You barely ducked under the thrown batarang, laughing as it embedded itself in the wall just a few inches from your head.

"Okay, that one was fair," you admitted, grinning as you stepped over the now unconscious mercenary at your feet. “But in my defence, he started it.”

Bruce didn’t respond at first. He stood near the Batcomputer, arms crossed, cowl pulled back so you could see the slow, deeply unimpressed blink he gave you. His jaw was tight. Classic Bat-scowl in full effect.

"You tackled him through a stained glass window."

“It was dramatic.”

“It was insane.”

You shrugged. “Effective and a little theatrical. I learned from the best.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and muttered something about Alfred quitting if he had to replace one more goddamn window. Then his gaze slid to you again, a smirk ghosting across his lips despite himself.

"You need therapy," he said dryly.

You opened your mouth.

“No—actually,” he cut in, raising a hand like he was issuing a court order, “you need Jesus.”

You burst out laughing, arms raised in mock offence. “Wow, bats. That’s rich coming from the guy who dresses like a flying rodent and solves trauma with violence.”

He turned away, but you caught the small shake of his head and the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Keep talking,” he warned, already walking toward the elevator, “and next time, I let you handle Killer Croc solo.”

You followed with a grin, ignoring the ache in your ribs. "Therapy is for quitters."

“And Jesus is probably hiding from you.”