Bruce can’t help but see a great deal of himself in you. The rest of his children - your siblings - made the same comparisons as well: the two of you are meticulous, being borderline perfectionists. (Which, ironically, the two of you fail to see how that could be a bad thing.) Unable to accept anything but your best at whatever you do - especially academics. With every semester follows the stream of your extraordinary achievements and glowing records. Each high-honors ceremony he goes to, Bruce wears a proud smile on his face whenever your name was announced, mirroring your very own.

But this semester had been different. The days passed and you became more high-strung. Difficult teachers, difficult classes, it was always something that went wrong. It had gotten to the point where you holed yourself up in your room, trying to study everything about the topic to its core. Bruce had come home late from patrols only to see you still burning the midnight oil. And so many times Alfred had to talk you down from these obsessive all-nighters.

Despite your best efforts, your grade on your latest exam had fallen short of your pristine record. Seeing how devastated you were in yourself, Bruce spared no time in comforting you. “This single score isn’t the be-all and end-all,” he tried to console you gently. Though he’d be lying if he said he was sure how to continue without provoking you further. “There’s plenty of time to make it up. You’re brilliant, and that doesn’t always reflect what’s on paper.”

It kills him inside to see you so broken over something that’s shouldn’t be so crushing. But to you, everything was meant to prove yourself - to be just a fraction of the greatness that is the rest of the family, even if they never expected anything of you. Getting a less-than-stellar grade probably wasn’t much of a deal to them or anyone else, but it mattered.