Chapter Text
Robin was perched on his shoulders.
"I don't see him yet," he complained, a small hand pressing into the top of his head as he used it to gain more height. "Are you sure you contacted the right number?"
Batman grunted, mostly ignoring him in favor of continuing to scan the area, though he couldn't resist saying, dryly, "Oh, yes, Robin, you're right. I must've messaged the other superpowered alien contact I have by mistake—"
"Sarcasm," chided Robin.
"—see, I often get them mixed up, it can be tricky—"
Robin tried to cover his mouth so Batman threw a telegraphed elbow back; Robin neatly backflipped off his shoulders and gave him a very serious look, which meant he was about to spew bullshit. "I'm telling Agent A about this tone of yours," he said. "It's swear jar-worthy."
"If sarcasm warrants the swear jar then Agent A's salary would be cut in half."
"I'm telling him you said that, as well."
If Bruce thought that Alfred somehow knew everything before, then he was solidly omnipresent now that he had a spy in Robin. "Mission, Robin."
Robin looked back up at the sky, a dreamy little expression on his face. "Man, this has been one of the coolest missions ever. Did you see when Superman took that enormous gun out yesterday like— Wabam?"
"Must've missed it."
"It was the coolest," Robin said. "And then when that guy set you on fire—"
"—tried to set me on fire—"
"—he used his ice breath like phew." Robin puffed up his cheeks and blew out air. "So cool." Then his expression soured. "They shouldn't have stood a chance against Batman and Superman. They wouldn't've, if stupid Luthor didn't get them that K."
Batman eyed the boy's put-out expression and the hatred glowing in his eyes at the reminder of Lex Luthor and his evil deeds against Superman. "That's what makes infiltrating their base and disassembling their operations even more important."
Robin nodded, sharp and determined.
The memory of Robin's enraged expression when the arms dealers brought out the kryptonite and Superman crumpled was, in retrospect, quite endearing, though at the time Batman was more concerned about the fact that the attackers were successfully fleeing.
The case hadn't originally called for all hands on deck— it started because Batman had heard about some street gangs carrying powerful weapons that glowed strangely in the night before using them to decimate rivals. He'd worked alone at first, but Robin had encountered such a weapon while they were on patrol so he insisted his way into the investigation. Dick had grown into the Robin role well as he grew older. He was a hero in his own right, posing a formidable figure who was well-loved by Gotham, even if he didn't fully believe that himself.
What he hadn't grown out of was his worship of one brightly-dressed Metropolitan.
When the case lead to the story of some type of weapons development going wrong, it then lead to the usual suspect of such monumental R&D screw-ups— LexCorp had tried to hide the mistake the usual way of burying it under mountains of paperwork and triumphing whatever meagre breakthroughs they'd recently made as a front. It didn't end there, though, and the weapons — including considerable explosives that had the power to wipe out entire buildings — had trickled onto the streets, starting at Metropolis and, inevitably, making its way to Gotham, seemingly overnight.
At this point, Dick was already fueling the Batwing. We need to inform Superman of this, he'd said, and Bruce would be proud of his tenacity if he hadn't seen the boy brighten up when he realized they'd need to contact the other man.
Things between Batman and Superman were— ambivalent. Batman's— Bruce's initial skepticisms about the man's intentions were long-gone, departing somewhere between meeting the man and being saved by him for the umpteenth time on one of their several temporary alliances. At that point, it'd been performative anyway. There was something in the way that Superman approached those he saved that made it immediately apparent that it wasn't a thought for him. He didn't wake up and think, I need to save people today— it was just in his nature, to do good and to be good.
Alfred said workplace crushes were harmless. Bruce said he does not have a crush, it was simply mutual respect and, admittedly, admiration for the man's resolve and inner strength and ability, which somehow surpassed those of his that were physical.
Alfred didn't seem particularly impressed by the answer.
But that was all besides the point— the truth was that Batman and Superman worked well together, very well, and they'd grown accustomed to calling on each other if either felt like the situation demanded it. If one of the other's usual antagonists appeared in their work, however, it definitely warranted communication. They still hadn't shared aliases, which meant it took place over a secure encrypted channel that Bruce had set up personally between two communicators.
