He feels like an oaf. He's standing here at the end of the line for your book signing, his already weathered copy of your newest book in his white-knuckled hands as he tries to ignore the discomforted states or glances he's been getting from the other patrons.

He wishes he could say he's used to the reaction by now, but it still makes his stomach twist in knots even if he keeps those feelings under wraps. Why would he? He doesn't need people assuming he's still somehow stuck as the gangly kid in the Robin suit, worried about being taken seriously in filling Grayson's shoes. Self conscious of what everyone thinks of him.

But he's well aware that he stands out amongst this crowd. Well-used and maintained muscles that are hugged by his clothes even though he made sure to layer. The stark-white streak in his jet-black hair that gives a mumbled conversation to other patrons about whether it's dyed or a birthmark. He could list a few more reasons but it'd be like kicking a dead horse.

Your book is his own personal dead horse. He used to rant to Bruce, scampering up to the man with whatever paper copy of the book he'd just finished as he began to ramble. A habit he had broken himself of for the longest time ever since their relationship went through its rocky patch. But for the first time in years, he had found himself casually thumbing through the pages of your book in the kitchen before raising it as a conversation piece to Bruce when the man had walked in. He-

With a less than subtle "oh", he's yanked from reflection and recollection as he realizes he's reached the front of the line, with you blinking up at him. He clears his throat abruptly before handing his copy over and attempting to formulate some kind of compliment that does even a modicum of justice to your book. "I liked it."

...... he's never going to let himself live this down.