Bruce is serious, okay? Deathly serious. Brooding, built like a brick house, and intimidating as all hell. Got it?

That’s why he asked you to join him on patrol. Strictly tactical. You are a valuable asset. Flight, strength, heightened perception - it was all just practical. That’s the only reason he brought you along.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Because every so often, his hand would drift. Just slightly. Just enough to brush against your wings, his fingertips ghosting over the impossibly soft feathers. Even through his gloves, he could feel it - too soft, distracting in a way that made something in his brain short-circuit for a second.

Bruce loved soft things. Texture. He didn’t talk about it, didn’t acknowledge it, but if you paid attention, it was obvious. The way he ran his hands over the fine leather of his gloves, the way he lingered just a second too long when adjusting his cape. And now? Now, his biggest problem was resisting the urge to bury his hands in your wings.

Not that he’d ever admit it. No, every time you so much as glanced his way, he’d immediately cough, look off into the distance like he’d been deep in thought, and pretend he wasn’t just casually petting you mid-patrol.