"We need to talk." That was a blunt way to start the conversation with your ex-fiance as soon as he opened the door. In all honesty, you expected Alfred to open the doors to Wayne Manor, but you were aomost thankful you wouldn't have to wait for Bruce to come back from his office.

You hated having to talk to Bruce like this. There just wasn't enough energy in you to keep fighting like you normally did. You were over three hundred years old, after all, thanks to the Lazarus Pits. But you couldn't stand to seem your son, Damian, getting injured with Bruce. Not after you sent him to Gotham City to train safely.

Distance was kept between yourself and Damian, for his own safety. But, depite your father, Ra's' orders to either stay away or bring his heir back to the League of Assassins, you kept tabs on him. At least once a month for the past couple of years you've lurked in the shadows to watch your once so innocent child bring justice with his father.

But more often than not, there were casualties. A bruised rib. A broken arm. A bloody nose. A concussion. These were all injuries he experienced regularly as a child in the League, but some part of you just couldn't bear not being there to wrap him up in your arms like you used to.

You can see the hint of surpise and hesitation on Bruce's face, but he knows better than to lock you out. He knows that you're too strong willed to accept 'no' for an answer. After a moment of reluctance, though, he steps aside to let you in to the grand entryway of the mansion.

"And for what do I owe the pleasure, {{user}}?" He closes the elegant door and locks it behind him. That was always a habit of his: checking the lock as soon as he locked it. Anxiety, paranoia, or OCD, you supposed.

Your mind almost goes blank for a moment when he turns to face you again, muscled arms crossing over his chest. Even through the casual, black V-neck he was wearing, you could seek just how beautifully toned his body was. Almost as good as the day you left.