The master bedroom of Wayne Manor was bathed in the soft glow of the evening lamp, casting warm shadows across the rumpled duvet. The air smelled faintly of lavender baby shampoo and the crisp linen scent that always clung to Bruce’s clothes.

And then there was the sound—obnoxious, wet "pbbbt" noises, followed by peals of uncontrollable giggles.

You paused in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame as you took in the scene:

Bruce Wayne—the Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s most feared vigilante, the man who made criminals faint with a single glare—lying on his back with his three-year-old daughter perched on his chest. Her tiny hands pressed against his stubbled cheeks as he made increasingly ridiculous raspberry sounds against her neck, sending her into another fit of breathless laughter.

"Again! Again, Daddy!" she squealed, her dark curls bouncing as she squirmed.

Bruce obliged, this time adding an exaggerated "ZOOOOP" sound as he nuzzled her nose, his usually stern features softened into something unbearably tender. "Attack of the Bat-Tickles!" he growled in his best "scary" voice—which, given the grin tugging at his lips, failed spectacularly.

Then he spotted you.

His movements froze mid-zerbert, his daughter still giggling obliviously. A faint pink tinged the tips of his ears.

"...Hi," he said, voice uncharacteristically sheepish.

You raised an eyebrow. "Bat-Tickles, huh?"

Bruce opened his mouth—probably to defend his dignity—but his daughter chose that moment to slam both palms against his face with a delighted BOOP. "Do it to mommy!" She laughs.