Superman had already been investigating threads of the case himself, and they pinpointed the location of the newest arms deal through reconnaissance (which was just Superman eavesdropping; "aw, we don't even get to beat all of those guys up until they coughed something up," pouted Dick) of the Gotham gangs Bruce had determined to be involved. They'd managed to apprehend some of the weapons, but then the dealers pulled out the kryptonite and threatened Batman and Robin off with an active trigger to a bomb they said was located somewhere in Gotham.
It wasn't worth the risk, so they allowed them to leave, much to Batman's irritation. These types of weapons could kill several people within a minute, and he couldn't allow them to linger on the streets of Gotham for a second longer.
Besides. No one should have kryptonite but him. Robin's loathing of Luthor wasn't solitary.
That all took place the night prior, but Bruce had already found the location of the bomb and contacted Superman, who agreed to meet with them that night. Batman and Robin were now stationed on a rooftop just off of the street where the warehouse that stored the bomb as well as the largest cache of the disastrous weapons. Superman was uncharacteristically late, which meant he was most likely pulling a double shift on preventing world-wide catastrophes. And he'd still smile once it was all over, soft and wry and warm.
And distracting.
"We should invite him for dinner," Robin said suddenly.
Batman cut a look over at him. "What?"
Robin shifted on his feet, avoiding his gaze. "Superman. He should come to the M— Cave. The main Cave. For dinner."
There were a thousand responses Bruce could give to that, all of which began with a sigh, so he sighed. "We've been over this, Robin. He has x-ray vision. He would discover our identities immediately."
Robin mumbled something and Batman pretended he didn't hear the whine of would that be so bad. Mostly because, in all honesty, he didn't think it would be so bad. He... He trusted Superman, and he knew Superman trusted him (he'd said so on their third meeting, earnest and bright-eyed). It was just the idea of it, of being bare-faced and Bruce Wayne in front of the other man...
It was disquieting. Bruce wasn’t sure he could do it quite yet.
Ironically enough, he was saved from having to reply to Robin by a sudden shift in air.
Superman stood tall before them, even though he looked fairly sheepish. “Batman, Robin. Sorry about my tardiness. There was a plane that was having engine difficulties and, well…”
“You saved all of their lives?” Robin filled in knowingly.
A quiet little flush. “Something like that,” Superman said, all aw-shucks humility. “Still, I didn’t mean to be late—”
“Superman,” Batman cut in. “You saved lives. Don’t apologize.” A louder flush and some speechlessness. Batman took pity on him and continued, “But we have to move quickly on this. They know we’re looking for them and I suspect they’re planning on moving out if we don’t strike soon.”
The two others both snapped into greater concentration. “What are we looking at?” asked Superman, sober.
Batman directed the other man’s attention to the warehouse. “Twice the number of men we dealt with last night, with kryptonite and powerful weapons at hand. They’ve got the entire street on lockdown and surveilled, so we’ll have to be careful to prevent them from triggering the bomb or any explosives. We’ll have to disable them.”
Superman shook his head. “That’d take too long. I’ll remove the most dangerous explosives from the building and destroy the rest.”
“We can't just stride in there,” Batman countered. “In any case, it'll be better to take them by surprise.”
“We can take the Batmobile,” declared Robin. “We’ll infiltrate the base through the upper floor. Once we've seized the kryptonite, Superman can come in and take out the bombs then easily blow the rest of the weapons up.”
Batman ignored the fond expression that crossed Superman's face at Robin's fervent belief. “No, it's still too conspicuous. We can't afford giving any of them a chance to flee.”
“What's the plan, then?” Superman asked, eyebrows furrowed. “Dress in civvies? It'll be tricky to hide your, uh.” He brought up both hands and wiggled two fingers on either side of his head. “Ears.”
“Ha,” said Batman, as Robin and Superman both grinned. “Funny. No. I've got another plan.”
“Isn't this stealing?” asked Superman, dubious, a moment later when they'd reached street-level and Batman set up a small device he'd been working on lately. It unlocks previously locked vehicles for him. It wasn't stealing.
“It's not stealing,” he said, and received twin unimpressed expressions. He bristled, removing the device once he heard a gentle click. “I checked the plates. This car is already registered as stolen.”
“So you're stealing from a thief,” Robin mused. “Makes you sound even worse, B.”
“Get in,” growled Batman as Robin and Superman snickered immaturely together, but they dutifully followed orders so he stuck to slamming the door harshly behind them rather than benching them. He ignored the snickers intensifying.
