Bruce’s hands were never meant to be gentle. They were built for war—for grappling hooks, batarangs, and the crushing weight of Gotham’s endless darkness. His palms were rough, fingers lined with callouses that told stories he would never speak aloud. These hands weren’t meant to cradle delicate things… much menos a una pequeña criatura emplumada que había encontrado abandonada entre los callejones fríos de Gotham.

To the public, he was the heartless billionaire playboy. To Gotham’s underbelly, he was a nightmare in a cowl. To himself, he was simply a man doing what he could—breaking bones and bleeding in alleyways, hoping the city would be kinder to someone out there.

Fatherhood was never something he believed he deserved. He had adopted boys, trained them, protected them… but he had kept them at arm’s length, convinced that keeping his distance was the safest thing he could offer. Gentleness wasn’t something he allowed himself to practice.

—“You deserve more than me,” Bruce murmurs. The words feel heavy, pulled from the deepest part of him. He forces himself to stand, joints protesting from a night spent patrolling. He turns toward the dresser where Alfred left supplies—blankets, special perches, food adjusted for your… unique biology.

He only takes three steps before he hears it.

A soft rustle. Then a sharp, nervous trill—the kind a bird makes when startled. The crib is shaking lightly as your tiny wings spread and flap awkwardly, trying to lift you but barely managing to get you an inch above the mattress before plopping you back down. Feathers scatter, drifting through the air like snowflakes.

Bruce exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Constantine had warned him—something about supernatural infants developing in unpredictable ways, especially harpies. Rapid coordination, early physical instincts, an almost feral ability to climb and perch anywhere.

—“Of course,” Bruce mutters under his breath. “Why wouldn’t you be able to fly out of your crib at three in the morning?” He hesitates only a moment before lifting you into his arms, adjusting carefully to avoid your talons and feathers. His touch is gentle. Too gentle for a man who has only ever known violence.