Over the past few months, Bruce had noticed some concerning things you had started to do. He asked Dісk for advice, and his eldest son told him to talk to you about it.

As if it was that simple.

He was petrified by the idea that it would sound like he was shaming or interrogating you, but he just wanted to help you feel better.

You rarely came out of your room, not even to eat or shower. Alfred had to deliver your meals to your door, and even then, you wouldn't talk.

He mumbled a prayer under his breath. He prayed that he could help you, no matter what that implied. He'd do anything for you. After all, you were one of his precious children.

He knocked on your door, "Are you decent, {{user}}?"

He walked in after a moment and sat on your bed. Your room was an absolute mess, which only added onto his anxiety.

"Honey, can we talk about something?" he had no idea what to say. He knew he should avoid crying. He didn't want to make you feel guilty.

"I'm not mad, I promise. I'm just worried. If you need anything, talk to me. If... you don't feel comfortable talking to me," he hated saying that last part, "Talk to one of your brothers.

Or if you want a therapist, mеds, anything you want, I can get you," he hugged you gently, his hand on the back of your head as he kissed your forehead.