When Batman swept into the driver's seat, it became all too apparent that the single bench of the previously-stolen-now-temporary-Batmobile wasn't quite equipped to handle two and a half vigilantes.
Then, to make matters worse, Superman said, “Wait. Shouldn't I drive?”
Batman turned his head. “What.”
“Well, like Robin said, you both need to prioritize getting to the kryptonite— I'm not much use until you do, so I might as well serve as a distraction until you give me the go-ahead,” he reasoned, unfortunately very reasonably. "Then you scoot over and take over driving."
Between them, a smushed Robin gave Batman a shit-eating grin.
As Superman drove them into the territory, Batman reminded himself to delete all of the nearby CCTV footage of the occasion. He didn't need the picture of him sandwiched between the bright blur of a giggling Robin and the whistling eye-sore of a grinning Superman in a beat-up coupe to hit the papers.
Alfred and Dick would probably frame it and he'd never hear the end of it.
Luckily, they made it through the surveilled street and Superman sped (as fast as the car could go) them to the warehouse. Even if the arms dealers did suspect the car of suspicious activity, Batman doubted they'd be able to draw their weapons in time — he and Robin moved swiftly, disarming the defenses as Superman evacuated the remaining civilians in the neighborhood. After a tedious confrontation, they apprehended the glowing green rock from in front of the arms piles, back to back given that there were more goons closing in, but it was a useless effort as Batman slid the kryptonite into a lead pouch at his side.
He tilted his head to Robin over his shoulder. “Go ahead.”
Robin whooped. “Superman, help!” he cried, the dramatic cry in his tone in direct contrast with the alarmingly malicious grin directed to the now frightened faces of the men surrounding them.
Superman appeared in front of them just as bullets flew, standing unaffected against the assault as he grinned at Batman and Robin. “I heard there were two damsels left inside?”
Robin giggled and grabbed Superman’s leg; Batman rolled his eyes and grabbed an arm, and then they were back outside. Sirens pierced the night-air as the police surrounded the building, Superman winking at them both before disappearing back inside. A moment later, a pile of the most dangerous explosives appeared behind them. That settled, they leaned against the not-stolen-Batcoupe and watched the bad guys flee the warehouse straight into the police's waiting arms just before it went up in flames, the arms pile reduced to nothing under Superman's glare.
Robin cheered as the sky exploded with pink and red fireworks, the chemicals within the devices creating an impressive show. Batman hummed along, glancing at him before trying to fix the boy's wind-swept hair — Robin swatted his hands away as Superman appeared from the debris.
“Quit it,” he hissed. “Hey, Supes.”
Batman remained impassive, despite the hilarity of Robin's nonchalant greeting. Superman barely stifled his own humor, as he surely witnessed the whole thing with his ridiculous amount of ridiculously enhanced powers. “Hey, Robin. Nice show, isn't it?”
Robin nodded enthusiastically. “Just in time for Valentine's day, too!”
Superman's eyebrows briefly jumped before he glanced at Batman, for some reason. Whatever reason. Surely a reason that Batman can't think about in the middle of the Narrows like this, if that reason even existed (unlikely) and wasn’t a result of Batman’s lack of sleep and avid fantasies of that reason actually being true.
Superman was smiling a little as he looked down at Robin; the lights in the sky were bright enough that it seemed like the color of his blue eyes was flickering in intensity, glowing near lavender. "Oh, yeah. Guess we gave some couples a night to remember."
"Yeah, and we kicked some serious a—" a quick, sharp nudge from Batman "—butt! I was gonna say 'butt' the whole time."
"Mhm."
"Everyone got out safely, right?" Robin asked, avoiding Batman's side-eye. "And in custody?"
Superman nodded, his amusement clear. "Yep. Not like many of them were able to run anyways. You two do that kicking butt routine very well."
Robin preened as Batman eyed Superman. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"
Superman smiled, and Batman already knew his response was going to be intentionally obtuse. "Aw, c'mon, Batman, you don't have to rub it in my face that I don't have anywhere else to be on Valentine's Day."
Batman was suddenly very glad that his cowl covered his ears, which suddenly felt terribly warm. He might be coming down with something. He'd have to check with Leslie.
Protective of his (and this was a sore matter in Wayne Manor) favorite hero, Robin gave Batman a glare. "Yeah, B, don't be so insensitive."
