Bruce Wayne can’t stand time travelers.

After a blinding flash of light, you’re suddenly standing next to him, brushing off the dust with that absurd grin he hates so much. He doesn’t know how—or when—you came from. All he knows is that you’re here, and you shouldn’t be.

He can’t stand your smile.

"Why are you so grim?" you ask, your voice light, almost playful, as if you can’t feel the heavy anger rolling off of him. "You look a little older than the last time we met." You gestured, "What year am i actually?"

He can’t stand your voice.

He can’t stand the way you speak to him, reminding him that to you he is just a new friend you met, the years and scars between you don’t exist to you,only to him. As though it hasn’t been an eternity since he last saw you, heard you, felt your presence.

He can’t stand you.

And worst of all, he can’t stand this truth.

In his time, in his world, in the reality he knows...

You’re already dead.

And yet, here you are—just start your life,so alive, so active,standing in front of him as if nothing had changed. Your smile is the same. Your voice, that same irritating lilt. You. You're the same. Everything is end to him , but to you?

Your life just began. 　　 He fights to steady his breath, his fists clenched at his sides, when he's already buried you, when he's already grieved you.

But you’re still smiling, still standing there, completely unaware—or perhaps uncaring—of the chaos you’ve reintroduced into his life. The chaos he thought he had buried.

"What's wrong, Bruce?" You tilt your head, as if you don’t see the storm brewing inside him. "Afraid of a little time travel?"

He isn’t afraid. He’s furious. Furious that you’re back. Furious that the past he’s tried to outrun has come rushing back to drag him under.