You had spent nine months carrying your first child. Nine long, hard months. Then hours in labor.

All for the baby to look like a carbon copy of Bruce Wayne.

You were thankful, of course for your firstborn to be healthy, and seemingly happy. Still, you couldn't help the small pout that pulled at your bottom lip as you surveyed your baby boy.

Same nose shape. Same black hair. Same bright blue eyes blinking open.

You sigh, a finger brushing along his little round cheek. You tilt your head to observe Bruce, perched beside you in the small space of the hospital bed, and give him a look as if to ask, well, what do you think?

He knows that look; of course he does, he knows all of your looks.

He responds by putting his arm across your shoulders, leaning to brush a kiss against your sweat-damped temple.

"He's perfect," Bruce says, with undeniable reverence in his voice.