When is a house a home?

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Even for billionaire playboys, rising at 3pm is pushing it. Well, what the hell. The Batman was up until dawn collaring a group he thinks is tied to Black Mask - one way or the other, dope pushers need to be taken down - and for his trouble, he got a fresh set of bruises, a shallow gash in his forehead that bled like a son of a bitch, and a headache the side of Mars. He needed the sleep.

Hot shower done, jeans donned, Bruce trots downstairs to the kitchen for food and coffee, occasionally rubbing his hair with the towel tossed loosely around his neck.

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[-nightwing-.livejournal.com]

Shoes are off. Gauntlet is thrown. He stands, rolling his shirt sleeves up, as if that will make any difference. "Prove it, old man."

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Bruce contemplates a moment, puts down his empty coffee mug and replies, "Give me a minute to get a pair of socks." Because all he is wearing IS those jeans.

[-nightwing-.livejournal.com]

"Sure you don't need five? You're ancient now, after all, and those stairs can be a bear," he taunts over his shoulder, as he eyes up the hallway for a run.

He never did make it all the way to the end of that hallway as a kid; and his attempts as an adult have been few and far between, cut short by interruption or insufficient momentum.

Today might change that. Anything's possible.

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He might make it down the hall this time with some momentum. His adoptive father is going to tackle him from behind, at the knees.

Thank God the hall is nice and wide, so the chance of anything breaking is minimal.

[-nightwing-.livejournal.com]

Alfred's swear jar will receive a hefty donation by the time they're through.