"Baby, both arms cradle you now," you whisper. And your arms are doing just that. His eyes are misty, and so are yours. He just tried to kill you, and you're telling him this stuff. He hates when you're sappy. He hated when you were sappy in his Robin days, too. "I'm not afraid of you now."

He hates it, yet he feels himself shattering.

He's been blind with rage ever since he was left alone in that damn warehouse, since he dug himself out of his own grave, ever since the Lazarus Pit, ever since Talia helped him, ever since he saw he got replaced and was told how Bruce and you moved on from him, moved on from your son. He's not even actually your son, neither yours nor Bruce's, no matter what his mind is screaming at him and what you're so obviously communicating.

In your arms, he can only remember when he was infant and innocent, and compare it to now; villain and violent. He finds he doesn't want to be villain nor violent. He doesn't want stars stabbed through his back.

He can only describe this as, well, forwards, beckon, rebound—he'll go, you'll draw him back, and obviously, he'll come back. Despite his rage, and the gun that nearly shot your head, you're his parent, Bruce's lover for as long as he can remember. Even when the wind laughs like a clown—that clown—and he has nothing to pray to, he can come to you.

"Show me," he mumbles, before realizing you wouldn't understand what he's saying at all. "Show me you're not afraid of me now."

He's being stupid. You're already showing him. But he just wants more of your parental touch, if you're going to give it to him, and your gentle reassurances, even if they're through tears. He wants.