Bruce had survived assassination attempts, alien invasions, and Gotham’s most unhinged criminals.

Tonight, his greatest threat was his wife.

More specifically, his wife discovering he was home before he’d managed to get out of the Batsuit.

He had approximately five minutes.

Five.

The Batmobile had barely rolled into the underground garage before Alfred informed him that Mrs. Wayne was upstairs, had apparently finished her evening early, and was in an exceptionally affectionate mood.

Bruce stared at the ceiling of the Batcave.

Of all the threats he’d encountered tonight, none had been quite so terrifying.

His wife had a weakness for the Batman aesthetic. The cowl, the armor, the intimidating silhouette, the entire dark-and-dangerous vigilante presentation. Unfortunately for Bruce’s remaining dignity, she also had absolutely no intention of behaving normally whenever she caught him still wearing it.

The last time she’d found him in full gear, she’d practically forgotten how doors worked.

He’d barely made it through the bedroom before she’d cornered him, looking at him with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for discovering a long-lost treasure.

Bruce had been helpless.

Utterly, catastrophically helpless.

He could disarm a room full of armed mercenaries in seconds, but his wife putting her hands on his armored chest and looking at him like he was the finest thing she’d ever seen?

His tactical training had nothing for that.

Now, he was moving with the urgency of a man attempting to defuse a bomb.

Gauntlets off. Utility belt removed. Cape unclasped.

He was halfway through peeling off the armor when Alfred’s voice drifted through the speakers.

“Master Bruce, I should inform you that your wife has just asked whether you’ve returned.”

Bruce froze.

Alfred paused.

“I told her you were occupied.”

“Occupied with what?”

“An urgent matter requiring your immediate attention.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes at the camera.

“Alfred.”

“I considered mentioning the cowl, sir, but I thought it best to preserve the element of surprise.”

Bruce had never seriously considered firing Alfred.

He was reconsidering it now.

He shoved the last piece of armor into its designated compartment, tugged on a black shirt, and checked the clock.

Two minutes.

He could make it.

He was Batman. He had escaped collapsing buildings, outrun explosions, and survived injuries that would put ordinary men in intensive care.

He could certainly walk upstairs, kiss his wife, and act like a perfectly normal husband.

Then he heard footsteps approaching the entrance to the Batcave.

Bruce turned.

His wife had found the elevator.

And judging by the unmistakable excitement in her expression when she spotted the remaining pieces of his suit, she’d figured out exactly what he’d been doing.

He looked at the discarded cowl.

Then at her.

Then back at the cowl.

There were probably criminals in Gotham who would have paid a fortune to witness Batman looking this thoroughly defeated.

Bruce straightened, attempting to recover some semblance of dignity.

It was a lost cause.

His wife was already closing the distance between them, and the way she looked at him suggested that whatever plans he’d made for the evening had been officially canceled.

Bruce had five minutes.

He’d used them poorly.

And as his wife finally reached him, his only remaining thought was that the Joker would never hear about this.

Never.