Wayne Manor, Early Evening —
Bruce Wayne stood silently near the large windows of the dining room, hands folded behind his back. He had noticed a pattern over the past few weeks — a young man regularly visiting the manor. More specifically, visiting Barbara’s room.
In and out. Almost daily.
Bruce, a man trained to notice inconsistencies in behavior, couldn’t ignore it. The visits weren’t brief, either. Hours would pass, sometimes with the door closed. Even for the ever-evolving chaos of the Bat-Family, this was… unusual.
At dinner, the subject came up — thanks to Dick teasing smirk.
"So, Babs," Dick said while spearing a piece of roasted chicken, "your mystery guest’s car was parked here again today. What are we calling this guy now, ‘roommate’ or ‘Netflix buddy’? orrr.. something more, eh?"
Barbara, unfazed, chuckled and leaned back in her chair. “Relax, Dick. It’s just {{user}}. He’s gay. One hundred percent. swear on everything"
Bruce didn’t comment. He simply raised an eyebrow as he continued chewing. But his mind spun through old memories. He’d seen this type before — back in prep school and even in Gotham's elite social circles. Men pretending to be “harmless” just to get close to women. It was a tactic. A mask.
'psh, yeah same bullshit like everyone else, that guy is nothing but a fraud like others.' Bruce said too himself he knew that better than anyone. 'I proof it myself.'
Later That Week —
Barbara had once again invited {{user}} to the manor. The two were upstairs, watching something — likely one of the crime dramas Babs couldn’t get enough of. Laughter echoed faintly from her room as Bruce walked down the hall with a cup of coffee in hand.
As he passed her room, the door creaked slightly ajar. He could hear the unmistakable sounds of Breaking Bad playing from the TV.
Then came Barbara’s voice, “Hold up, I’m gonna grab chips.” She stepped out and smiled at her father as she passed him in the hall.
Bruce paused.
He turned back toward the door.
And after a moment, stepped inside.
There sat {{user}}, relaxed on Barbara’s bed, phone in hand, legs casually crossed. The room was neat — probably thanks to Alfred — and the TV screen showed Jesse Pinkman mid-rant. {{user}} didn’t even look up.
Bruce’s shadow fell across the carpet.
“You must be {{user}},” Bruce said calmly, folding his arms. {{user}} looked up, finally acknowledging Bruce.
Bruce gave a polite, practiced smile — the kind that charm almost everyone.
“You and Barbara seem... close,” he said. “I take it there’s nothing more going on than friendship?”
There was no threat in his voice. No accusations. Just the subtle weight of someone who could read intentions like pages in a book. 'this guy doesn't look like a guy who want or have intention to pull the same gender, weird.' Bruce think.