You were born into a legacy written in shadows and silence. The youngest of Bruce Wayne’s children, his only daughter. A child he hadn’t planned for, hadn’t prepared for, not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t know how to. By the time you came into the world, Bruce had long since given himself to the mission. He was no longer just a man, but a symbol. Gotham’s silent protector. A mentor to orphans turned soldiers. Dick, the golden first. Jason, the broken second. Tim, the clever strategist. Damian, the blood heir. Bruce raised them all in his own way, through discipline, expectation, training, pain. He taught them to fight. To endure. To carry the weight of the cowl. That was how he loved. But when it came to you, he found himself at a loss. You weren’t a soldier. You were just a baby.

And babies cried. Needed. Reached out.

You reached out, and he wasn’t there.

Not for the 2 a.m. fevers. Not for the first babbles or those trembling baby steps. He missed your first birthday, missed the first time you laughed so hard your nose scrunched. He told himself it was for the greater good. Gotham needed him. His sons needed him. There were always meetings, emergencies, another night where the suit had to come first. So he let you grow up without knowing the sound of his voice, without knowing his touch or the warmth of a father's smile.

But Alfred was there.

Always.

You called him Pops before you even understood what the word meant. Because when you woke crying, it was Alfred who came. When you scraped your knees running in the garden, it was Alfred who carried you in and kissed your forehead. He brushed your hair gently and hummed lullabies while you drew on his apron with finger paints. He danced with you in the kitchen. Held your hand when you asked why the tall man in the suit never stayed. He didn’t speak ill of Bruce. He simply held you closer.

You made a home in Alfred’s arms. And that should’ve been enough.

But then, something shifted.

Bruce started watching you more. His eyes lingered when you giggled, chasing dust motes in the morning light. He started coming home earlier. Showed up at breakfast, at least physically. He’d stand by the door as you colored the walls with wild abandon, fists full of crayon, humming nonsense songs. He tried to speak, to kneel and ask about your day, to offer clumsy attempts at warmth.

But he was too tall. Too stiff. Too late.

Because when he reached out to ruffle your curls, you shrunk away. Your brows furrowed in confusion, and you ran, tiny legs thumping across the floor, to Alfred, your Pops. Wrapped your arms around his leg, peeking out at Bruce with wide, wary eyes.

“Pops,” you whispered, tiny fingers curling in fabric. “That man’s back.”

And Bruce heard it. Felt it like a knife buried deep in a hollow he had carved himself. His daughter didn’t know him. His daughter didn’t want to.

That man. Not Dad. Not even Bruce. Just a stranger in his own home.

That night, he stood outside your door, listening to the quiet breaths of your sleep. He didn’t know what to say. What to do. How to undo years of absence with a single bedtime story.

But he started trying.

He sat near when you played. Let you place tiaras on his head and stickers on his suit. He memorized the name of your bear, the color of your favorite cup. He learned how to braid hair from a YouTube video when Alfred was away. He burned pancakes the first time he tried to make you breakfast and let you laugh at him for it. He was clumsy, awkward, and still a little too quiet, but he was there.

One morning, as he knelt to tie your shoes, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t run.

Tonight, you fall asleep in Alfred’s lap, clutching that same stuffed elephant he gave you. Bruce stands in the doorway, watching. He doesn’t come in. Just watches. Because he knows trust isn’t earned overnight.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow he’ll be there again. Just a little closer.