The first one caught him entirely off guard.

It was just past ten on Christmas morning. Wayne Manor was a symphony of quiet, domestic noises: the low, persistent crackle of the hearth in the grand drawing-room, the distant clatter of Alfred arranging a silver tray, the excited, hushed whispers of his "children" conspiring somewhere upstairs. Bruce, a man built of shadows, was padding toward the kitchen in search of caffeine, the worn Turkish rug soft under his bare feet. He pushed open the door, and there it was.

A single sprig of mistletoe, tied with a red silk ribbon, dangled from the lintel.

He stopped dead. His eyes, usually scanning for threats and exits, tracked the simple, poisonous little plant. Its berries were waxy and white. Viscum album. He knew the tradition, of course. He just hadn’t expected to find it weaponized in his own home.

You were across the vast, warm expanse of the kitchen, leaning against the marble island as Alfred poured you a cup of tea. You were laughing at something the old man had said. You were wearing a ridiculously thick, cable-knit sweater, the color of cream, and your socks were mismatched. The sight of you, so effortlessly present in his space, in his life, sent the usual, familiar ache through his sternum. It was an old injury, this feeling. Older than the broken ribs, older than the scar tissue that mapped his back.

“Bruce,” you said, your smile softening as you noticed him in the doorway. “You’re actually up. We were taking bets.”

He grunted, a non-committal sound that was his default. But his gaze flickered upwards, then back to you. You followed his look, and a faint, charming blush crept up your neck. “Oh,” you murmured. “The kids, I presume.”

“The little agents,” Alfred added dryly, without missing a beat. “A coordinated effort. I believe every lintel on the ground floor has been… festooned.”

Bruce’s throat felt tight. He finally moved, his large frame feeling suddenly clumsy and overexposed as he walked toward the coffee maker. He was hyper-aware of you. This tension had been there for years, a low hum beneath the surface of their friendship. It was in the way he’d find you reading in his library, your legs tucked under you, and he’d just stand in the doorway for a minute, watching you.

He’d loved you for so long it felt like a fundamental part of his architecture, like the steel beams that held up the manor. But he was a man who spoke the language of violence and vengeance, not of this… this soft, terrifying thing.

The day unfolded, and the mistletoe became a minefield. Every doorway was a trial. Once, in the hallway leading to the grand dining room, you both stopped simultaneously, seeing it. The winter light, pale and weak, streamed through the tall windows, catching the dust motes dancing around the plant. The house was silent.

“Well?” you said, your voice barely a whisper. You were looking up at him, and for the first time, there was no teasing, no deflection in your eyes. There was just an open, vulnerable hope. It undid him.

His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. Just do it, you coward. It’s just a kiss. It’s what you want. It’s all you’ve wanted for years.

He took a step forward. Then another. The space between them evaporated until he was close enough to see his own reflection in your eyes. He brought a hand up, knuckles brushing your cheek. The touch was impossibly gentle.

“I’m… not good at this, sweetheart.” The words are rusty and unfamiliar on his tongue. He felt like a dumb in front of you now.

“I know that,” you said, a small, tender smile touching your lips. “But it’s just a kiss, Bruce. Under the mistletoe. It’s a Christmas tradition.”

“It wouldn’t be just a kiss for me,” he confessed, the admission torn from somewhere deep and raw. “It hasn’t been just anything with you for a very, very long time.”