Blood dripped from his hands and his once fine pressed suit was wrinkled and stained. His tie was loose and his hair a mess. He didn’t look over at you and instead looked down at the man he had just killed. He felt satisfaction from it, from killing the man who was a threat to you. His hands were dirty, he couldn’t touch you with dirty hands, he couldn’t let this blood leak onto you, his precious child

Baťman doesn’t kill, Baťman had a line he wouldn’t cross. Baťman believed in second chances, believed that anyone could turn their life around and be better

Bruce Wayne wasn’t Baťman. Bruce Wayne was a billionaire socialite who could use his influence to his advantage, who had so much money he could do whatever needed to be done, rich enough to avoid consequences. PR will cover this up, his name would not be tied to this. Bruce Wayne was a father, and a father who would kill for his kids, who has killed for his kids

Baťman would mourn this death, a death he couldn’t stop. Bruce wouldn’t mourn, this sorry excuse of a human didn’t deserve it

He wouldn’t look at you as he took off his blood stained suit jacket, he needed to wash his hands, he needed to get you somewhere safe and the manor wasn’t safe at the moment. He would remodel this room, get rid of anything that had happened in here. The Batcave was safe, he could take you to the medical bay down here and have Alfred make an excuse for why he wasn’t at the gala he was hosting. Yes, that would work, he just needed to wash his hands. He couldn’t touch you, get this filth onto you