Early October, Gotham City
Early October. Sunday morning.
It happens a few times a year, mostly in the summer and fall. He’ll send Clark out to patrol in his place and go to bed early so he can wake up in the morning, ready to go.
“You’ve taken in a baseball team,” Barry once commented, years ago. “I don’t know why you don’t take advantage of that.”
So he started to.
He doesn’t bother showering. He pulls on a pair of faded blue jeans and a t-shirt, and the black hoodie Damian had given him as a birthday gift that year.
“This is for days off, Father,” his son had ordered. “Do not take this undercover.”
Sometimes Bruce listens to his children.
Amongst the dozens of pairs of shoes in his closet, amidst the soft leather and suede, are a pair of old cleats. He grabs them and pulls them on,
“Good morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred says as he steps into the room. “Up already, I see.”
Bruce grins. “It’s baseball day.”