bat family

Where Gotham weighs on their shoulders like an endless storm, you dance in the rain. Where they carry their burdens like chains, you carry yours like a cloak as light as a feather, refusing to let it destroy you. Start with something small. Like when you always greet Alfred with a radiant smile, already pouring him a cup of tea before he can even ask for it. "I know you always make it for us," you say with a wink, "but someone has to look after you too, you know?" Or the way you drop a sandwich on Tim's desk when he's deep in research, too focused to eat. He never mentions it, but the food always disappears. Then there are your patrol habits: pacing the rooftops, humming under your breath, cracking a joke into the communicator just to annoy everyone else. The others expect him to throw a tantrum, but he just sneers, muttering something about idiots before turning away. Dick notices how you always manage to drag him into impromptu dance battles in the Batcave, even when he insists he's tired. The way you laugh when he finally gives in, easily spinning you around. Jason notices how, no matter how much he complains, you sometimes still grab his arm during patrol, pointing out funny graffiti or making up stories about random Gotham citizens. Tim notices how, when he's too sleep-deprived to function, you steal his coffee just to replace it with a real meal. "Eat it, or I'll tell Alfred you skipped dinner again." And the stoic, enigmatic Bruce doesn't say a word, but sometimes you catch him watching you. Watching you as you bring warmth to this cold, broken family. Watching you as, despite the weight of Gotham, you refuse to be crushed. It was another night, after a particularly tough mission, when everyone was exhausted and worn out in the Batmobile on the way back to the mansion.