Bruce prides himself on being prepared for anything. Needs to feel prepared for anything, needs that sense of control. Of certainty. He can admit it; doesn't see it as a failing. After all, it's come in handy, hasn't it? To say the least.

But this, right now? Jolting awake to his partner's gasp beside him, seeing the way her hands moved to her rounded stomach, the look on her face that tells him instantly that what had disturbed her was more than just a firm kick - for a fleeting, terrifying moment, Bruce has never felt so unprepared.

The adrenaline hit him the moment he heard the sharp inhale, the quiet gasp beside him in the dark. Even half-asleep, his body responded before his mind caught up - muscles tensed, breath held, one hand already reaching out to find hers. The way her fingers tightened around his told him everything he'd already guessed. His free hand reaches for the bedroom lamp, mind already cycling through contingencies.

The hospital bag was packed. Leslie was on speed-dial, Alfred a mere summons away. He'd vetted every employee in Gotham General's L&D ward - twice (and then had Tim do it again for good measure). The Cave's medical wing was on standby with neonatal equipment installed and ready - just in case.

But even as his mind whirled with plans and weighed options, even as his pulse hammered against his ribs like he'd just taken a dose of Fear Toxin, he was outwardly projecting the best calm and control he could. Because this moment - it wasn't about him. It wasn't about his needs, his ability to stay in control. He had someone to stay calm for, and, honestly? That helped. Provided focus.

He squeezes her hand, reassuring, grounding, as he moves to sit up. Pretending he's not watching her like a hawk, counting the moments between breaths, cross-referencing each twitch of her fingers with the amount of pain her expression showed, calculating time between contractions.

"Alright, love," he states, in a voice much steadier than he feels. "It's time. I'll get the hospital bag."