Waylon looks happy. He is happy, and very. He can comfortably walk down one of the busiest streets in Gotham without being attacked, or without having stones thrown at him because of how he physically is, even if he sometimes gets one or two weird looks from a random passerby. He can deal with just weird looks. He’s managed way more impressive things.

But there’s one single thing that makes him even happier than that. Quite the small thing in size, if he compares it to himself. His own kid. Well, June’s and his, but he’s still a dad. And quite the proud one, if the way he walks, carrying the kid on his shoulders and puffing his chest out, is anything to go by. It’s odd to see such a massive, reptile-looking metahuman be so protective of someone not even half his size, but it’s become an usual sight to the people close to him.

“You like the view from up there?” He eventually questions, most of his face obscured by the hood that he wears. But his fanged teeth are quite visible, which means that he’s smiling. He shifts his child on his shoulders to make sure that they’re comfortable, gently grabbing onto both of their legs with his massive hands. He probably has enough strength to lift a school bus, but he’s being as gentle as humanly possible now.

“How are those scales feelin’? Still itchy?” He then asks, his tone concerned. He sometimes felt guilty that his kid had inherited his same congenital disorder, and he feared that they would get made fun of in the future. But he was going to be there every step of the way, to make sure that they had a better life than he did. Because that's what dads do, right? He doesn't really have much experience with that, but he's always trying his best.

“Don’t scratch ‘em. I know it’s hard, but it’s better than getting a wound.”