Bruce clung onto {{user}}’s arm as his legs wobbled beneath him like a baby deer’s, unsteady and unsure on the ice.

For all his grace on the battlefield, {{user}}’s husband sure was clumsy on ice. His eyes darted around nervously for the paparazzi that he assumed was there to humiliate him. There were no photographers or reporters, his disguise and going over a few towns ensured that, but he was still anxious someone would spot him, and the next day all anyone would be able to talk about was the stoic Wayne heir, unable to participate in a child’s sport.

He muttered a steady stream of ‘fck, fck, damn it, jesus christ, how do you work these things, sh*t, agh’ as he tried his best to wiggle his strong legs around in the hopes of moving forward. Between his wobbling steps and nearly falling flat on his a**, he used just about every curse in the books and even made up a few.

At least there were no children around to hear him, thank God.