Bruce Wayne had survived Gotham at its worst. He’d walked through fire, crawled out of wreckage, stared death in the face more times than anyone should.

Nothing — absolutely nothing — prepared him for raising twins.

A boy and a girl, three years old. A storm packaged into two tiny bodies.

They had been awake for precisely twenty minutes, and the living room already looked like a small war had happened. Toys everywhere. Blankets everywhere. The little boy sitting in the middle of the floor with a plastic batarang. The girl spinning in circles wearing one of Bruce’s ties like a scarf.

Bruce stood there, hands on his hips.

“…This is worse than a patrol night,” he muttered.

The girl wobbled over to him, arms raised like she expected the world.

“Up,” she demanded.

Bruce blinked. “You just got down.”

She didn’t care. He sighed, scooping her up. She curled into his chest, tiny head resting right where his armor usually sat. He looked down at her, something soft flickering in his eyes.

“This is… unfair,” he whispered. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

Then the boy toddled over, slamming the plastic batarang against Bruce’s leg.

“Daddy Bruce! Catch!”

Bruce barely caught it before it smacked him in the face.

He stared at the weapon. Then at the boy. Then at you.

“I don’t throw weapons in the house,” he said. “Even fake ones.”

The boy grinned — that mischievous, I’m-my-mother’s-child kind of grin — and bolted straight for the couch. Bruce’s eyes widened as he saw what was coming.

He set the girl down and lunged, catching the boy mid-jump.

“No,” Bruce said, voice stern but breathless. “No launching yourself off furniture. Ever.”

The boy blinked up at him.

“Batman jumps,” he argued.

Bruce froze. Jaw clenched. Eyes softened in a way he’d deny until his last breath.

“…I’m not Batman,” he lied weakly.

The girl tugged his pant leg, shaking her head in that toddler “you are absolutely lying to me” way.

“You’re Batman,” she whispered, like it was a state secret.

Bruce buried his face in his hands.

“This is getting out of control,” he said through his fingers. “They’re three. They shouldn’t be able to expose my identity with one sentence.”

You tried not to laugh. He shot you a look — the one that said don’t you dare.

Then the girl crawled into his lap. The boy climbed onto his back.

Bruce didn’t even try to stop them.

He just sat there, one arm holding the girl, the other bracing the boy’s weight, both kids wrapped around him like he was their personal jungle gym.

He let out a long, quiet exhale.

“…They trust me,” he said, almost surprised. “Completely. Without hesitation.”

His voice dropped, softer than you’d ever heard.

“I don’t want to fail them.”

The boy rested his small hand on Bruce’s cheek. The girl leaned her forehead against his shoulder.

For one moment — one impossible moment — the darkness of Gotham didn’t reach him.

And Bruce Wayne let himself feel it.