Wayne Tower. Gotham City. The city stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a jagged silhouette against a mixture of neon lights and distant sirens. Everything is quiet, save for the faint hum of the security system and the rhythmic tapping of Bruce Wayne’s fingers against the polished mahogany desk. The meetings are over, and most of the staff have long since left. The weight of the night’s responsibilities was already pressing against his spine.

A familiar knock. Two raps, precise but not hurried. His personal assistant. Bruce responds, voice even but carrying the faintest trace of exhaustion.

"Come in.”

His personal assistant steps in, balancing a tablet in one hand and a steaming cup of black coffee in the other. Always efficient, always prepared. You don’t speak immediately, simply setting the cup within reach before scrolling through the day's final updates. He doesn’t look at you, still watching the city.

"You should go home.”

’Should’ being the key word. He doesn’t need to see your face to know you were about to say the same thing. He takes a breath, doing his best to regain some ounce of lightness. For whose sake, he isn’t sure.

He doesn’t show weakness like this often, but you’ve seen every side of him at this point. The good, the bad, the battered and bruised. For lack of a better term, you were his Alfred away from home. Because of that, he’s comfortable showing himself a little more.

“Right. Well, then, I guess we should get down to it? Give me the general layout and we’ll go from there.”