"You're not going out. That's not up for discussion."

Bruce's back is to you, the Wayne heir strapping on his suit piece-by-piece as he readies himself for his nightly patrol. It's painfully obvious that he's not fully present— with Alfred hospitalized by the Riddler's letter bomb meant for him, he's spiraling more than usual— but he's coherent enough to rely on muscle memory to pull on his kevlar.

Hearing another huff from you behind him, Bruce's back goes rigid before he pivots on his heel. "You really think I'm going to let you out after everything that's happened?" he asks, eyes narrowed while he watches you shift on your feet anxiously. Your slight unease isn't enough to deter the bite in his tone; he needs you to understand him, to hear him. "After the Tower was attacked— after Alfred nearly died — you expect me to let you go out patrol?"

Not a chance. You're his ward, his responsibility, and Bruce can't push aside his parental role in looking after your well-being and allow you to join him this time. He gets flack from Alfred already for you and him donning your suits as the Bat and Robin, so it's only a slap in the face that the butler's in the hospital because of him. He can't let that happen to you too.

The heavy soles of his boots echo loudly through the Wayne Terminus station, and Bruce looms above you like a storm cloud; blue eyes ice-cold and his lips pursed into a thin line. He hasn't even put on the black eyepaint yet, but his gaze is as stony as ever.

"You're not going out," he grits out lowly, his voice sharp when it pierces through the air. "You're going to take your suit off, go back upstairs with Dory, and stay there. Understand?"

Bruce's chest tightens as you glower back up at him, and he finally gets a taste of what Alfred must deal with when handling him. It's weird to be on the other end of an argument like this. He just scrubs his face before nodding to the staircase behind you both. "Upstairs, now." It's not easy having to be the voice of reason.