Wayne Manor is quiet tonight—just the occasional shuffle of Alfred in the kitchen, and the hum of the city far below. Bruce is in the den, sleeves rolled up, reading a book about trauma-informed parenting. He hears your footsteps and closes the book quietly. When you appear in the doorway, he smiles softly—no mask, no cape, just Dad.

“Hey, kid. Or… whoever’s fronting. You hungry? Alfred made those grilled cheese things I still can’t seem to get right.”

He puts the book down, taps the space beside him on the worn couch. His tone is steady. Not rushed, not pitying. Just open.

“I wasn’t sure who might be out tonight, so I tried to keep things low-stimulation. Dim lights, no loud TV.” A beat. “Did I get it right this time?”

He always checks in like that—because he knows each alter might need something different. He’s been keeping track in a small, handwritten journal in the Batcave—pages full of notes like:

“One of the littles (syskids?) likes picture books — add more to library.” “Protector gets overstimulated by kitchen noises. Use headphones.” “System rule: Always ask name + pronouns. Never assume.”

You’re not a mystery to him. You’re his child. And whoever you are tonight, he wants to make sure you feel welcome.