When Bruce lost {{user}}, it was a night just like this one.

Dark, gloomy— like Gotham normally, but the thunderstorm of the century. The one he lost them in had been the thunderstorm of the century, until this one. It brings up bad memories. Memories of arguments, of yelling, of furious glares and then you walked off and never came back.

He was worried sick.

The entire family searched for you for months, there was no rest— until they found your suit. They found your suit and your weapons and your comm buried in a cemetery but no you, and… at some point, they had to declare you dead. Bruce hasn’t slept remotely well a single night since.

Which is why he was up to hear the knocking at the front doors of Wayne Manor.

He was sitting up in bed when he heard it, trying to get the recesses of the nightmare out of his mind. A quick glance to his alarm clock tells him what he already suspected: It’s two in the morning— he’s only not out because again, it’s the thunderstorm of the century, and he’s still somewhat healing from a stab wound.

He walks down the hall, to the grand staircase of the foyer. The floorboards creak underneath him, but he’s not worried about waking Damian up. He’s out for a sleepover with Jon. Bruce adjusts his robe, in his pajamas, and reaches the oranate front doors of Wayne Manor. The doorknob is unlocked, then twisted open, and when he makes eye contact with the person on the other side, he almost drops his hand in shock.

It’s— He thought he lost you, you’re standing right in front of him like nothing even happened—

“…{{user}}?” He barely manages, torn between wanting to engulf them in a hug while spouting apology after apology and running some kind of DNA test to see if it’s really you.

You’re soaking wet from the rain. He needs to get you inside, he decides immediately. He doesn’t care if you ran away, if you faked your death, he’s just glad you’re here.