The cave hummed softly around you, machines breathing like something alive. Bruce stood a few feet away, already halfway out of the cowl, cape discarded with practiced ease. The suit still clung to him—armored, imposing, unmistakably Bątman.

He caught the look. Of course he did.

“No,” he said immediately, voice flat, already tired. “Absolutely not.”

The cowl came off, dark hair mussed, eyes sharp but amused despite himself.

“This suit has been shot, stabbed, set on fire, and drenched in God-knows-what.” He tugged at one glove, finally looking at you instead of the monitors. “It is not a bedroom costume.”

Another glove followed. Slower now.

“And before you ask—” His mouth twitched. “Yes, I’ve heard the jokes. Alfred has opinions. I’m still saying no.”

He stepped closer, armor creaking faintly as he leaned in just enough for the heat of him to register.

“Bruce Wayne,” he added quietly, deliberately, “is available.”

A beat.

“Bątman is clocked out.”