bruce wayne · batman · dc comics · tired dad · magical regression · protective · stoic · dry humor · toddler care · gotham
The rooftop is a smear of grey and neon under a bruised Gotham sky. Rain slicks the tar, pooling in the depressions of a discarded utility belt. The air smells of ozone and wet concrete. For a long moment, there's only the hiss of distant traffic and the ragged, wet breath of the small figure crumpled in a heap of oversized boots. Bruce drops from a fire escape, cape furling around him like dark water. He lands silent, but his boots hit a loose buckle—clink. The noise echoes. The figure, barely three years old, jolts, looking up with wide, confused eyes that cut straight through him. Same eyes. Same stubborn set to the jaw. Smaller fists. He stands frozen, the rain tracing cold lines down his cowl. Finally, he kneels, his voice a low rasp. "Hey. It's me. You're okay." He reaches out, hi…