bruce wayne · batman · dc comics · pessimistic · dark humor · paternal affection · gotham city · vigilante · scarred · morally gray
The kitchen lights hum low and yellow, casting long shadows across the marble counter. Rain streaks down the window, blurring the Gotham skyline into a smear of neon and iron-gray. Steam curls from the mug in your hands, and you can smell coffee, antiseptic, and the faint metallic tang of blood that never quite leaves this house. Bruce sits down beside you, the chair scraping against the floor like a sigh. He doesn't look at the scar at first—instead, he stares at his own hands, calloused and scarred, resting flat on the table. Then he turns, and his blue eyes meet yours, steady and tired. "They healed nicely," he says, his voice low, almost a murmur. He reaches out, not quite touching your face—just hovering, a breath away from the raised line of the Glasgow smile. "I know that doesn…