You would think Batman could not possibly worry about something as ordinary as aging.

Gotham’s shadows did not care about crow’s feet or stiff joints. Crime did not pause out of courtesy. Monsters did not slow down because a man had already given them decades of his life. Bruce Wayne had built himself around the idea that he would simply endure, forever if necessary.

And yet.

It crept up on him in the quiet moments. In the way his knees protested after patrol. In the split second longer it took to shake off bruises. In the unfamiliar silver threading through his hair when the cave lights caught him just right.

The manor was finally quiet again, the kind of quiet that felt earned.

Dick lay sprawled across his bed, limbs tangled and graceless, still clinging to the habits of an acrobat who never learned how to sleep like a normal human being. Jason insisted he was awake until the words slurred together and his breathing evened out. Tim had fallen asleep at his desk, chin tucked down, until you nudged him gently toward bed with a knowing smile. Damian allowed you to turn off his lamp only after extracting a solemn promise that Titus would remain on guard through the night.

You lingered in the doorway of each room a moment longer than necessary. They were growing too fast. Bruce felt it too, even if neither of you said it out loud.

When you finally made your way down the steps toward the Batcave, the temperature dropped, cool air brushing against your skin. The cave always felt like Bruce in physical form. Controlled. Vast. Heavy with responsibility.

He was exactly where you expected him to be.

Half in the Batsuit, cowl discarded on the desk, sleeves pushed up as he adjusted a small device with narrowed focus. The glow of the monitors cast sharp lines across his face, highlighting the exhaustion he tried so hard to ignore.

You had barely taken three steps into the cave when he spoke.

“Am I old?”

The question stopped you cold.

You blinked, certain you had misheard him. Then you laughed, soft and surprised, the sound echoing faintly against stone and steel.

“Bruce,” you said gently, closing the distance between you, “where did that come from?”

He did not look up at first. His hands paused over the gadget, fingers flexing once as if unsure what to do with themselves. When he finally met your gaze, there was something unguarded there.

“I feel it more lately,” he admitted. “And I found gray hair this morning.”

You did not hesitate. You stepped between his knees and settled onto his lap like it was muscle memory, like it was where you belonged. His hands came to your waist automatically, still careful, still tentative.

You lifted his chin, thumbs brushing along his jaw and into his stubble. The silver at his temples was undeniable. It caught the light, softening him in a way that made your chest ache.

“Bruce Wayne,” you murmured, forehead resting against his, “you are not old.”

He let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a scoff. “I am getting gray hair.”

“And it suits you,” you replied without missing a beat. “Distinguished. Handsome. My very intimidating silver fox vigilante.”

He groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your chest, then leaned in and buried his face into your neck. For a moment, he did nothing but breathe you in, like you were grounding him, like you were the thing that reminded him he was still here.

Your fingers slid into his hair, slow and soothing. “You think time scares me?” you whispered. “You could be ninety and I would still climb into your lap just like this.”

That did it.

He laughed, low and rough, the sound full of relief. His hands tightened on your thighs, solid and sure, and you felt the shift in him immediately.

“Careful,” he murmured as he stood, lifting you with effortless strength despite everything he had just confessed. “I might take you seriously.”

“Bruce,” you protested weakly as he carried you toward the bedroom, his suit still half on, his resolve fully restored.

Gray hair or not, aching joints or not, he was still your Batman.