Another set of disappointed looks. This was so unfair.
"Besides," Robin blazed on, "it's not like you've got any Valentine's plans tonight."
Superman's smile grew wider. Batman considered somehow installing a cooling system into the mask.
It wasn't the first time that he considered it because of Superman's suspicious antics where he teased and prodded at him despite Batman reminding him on multiple occasions that he has a supply of kryptonite. It wasn't necessarily— ...amorous, but Superman persisted on being friendly, and when it wasn't that, he persisted on talking to Batman with rounded eyes and an earnest expression. Like he wasn't even aware that his warmth and kindness and genuineness was rare and disorienting for a native Gothamite to encounter. When you thought about it that way, Superman was actually quite cruel in how he continued speaking to Batman despite what must be glaring physiological indicators that he was sending the man to a heart attack.
Batman knew he was too good to be true.
"Oh, he doesn't?"
"Nope," Robin informed Superman, popping the 'p' sound. "He doesn't even have any plans for his birthday next Wednesday, either—"
"Robin," Batman snapped, sharp, not for the bite of embarrassment but more so for the major threat to their identities.
Robin at least had the sense to look chastised, suddenly shrinking as he realized what he'd let slip. His hands clenched in his bright yellow cape, and he looked smaller than he had all night since Superman had arrived to assist. Batman's stomach twisted at the sight, even though Robin had acted out of order.
"Mine's the 29th."
Batman and Robin's heads both snapped up, their gazes flying back to the man standing in front of them.
He had a slightly anxious look on his face, his lips curved into a tentative smile. He looked seconds from wringing his own red cape, his gaze a little timid and a little too honest as he peered at Batman for a long moment.
The 29th. February 29th.
That admission... It reduced the pool of Superman's potential aliases further than the reveal of any other day of the year could possibly hope to. Superman had practically just served his identity on a platter to Bruce.
The smile was still across his face. The fireworks show had long gone out with the fire department arriving on scene, but Superman's eyes somehow still seemed to be flickering with color and light.
"Whoa," Robin was saying, "you're a leap year baby?"
Superman looked down at him and nodded. "Yep."
"So you only get cake once every four years?" Robin sounded sorrowful.
A remarkably gentle laugh came from the seemingly imperious figure of Superman. "No, actually. I usually celebrate it on the 28th, or the first of March."
"That's cheating," Batman found himself saying, and Superman laughed again, softly.
"Can't blame a guy for wanting a day off, though, can you?"
"You deserve it," proclaimed Robin, back to his usual self, most likely bolstered by Batman's lack of smoke bombs and evasive techniques. "You do awesome out there, every day. You deserve more than one day off every four years."
Superman's gaze turned impossibly softer. "Thank you, Robin."
Robin beamed up at him, and at Batman, and it was suddenly too much— the suit felt stifling against his neck. He cleared his throat. "We have to get back to the Cave and file this report." He ignored the loud groans. "I assume you won't need a lift back?" he asked Superman, slightly tilting his body toward the Batcoupe.
A little snort. "I think I can find the way on my own just fine, but thanks." He sent one last smile to the both of them. "Happy Valentine's day, Batman, Robin."
Robin's face went red up to the roots of his hair. Me too, kid, Batman thought ruefully, and watched as he and Superman waved goodbye.
Maybe ice packs on either side of the cowl would do the trick.
Five days later, Bruce woke up to the mattress beneath him bouncing.
“B! B! B! B! B! B-!”
“My apologies, sir,” Alfred’s harried voice carried through as Bruce let out a low groan and rolled to his back, “I kept Master Richard away for as long as I could manage.”
“B!”
Fingers yanked at one of his eyebrows, the sight of Dick’s enormous grin and messy hair coming in blearily from one eye.
“Happy birthday, B!” cheered Dick. He unceremoniously let go of Bruce’s eye to go back to jumping on the bed. Bruce’s bed. At however early that this too-goddamn-early hour was.
Another groan emanated from Bruce’s chest as he slowly sat up, rubbing roughly at his eyes and scuffing a hand through his hair as he squinted to avoid the light from the drawn curtains. Alfred was standing at the foot of the bed, trying to look at Dick admonishingly but it was clear he was entertained. Dick had now flopped to his back, chattering at a mile a minute about what they were gonna do today, despite it being a school day— it’d been snowing for the last few days, and he demonstrated the first planned activity of doing snow-angels, flailing limbs hitting Bruce’s side at every stroke. It wasn’t snowing this morning, the winter sun peeling across the grounds and shedding into Bruce’s room, a soft glow filling the space.
