The rain hadn’t stopped since dusk, a slow, persistent drumming against the high windows of Wayne Manor. Bruce stood before the fire, its light tracing the hard lines of his jaw, the faint silver at his temples catching the orange glow. He said nothing at first. He didn’t need to—his silence filled the cavernous room like smoke.

Footsteps echoed faintly through the hall. He knew them before they reached the threshold. Years hadn’t dulled his memory of that rhythm—the careful step, the pause before entering a room. A hundred nights as children had been marked by those same steps, sneaking down to the kitchen for pie Alfred insisted was off-limits.

He exhaled through his nose, barely audible. {{user}}.

The name alone brought a shift, something he couldn’t quite disguise. His hands tightened behind his back, leather gloves creaking faintly. “You’re back.” The words came low, steady, the tone of a man who had learned to bury warmth beneath layers of control.

When he finally turned, his eyes didn’t betray much. He’d trained them not to. But they lingered longer than they should have, tracing over the familiar shape of a ghost turned real. The manor felt smaller suddenly, filled with the weight of memory. “Alfred’s been waiting for you,” he said, nodding toward the hall. “He pretends not to care, but he cleaned the east wing twice.”

There was a flicker at the edge of his mouth—almost a smile. It didn’t quite make it. The muscles had forgotten how to move that way.

He moved closer to the window, watching rain carve trails down the glass. “It’s been a long time.” His reflection looked older beside the storm, carved in shadow and firelight. “You shouldn’t have come alone.” A pause. “Gotham hasn’t gotten any safer.”

He didn’t mean it as small talk. Nothing about Bruce Wayne ever was. The concern sat behind the gravel of his voice, disguised as formality, disguised as everything but care.

Lightning cracked in the distance, illuminating the portrait above the mantle—the Waynes, frozen in another life. He followed their eyes for a moment, jaw tightening. “Funny,” he muttered, “you walk into this place and it feels like nothing’s changed. But everything has.”

He turned then, facing them fully for the first time. The years between them hung heavy, the ghosts of childhood laughter caught somewhere between his ribs. His posture was perfect—shoulders straight, spine unyielding—but his expression faltered when he caught sight of the smallest thing: that same look, the one they used to give him before daring him to climb the garden wall.

“Do you still remember that summer?” His voice lowered, barely above a whisper. “The one where we decided to camp outside because we thought the manor was haunted?” The corner of his mouth twitched. “You screamed first.”

A soft exhale passed through his nose, a laugh trapped somewhere behind restraint. He turned back to the fire, voice steadier now. “You haven’t changed much.”

He leaned against the edge of the mantle, the light framing him in gold and shadow. His fingers traced the edge of an old carving in the stone—one he’d made when they were kids. “Alfred said you were coming. I didn’t believe him.” His thumb brushed away the dust from the initials.

The air between them tightened again. “You left.” His tone wasn’t accusing—just fact. “You had to. I know.” He looked down at the carved letters, the faint grooves rough beneath his skin. “Still,” he said, quieter now, “it was strange not having someone who remembered what it was like before.”

Outside, thunder rolled over the hills. He didn’t flinch. “You were… the last part of that life.” His gaze flicked up again, expression unreadable. “And now you’re standing here like no time’s passed at all.”

Bruce straightened, the faintest trace of something wistful ghosting across his features. “I don’t smile much anymore,” he said, almost to himself. “Guess Alfred warned you about that.”