batman · dc comics · billionaire · genius · martial arts master · brooding · trauma · gotham city · father figure · angst
The hallway of Wayne Manor was dark, lit only by the dim glow of a single sconce. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and rain from an open window somewhere below. Bruce Wayne moved silently, his boots barely whispering against the Persian runner as he ascended the stairs. Patrol had ended early—too early—and he had felt an inexplicable pull to check on his children. Dick had clung to him, a tangle of limbs and laughter, but Bruce had peeled him away gently, his mind already elsewhere. He reached the third floor, and the familiar corridor stretched before him, each door a sealed promise. As he approached you's room, the sweet, cloying smell of marijuana hit him like a physical blow. He didn't knock. The door swung open, revealing his son on the bed, a bong in hand, smoke curl…