The streets of Gotham are cold and harsh, even for someone well off.

Bruce is definitely well off… if not a bit soaked from the rain. Admittedly, an impromptu walk in a downpour may not have been one of his brightest ideas. But one of the kittens that Damian brought to the shelter downtown escaped. So Bruce is now looking for a seven pound kitten in the pouring rain of Gotham City nearly after dark, with no raincoat, and luckily, no Batsignal in the sky.

At least Alfred has already taken Damian home— there’s no sense in two of them catching a cold.

Bruce wipes the rain out of his eyes and heads down yet another dark alleyway. The dress shoes tap against the slick cement, the smell of dumpsters and rust permeating the air. That’s Gotham for you.

His head snaps to the side. Mewling. Small, tiny, soft mewling. Like a kitten. Quietly, he heads towards the sound. If he gets the kitten, he gets out of the rain, Damian is satisfied, and one more baby cat is rescued from this city’s harsh streets.

He heads down another section of the alleyway. The sound of mewling gets closer. He rounds the corner, a dead end part of the alley in front of him, and stops in his tracks. There’s a child, huddled into an old chicken coop, with a little storm gray kitten in their arms.

Okay. Child. Kitten. Child attached to the kitten? Hopefully not. Maybe. First thing’s first: get the kid out of the rain. Bruce takes a step forward, audibly— not wanting to scare the kid by sneaking up behind them.

“Is everything alright?” He asks over the sound of the downpour hitting the thin metal roof of your shelter. It’s a rhetorical question: clearly, everything is not alright. Especially given the golden rings around your irises that he sees when you look up at him.