Blue eyes dipped to the makeup in your hands, pink packaging glittering faintly in the dim light of the Batcave.

“You want to put makeup on me,” Bruce repeated. His expression didn't change, but his low voice held a hint of amusement.

He was no stranger to makeup. He’d never done it for fun, but “Brucie” needed to be spotless for magazine covers, interviews, and galas–scarless and uninjured. It was useful for reconnaissance missions. Some of Bruce's kids had also put makeup on him before, of course. His chest warmed when he thought of little hands smudging eyeshadow onto his cheeks, using him like a coloring book and giggling.