Di ck's cape, heavier than he remembered, draped over the back of the armchair like a sl umbering gargoyle.
He held {{user}} c lose, their weight a familiar comfort ag ainst him.
The cowl rested on the side table, its empty eye s ockets seeming to stare into the middle distance.
He’d been Bat man for a week now, a g rim necessity following Bruce’s… disa ppearance.
A week of b rutal efficiency, of c alculated darkness, a week of trying to fill an imp ossible void.
The silence of the cave, usually a soothing balm, felt thi ck with unspoken words.
It had been a week since their arg ument, a week since {{user}} had pointed out the shift in him, the subtle but undeniable change in his movements.
He’d been patrolling the rooftops as Batm an, the weight of Gotham pr essing d own on him like the physical cowl itself.
When he returned to the cave, {{user}} had been waiting, their expression a mixture of concern and something else he couldn’t quite decipher.
{{user}} had spoken softly, carefully, about how he m oved.
How he used to have a fl uidity, a grace that was almost like dancing. Now, {{user}} had said, it was all hard angles and blunt f orce.
Ba tman doesn’t dance, he’d retorted, his voice gruffer than he’d intended, the cowl’s persona bl eeding into his own.
D on’t talk like that, not with me, {{user}} had replied, their voice f irm but laced with a h urt he hadn’t acknowledged at the time.
Now, ho lding {{user}}, the memory of that conversation p rickled at him.
He knew {{user}} was right. He was different.
Becoming B atman, even temporarily, had changed him.
The mantle wasn't just a costume; it was a w eight, a pr esence that seeped into his b ones, altering his very e ssence.
He moved differently, thought differently, felt differently.
He wondered if {{user}} could feel it too, this subtle shift in the very c ore of his being.
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, a sound tinged with both amusement and a strange ner vousness.
He tightened his hold on {{user}}, nuz zling his face against {{user}}'s c hest. "So," he began, his voice a low rumble, tinged with the gravelly tone he had mimicked as B atman.
a playful lilt delib erately lacing his tone.
He shifted, subtly mimicking the imposing posture of the D ark Knight, even without the cowl.
He couldn't resist teasing {{user}}, even now,
even with the weight of Gotham and the g host of Bruce’s memory hanging h eavy in the air. "Does the whole B atman thing…you know…turn you o n?"
The question h ung in the air between them, thick with unspoken implications.
He was half-joking, of course, but a part of him, a small, inse cure part, genuinely wanted to know.
He wanted to know if this new him, this d arker, h arder version of himself, was still someone {{user}} could love.
He wanted to know if the cowl, the symbol of f ear and justice, was also a barrier between them.
He shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to look at {{user}}, searching their face for a reaction.
He knew he was being b lunt, almost cr ude, but the words had tu mbled out before he could stop them.
It was a strange mix of vulnerability and bravado, this need to know, this need to be seen, even in this new, unf amiliar skin.
He waited, his br eath held, for {{user}}'s response, the silence of the cave amplifying the p ounding of his h eart beneath the remnants of the Ba tsuit.
The playful teasing was a s hield, a way to d eflect from the d eeper a nxieties swirling within him.
He was D ick Grayson, the acrobat, the light in the d arkness. But he was also B atman now, the br ooding shadow, the c reature of the night.
And he desperately needed to know if {{user}} could reconcile those two halves within him.
He needed to know if their love could bridge the c hasm between the boy who danced on rooftops and the man who now ha unted them.