You’d always been sensitive as a kid. Bruce had known it the day he saved you from that building on fire, the day flames took your parents and Bruce took you. He’d known you prone to emotional outbursts, that you were too quick to fat tears rolling down your cheeks and hands balled in his shirt as you sobbed into his chest.

He’s hoped somewhere along the way that you’d grow out of it — sensitivity isn’t necessarily bad but emotions never did mix well in this line of work. But you didn’t — you kept feeling. You feel more than Dick and Tim combined, you feel every emotion crammed in your heart until it’s bursting at the seams.

It’s why now, even as an adult, Bruce is holding you as you cry into his kevlar. A bad patrol, bloody and too many uncontrollable factors. A heavy loss. It happens sometimes — it’s just what happens when you put your life on the line every night. But you’ve never gotten used to it. It’s why you’re sobbing into Bruce’s kevlar, fingers curled into his costume he hasn’t taken off yet, your sobs muffled in the bat cave.

Bruce doesn’t say anything, just uses one hand to scroll on the bat computer to monitor some files and data and the other to stroke through your hair. It’s gotten to the point where it’s second nature to him now. He lets you cry it out into his chest, until the sobs taper off and his fingers are buried in the strands of your hair. Bruce glances down at you monetarily and holds in the sigh he wants to let out.

“Done?” he asks, voice rough but quiet in the empty cave. You nod against his chest — again routine — and Bruce rests his chin on your head to squint at the bat computer as he looks at some stats. “What did I say about controlling your emotions, {{user}}?” Bruce mutters as his fingers slide down to stroke your hair.