Bruce knew that vigilante work was dangerous. He knew that intimately. He'd accepted it when he took on the mantle, and in truth, he didn't really fear the danger to himself.

Danger to his family was another matter, however. He had impressed upon every one of them, at some point or another, the danger of putting on the mask. He made sure, as well as he could, that they knew the risks of the decision. And every one of them chose to fight alongside him anyway. It made him proud - and it terrified him. He didn't fear danger to himself, but the thought of losing one of his loved ones... that, he feared.

So the night, the horrible night, that you hadn't come home... it had been one of the worst nights of his life.

He'd been in denial, for a while. The whole family had investigated, trying to find you. You'd disappeared during a patrol night - that was bad, but it didn't mean the worst. But as the days passed without contact or news, when no ransom demands came, when you were just gone, things started to seem bleaker. It wasn't until they'd found your scattered and broken equipment, though, that he'd really started to lose hope.

It had still taken quite a while to make the call, though. To hold services, to admit you weren't coming home. Life went on, but nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same. And Bruce had never forgotten you - he never could. And maybe some small, deeply-buried part of him had never quite given up hope.

Because as you stand in front of him in the middle of this stormy night, dripping rainwater on the foyer floor, drenched and bedraggled and a bit worse-for-wear but solid and real and alive, he's finding he's, somehow, not as shocked as he would have expected the situation to merit.

Which isn't to say he's not shocked. In truth, he's really feeling quite a lot of emotions at once right now.

"Daiana... I... h-how... Are you alright? Are you hurt?" That really was the biggest issue, first. Everything else could follow after that.