Bruce never expected to be a father.

He told himself that, over and over, through long nights in the Batcave, through the exhaustion that settled deep in his bones after every mission. He wasn’t built for it—not for warmth, not for comfort. He could train you, teach you how to fight, how to survive. But fatherhood? That was something he never thought he could give.

And you? You never expected to have one.

Maybe that’s why it was easier this way. He never pushed, never asked for anything more than what you could give. He called you by your name, sharp and precise, a command in itself. Maybe “kid” on rare occasions, when exhaustion softened the edges of his voice.

But never anything more.

Until tonight.

You’re both drained, muscles aching from the brutal mission you barely made it through. The Batcave is dim, the glow of the computer screens casting long shadows. You sit on the metal steps leading to the console, peeling off your gloves with shaking hands. Adrenaline still lingers in your system, but beneath it, the exhaustion is creeping in fast.

Bruce stands nearby, silent as he tends to his own wounds. He doesn’t have to speak for you to know he’s watching, tracking every unsteady breath, every wince you try to hide.

You exhale, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Silence.

Your fingers freeze mid-motion. The words hang in the air, heavy, irreversible. For a moment, you think he might pretend he didn’t hear it. Maybe he’ll just continue on like always, business as usual, ignoring the slip for both your sakes.

But then—slowly, carefully—his hand comes to rest on your shoulder.

It’s brief, but firm. A steady weight, grounding you in a way you never expected. You turn your head slightly, just enough to see the way his expression has shifted—not shocked, not uncomfortable. Just… thoughtful.

Finally, he speaks, voice quiet but steady.

“Anytime.”

And somehow, that single word carries more weight than any grand speech ever could.