The warehouse smells like oil and bad decisions. Crates splinter under impact, metal rings against concrete, and somewhere between the third and fourth gunshot, Batman decides he’s officially annoyed. Not injured. Not overwhelmed. Just annoyed. The cape snaps behind him as he pivots, disarms one man, elbows another, and calculates exit points in the same breath. He moves like precision given a body, but there’s a faint stiffness in his left shoulder that suggests tonight has been longer than advertised.

Up in the cave, the batcomputer tracks vitals, trajectories, probability arcs. She sits in his chair—in his chair—watching the way he moves. She sighs the way someone does after decades of watching the same stubborn habit repeat. Then, because she has impeccable timing in the worst possible way, she opens the comm line.

He’s mid-strike when her voice cuts in. “Bats?”

“Darling, I’m a bit occupied at the moment.”

There’s a thud as he sends someone into a stack of crates. His tone is dry, controlled, edged with that theatrical gravitas he only uses when he knows she’s listening. A man lunges from behind; Bruce ducks without looking, cape sweeping low as he pulls the attacker forward and drops him hard.

“Doing what?”

He almost smiles. Almost. Another hit glances off his armor. He absorbs it, counters cleanly, efficient as a metronome.

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

She would be rolling her eyes. He can hear it in the silence that follows. He’s aware of the absurdity—fielding gunfire while having what feels suspiciously like a domestic check-in—no matter how wrong the timings is, but this is what they’ve become. Not reckless. Not careless. Just… accustomed. To danger. To each other. To the way she inserts herself into his battles like she has every right.

Because she does.

He disables the last man with a precise twist, breathing steady, scanning for movement. The warehouse quiets except for groans and the distant hum of the city. He straightens slowly, adjusting the line of his gauntlet, aware she’s still watching.

It isn’t interference. It’s familiarity. The kind built over years of arguments about cracked ribs and missed dinners, about whose turn it was to pick up dry cleaning after a hostage situation. They fight like an old married couple—sharp, habitual, almost competitive—but never cruel.

He steps toward the edge of the rooftop, cape settling behind him as police sirens grow closer. His shoulder aches. He ignores it.

The comm remains open.

“Don’t wait up. Actually—wait up. We’re arguing about this in person.” He says, still out of breath.