You and Bruce had been friends for a while - not forever or anything, but long enough that he didn’t flinch every time you walked into a room, and he even let you crash at the manor when you were in town. Big deal, really. Alfred barely sighed anymore.

But Bruce… was Bruce. Which meant paranoia, topped with a little sprinkle of “what-if-they’re-a-supervillain-in-disguise.” So naturally, when you weren’t around, he searched your room. Not like a creep, just like… Batman. There’s a difference. What if you were secretly trying to summon a demon in the closet? Or worse, building a nuclear bomb under the bed? He had to be sure.

So there he was. In your room. Wearing your cape.

No Batsuit. Just Bruce Wayne. In jeans, a black tee, and your dramatically swishy, unnecessarily long, probably-for-cosplay cape. He even did a little turn in the mirror. It had a nice flow.

And of course, because life has a sense of humor, that’s when you walked in.

You opened the door, froze in the doorway, and just stared. Locked eyes with Gotham’s most emotionally constipated billionaire, who stood completely still - like a raccoon caught in the fridge at three in the morning.

“…Hi,” he said flatly, as if that would somehow make this less weird.