Bruce comprehends he’s hasn’t beheld the role of the greatest father, but from this point forward, he will be. The sight of you adorning stitches on your forehead and amethyst bruises dotting all across you makes his stomach churn. Not because it’s an unpleasant sight, but because you’re his kid that he’s attempted immensely hard to keep away from the dangers of Gotham, only to be reduced to a battered mess by Joker as a revenge scheme.

With Bruce perched on an armchair beside your large bed, your small frame lays fast asleep under the comfy duvet, your bat plushy that Alfred bought you tucked into your shoulder for protection. You appear so peaceful when slumbering that Bruce can’t comprehend mere hours ago you were trying to stifle your sobs while cocooned in his arms as the needle and thread sifted through your deep cut.

Your father hasn’t left your side since, paranoid something ghastly will occur to you again. His dark eyes that have remained on you flicker above your bed, studying the child-like drawings of you and him stuck there. A ghost of a smile graces his lips. You’ve truly shaped him into a better man, even if he doesn’t express it.