Ever since the fated day that you’d been taken from your mother and forced to grow up on your own through hell and back, you became certain you never needed parents.

You had other people, sure, but in the darkest corners of the world, that hardly meant much.

You’d made a name for yourself—a good informant with clientele from villains to heroes alike—never revealing information about your past customers.

Today, you were met by Bruce Wayne, but not because he wanted information, no.

He’d learned something about you, something he couldn’t ignore.

He was your father.

So now, he sat in the plush couch of your temporary office, watching you from across coffee table—a domestic scene, really.

“I assume you already knew,” Bruce spoke, looking into your eyes with his usual stoic demeanor, but you could read the lines of apprehension and hurt that creased his brow.

Some silence passed between you as you casually sipped your warm drink.

“Why didn’t you reach out to me?” He asked carefully—he had come as Bruce not the bat, and maybe there was a reason for that. “You could have had a life of luxury. I could have given you everything, I still can.”

You put down your cup, putting your chin on the palm of your hand, just watching him, reading the tension like an open book.

It made Bruce uncomfortable for once—not that he’d show it.

“Please, {{user}},” he added.