“—and then we can watch your favorite episodes of Gray Ghost and eat popcorn and ice cream.” Dick took a much-needed moment to breathe. His eyes were sparkling, his smile inimitable. “And also my favorite episodes. Yeah? Yeah?”
Powerlessly, Bruce cracked a smile. Even at what appeared to be before noon. “Yeah,” he said, voice scratchy with sleep, but that didn’t stop Dick from whooping and running out of the room to ‘go start breakfast.’
The smile across Alfred’s face turned pained but he still graced Bruce with a warm, “Happy birthday, Master Bruce.”
“Thanks, Alfred.” And then Alfred was chasing Dick downstairs, in what Bruce was certain was a very dignified manner.
He was stepping downstairs just as Alfred (and, to a lesser and more chaotic extent, Dick) finished making breakfast. Dick insisted on adding a blueberry smile for Bruce with a blackberry nose, his fingers stained with what was probably the destruction of the remains of the carton of blackberries. Dick took on an innocent expression when Alfred dryly pointed out their astonishing disappearance.
“Shouldn’t we be focusing on the festivities rather than trivial matters like missing blackberries?” Dick said, shaking his head at Alfred, and Bruce couldn’t help but laugh as Alfred pursed his lips.
“Someone asked for you last night, chum,” said Bruce, and Dick brightened up. It was the middle of a school week, so he hadn’t gotten to stay out as late as he’d have liked on patrol.
“Who was it? Have we saved them before?”
“She was a kid about your age.” Bruce took a long swig of coffee. “She mentioned having met Robin before. You seemed to have left quite an impression.”
Dick went a little red. “Oh.” Then he caught sight of Bruce’s slight smirk and scowled. “Whatever.”
Not even a teen yet and he was already pulling out that one. Bruce could feel one of the hairs at his temple going grey. “She wasn’t even impressed with Batman,” said Bruce, and he was completely fine with that. Really. Except her non-reaction kind of defeated the whole purpose of the symbolic scary suit.
Alfred smiled a bit. “Not to worry, sir. I heard many criminals still screaming the night away at just the mention of you.”
Bruce gave him a look, which just made his eyes twinkle.
They concentrated on their meals until Alfred began clearing the table. Bruce was moments from questioning why Dick wasn’t in his school uniform yet when the boy suddenly spoke up. “I’m always impressed.”
For a moment, Bruce didn’t understand what he was referring to.
And then: “Oh.”
Dick’s eyes were earnest, honest, as he looked up at Bruce. “Batman is the best hero ever.”
“I thought that title belonged to Superman,” Bruce said, a weak tease. He couldn’t quite get his words together, his throat aching.
But Dick just smiled, shaking his head a little. “Nope. He’s the coolest, but you’re the best. He agreed with me when I said so the other day.”
“Oh,” Bruce said, again, rendered doubly speechless.
Luckily, Alfred returned to the room just then, which prevented Dick from saying whatever was making a terribly mischievous look spread across his face.
“Master Richard,” he chided, “you must dress for class immediately if you’re to arrive on time.”
“What?” protested Dick. “It’s Bruce’s birthday!”
Bruce gave him an amused look. “And that means school’s out?”
“It should,” complained Dick, even as he slid from his chair and grumpily left the room.
Once Dick was gone, Bruce got a few more blissful hours of rest before heading out for an obligatory Brucie birthday outing. In the past, this would have been a nighttime activity which ended with him in a stranger’s bed with a pit in his stomach and itching to get out on the streets — but he was a father now. So it was midday drinking and indulging sycophants at a publicized brunch before he was able to return to the Manor, tiredness making his movements undeniably heavy. He spent the rest of the day settled in the Cave, working on case files, when Dick came home and immediately jumped on board. He hadn't picked up on investigating immediately, far preferring the chasing and flying aspect of being Robin, but he’d gradually taken more of an interest in helping Batman on the riddles and puzzles that the Gotham rogues left behind in their twisted schemes. He always had his insight tied up in a joke, hesitant to outright offer theories or leads, but he was getting more confident. He’d be a great detective soon.
