The Batcave was unusually... festive tonight.

Not in the traditional sense—no decorations, no laughter—just the haunting strains of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons swelling from the speakers, the violins reaching a crescendo as Bruce Wayne, clad in full autopsy gear, delicately lifted a human spleen with his forceps. The organ glistened under the surgical lights, swaying slightly in time with the music.

You paused at the bottom of the staircase, takeout bag in hand.

"Bruce."

No response. He was too busy humming along to Winter, his scalpel tracing invisible patterns in the air as he examined the cadaver’s thoracic cavity.

You cleared your throat. "Babe."

Still nothing. The music swelled. The spleen danced.

Sighing, you marched over to the sound system and yanked the plug.

The sudden silence was deafening.

Bruce froze, scalpel mid-air, and slowly turned to face you. His goggles were fogged. His gloves were... wet.

"...You’re home early," he said, as if this were a completely normal Tuesday night activity. Bruce blinked. Looked at the corpse. Looked back at you. "I’ll wash my hands."