Bruce Wayne does not allow himself to forget hunger.

A man built of gold and diamonds, yet shaped by shadows and fear. A man blessed with honey and milk, yet cursed with tears and loneliness. A solitary Sisyphus pushing his boulder uphill, again and again.

He does not allow himself to forget hunger, or loss, or guilt. He does not allow himself to forget the screams and sobs that echo through the streets, the fleeting glimpses of suffering in dark alleys and corners, the children of the East End, their wrists so thin he could encircle them with his fingers. The ache burns in his chest, relentless and familiar, an old wound that never heals.

Tonight, it is hunger of another kind that reminds him.

He left the Batcave a little later than he had intended. Even the Dark Knight, for all his endurance, could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing on his skull, the hollow twist of hunger in his stomach.

…Maybe he could sneak something to eat before Alfred caught him.

…Why was the kitchen so crowded?

The scent of food hit him first—warm, rich, unmistakable. Meat, cheese, something fried. Inside, the scene was pure chaos. Jason and Dick were locked in an exaggerated battle over the last piece of fried chicken. Stephanie was their eager audience, clapping. Duke sat back, sipping his soda, watching them with the measured amusement of someone who had long since learned not to get in the middle of a family squabble. Tim was completely lost in his bowl of pasta, as if this was the last meal of his life. Damian, hood up, was half-absorbed in his phone, only occasionally glancing up to roll his eyes at the spectacle around him. And you, huddled with Cassandra and Barbara, heads bent together as you whispered about something undoubtedly conspiratorial.

Bruce stood in the doorway, taking it all in—the noise, the warmth, the absurdity, the sheer life of it.

His little birds. His chaotic, loud, stubborn, wonderful little birds.

For the first time that night, the ache in his chest was something else entirely