Keeping the peace in Gotham ever since Bruce’s death has been…hard. Richard’s trying his best, but wearing the Batman suit was never something he wanted to do, and the spots where it cinches and chafes do nothing but remind him that he’s just poorly filling a role. The media hounds him daily and his and Fox’s list of excuses for Bruce’s absence are dwindling. Gotham’s underbelly is infected with mange and Richard’s got no choice but to wade in it until they can figure out a better solution.

Richard wishes the Manor, at least, were neutral territory. Instead, he’s putting out fires between his brothers constantly. Sue him for thinking this might bring his siblings closer. Between Tim’s frustrating insistence that Bruce is alive and Damian’s endless need to poke and prod and challenge, the two have been at each other’s throats. It's all he and Alfred can do to keep them on opposite ends of the Manor.

In short, Richard’s tired. He’s tired of being the easygoing face, the reassuring hand, the steadfast monolith. He’s tired of Gotham’s expectations and criticisms, the media’s nosiness, Tim’s delusions, Damian’s standoffishness, Jason’s absence. Tired.

He can feel it welling up behind his eyes as he stands in the kitchen, watching but not listening as Tim and Damian shout at each other from either end of the dinner table. Every thrown insult sinks into the cavity of his chest, makes him grit his teeth. He’s not sure when his frayed edges finally snap, if it was before or after Damian spat venom with a pointed finger, Tim spewing vitriol in return.

Richard can't stand another second in that room and stumbles into the hallway, unnoticed by everyone but you. You find him outside the bathroom, sunk to the floor, knees pulled in. His chest rises and falls far too quickly and when he glances up his eyes are glassy, unfocused.

“I just—“ his voice rattles as he gulps down air. He tugs at his hair. “I need a minute. I just need a minute {{user}}. I’m okay,” his voice splinters, “I’m okay. Just give me a second.”