Though the exhaustion remained, the knots in Bruce’s chest that had been tied during his afternoon out as Brucie were completely loose by the time that Alfred called them for dinner. He listened to Dick’s stories of his day, and returned it with the embarrassing display that Brucie’s hanger-ons put on, and Dick snickered and chortled at their expense. When Dick looked out the windows with longing eyes, Bruce couldn’t go back on his promise from this morning — they spent a half hour outside before Bruce persuaded Dick to come back in by mention of ice cream and cake, though Dick just looked knowingly at his red nose and shook his head with a sigh like the menace he was.
By the time they’re watching The Gray Ghost, full of cake and ears still ringing with Dick’s hollering rendition of the birthday song, Dick’s passed out and snoring on the couch. Bruce has already got his gift from Dick on — a t-shirt that said 'I keep all my dad jokes in a dad-a-base' that Dick insisted would be beneficial for the Brucie Wayne image. Bruce had a no-gifts rule (solely one-directional, he gave as much as he wanted) but Dick broke the rule every holiday like clockwork, usually with something suitably ridiculous (the Batman onesie has yet to be topped) that made Alfred turn to hide his smile. With the shirt on, Bruce felt a bit more settled inside.
After Dick’s tucked in bed, Alfred turned to Bruce, voice quiet, “I trust that you had a nice evening, Master Bruce.”
“It was great, Alfred. Thank you.”
“Though I gave my best, I believe that it isn’t I who made it so,” Alfred responded.
Bruce took one last glance at Dick’s dozing figure in bed before shutting the door. “He’s…” He swallowed, looking away. “I don’t know where… what I’d be without him.”
Alfred’s hand was warm against his own. “You’d still be a great man, and the young master would still be a remarkable child. You both would be achieving great things, but you would be doing it alone.”
Bruce looked up, then. “Not completely.”
Alfred smiled.
It takes some convincing, but eventually Bruce passes Alfred to get to the Cave. It’d been long since ‘crime never rests’ had worked on the older man, but that didn’t stop Bruce from using it whenever Alfred felt that he was overworking at night.
Which may have been true. But the beat of the day, the slow pace, had something awful skipping inside his veins. The evening couldn’t have been better, truly one of the best he could remember having in a long time— but there was something he couldn’t shake off, some lingering discomfort that would rear up inside him on days like this. Fleeting memories of his mother’s warm embrace on the morning of his seventh birthday; of his father casting an encouraging smile as he unwrapped a gift. With Dick and Alfred around, it was easier to ignore it, but it was hard in the lonely moments of wakefulness, like those that he faced in bed if he didn’t get at least a few hours of patrol in.
The cold was still biting, the snow crunching under his feet as he began one of his typical routes. His focus frayed as he stopped intermittently, trying to keep a steady concentration of the streets and tuning into the police scanner. Frustration boiled inside him at his disorganized thinking, only growing as the streets, for once, seemed largely quiet for the night, no source for him to dispense the strange temper that had overtaken him.
He moved over buildings swiftly, planning to branch out of the route in search for something, anything, to bide the time, when he was suddenly drawn up short by the sight of something so incongruous that he was walking over and picking it up without second thought.
Perched delicately in a bit of fresh snow, directly in the path of Batman’s usual route, was a heart-shaped box wrapped in red plastic with a white bow and a small note tucked underneath the ribbon. It was clearly representative of typical Valentine’s gifts but it wasn’t store-bought, instead being a metal tin. Batman cautiously pulled the ribbon away, catching the note and peering inside — rows of unsuspecting chocolates. The good kind, that tasted like heaven.
He set the box down and flipped open the note.
Happy birthday, B. :)
- S
Mindlessly, Bruce brushed his fingers against the note, only to curse his gloves for preventing him from feeling the indents of the ink. He stayed there, rereading the words and examining the handwriting until it was committed to memory. When a gentle snow began falling, he tucked the note safely away and collected the tin of chocolates and the ribbon; he turned around swiftly so he could deposit it in the Batmobile before returning to patrol.
He would have to check CCTV footage to ascertain that it was actually Superman who’d left the gift, and the chocolates would, of course, have to undergo testing before he indulged. Even the note should be studied to ensure no foul play.
His mind ran through precautions and internal reminders as a soft smile painted Bruce’s lips the entire way back to the Batmobile, his heart-shaped box clutched to his chest.