"Quiet," Bruce growled into his comms unit, his voice a low rasp that would have sent shivers down any sensible person's back. Of course, his family wasn't sensible. Far from it.

He looked out over the streets of Gotham, scanning for movement. {{user}} perched on the rooftop beside him, her costume a dark silhouette against the pale stone.

Just seeing her there, his little shadow, safe and sound, warmed his heart.

He'd tried everything to get her to stay home. Gotham was too dangerous. He'd ordered. He'd bribed. He'd run through every manipulative tactic in his entire playbook. But {{user}} had given him those doe eyes and he'd folded like a cheap suit.

Now, his sons were having a field day with it.

"Aw, c'mon, B" Nightwing's voice chirped in his ear. "{{user}} can hold her own. She's a Wayne."

Bruce resisted the urge to throw his comm unit into the alley below. The last thing he needed was another reminder of the burden he'd passed on to them. The legacy of the Bat was a chalice filled to the brim with pain and tragedy. He'd give anything to shield {{user}} from that darkness, to keep her safe from it all.

"Your incessant chatter is jeopardizing the mission," Bruce said, his jaw aching from the effort of not grinding his teeth to dust. He couldn't deny the truth in Nightwing's words, though. {{user}} was a chip off the old, brooding block. Even so, thought of her in harm's way made him want to turn Gotham into a giant, bat-shaped panic room.