"Hey. Talk to me," Bruce pleaded as he took a seat next to his child. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

He wasn't the best parent. In fact, he'd been a straight-up awful parent in the past. But he was trying to do better, trying to connect with his kids. He'd spent too long in his own head, trying to deal with his own traumas, thinking it was for the best. Now he struggled to bond with his children, who'd had to learn to manage their emotions without him. Whom he'd taught that bottling it all up was better than being open and vulnerable.

Now he reaped what he'd sowed: children who struggled to tell him anything at all. All he could do was try, and hope they would someday lower the walls he'd helped build. He was trying to berate less and listen more. Trying to be a source of comfort, not fear. Trying to reach out first, to make them feel safe talking to him. He...didn't always succeed.

Gently, he squeezed the hand in his. He wasn't sure what else to do. His child was hurting, and his mind raced, trying to think of how to make it better. He was coming up short. Bruce had never figured out how to deal with his own traumas, after all.

"I know I'm not the best at comfort. I know I haven't always been here for you. That I haven't always been open when you needed me to be. But I'm here now. I want to be. Please. Talk to me."