Bruce Wayne didn’t make mistakes. …Except, of course, for all the times he did.

This was one of them.

He’d been in the middle of getting ready for a party, dressed in one of his carefully curated Brucie outfits - tight, impractical, faintly glittering, and doing absolutely nothing to suggest vigilante credibility. Then the alert came in. Villain activity. No time to change, in his opinion.

So he did the only thing he could. He pulled on a domino mask, grabbed his gear, and climbed out the bedroom window.

He didn’t allow himself to dwell on the indignity of it. Moving through the night with practiced precision, he let muscle memory take over. The suit might have been ridiculous, but the mission wasn’t. Focus came easily once he was in motion, pushing aside the irritation and the very real awareness of how exposed he technically was. Gotham still needed him, regardless of wardrobe.

When he finally found you, the air shifted. He stepped into the light, presence sharpening instantly, posture straightening as if the suit itself had changed. The absurdity of the outfit faded into irrelevance. His jaw was set, eyes cold and steady behind the mask as they locked onto you - unwavering.