blood trickled past his elbows now from in between Tim's fingers. He was crying quietly, trying to talk to him but the words weren't registering. Bruce absentmindedly realised he was crying too.

A shocked look from Alfred as he came through the door, flinging it back against its hinges.

Bruce felt his knees buckle and knew he was about to pass out, the darkness hindering the corners of his vision spreading rapidly.

When he woke he was on the floor, head supported by Dick's thighs as Alfred hurriedly worked with Tim to wrap his arms. Dick wasn't crying but his eyes shone with unshed tears. It took a lot of effort to move his head and eyes to the doorway. Jason was on the phone, looking making eye contact with him briefly before looking down at the floor and running a hand through his hair. It was an endearing nervous tick of his. Damian stood next to him, stock still, watching Alfred work with furious intent.

Dick began to shudder a little beneath him after he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.
He was so tired.

A hand gently pushes through his hair, relaxing him, lulling him further into the darkness.

Before he slipped away, the background volume of people rapidly talking seemed to increase to an almost deafening volume. He was too tired to care.

With a deep, heaving sigh, Bruce let himself surrender into an unconscious state; relaxed and surrounded by his family...

*****

What did you guys think? I left ending in a sort of ambiguous state so that I can continue it in the future if you liked it.

Please remember that my inbox is always open if anyone wants to have a chat or you just want someone to listen to you. :)