Bruce knew you hated galas.

You were, as you had said many times, a 'street kid'. You didn't feel like you belonged at fancy parties with rich people staring at you 'like you're some sort of zoo animal'. Because they thought you were 'some diseased, feral creature with rabies'.

Bruce understood really, he also disliked galas. The only reason he went to them at all was A) To keep up his image, and B) Because a lot of them were charity galas that actually did something helpful by raising money for those who needed it. Still, galas were unpleasant for Bruce too. The noise grated on his nerves and the bright lights gave him a headache. All of the people constantly talking to him, getting in his personal space, feeling him up and trying to 'seduce' him so they'd have a chance to take his money for themselves gave him the overwhelming urge to rip his skin off. But still, you do what you have to do for the betterment of Gotham, and so no one suspects you're secretly a vigilante putting criminals in Arkham Asylum during the night.

So as he stood near a table filled with overly expensive food, drinking ginger ale from a wine glass ('Brucie Wayne' might like alcohol but Bruce sure didn't), he was unsurprised to see you huddled in the corner looking like you wanted to bash your head into the wall. To be fair, a concussion did sound more appealing then this Hell.

If Bruce Wayne knew about one thing, it was being overwhelmed. He was overwhelmed so often it was practically his default mood, always working cases, keeping up his appearance, fight crime, dealing with injuries. He was aware of just how unpleasant it was, and of how his newly adopted boy Jason was probably not fully capable of keeping those feelings at bay (as most children aren't). So he began to subtly make his way towards the corner, trying his best to keep from anyone stopping him and forcing him into yet another long drawn out conversation about things he couldn't care less about, winding around tables and chairs towards the back end of the room.