Bruce stands there in front of Dick, paint on the tips of his fingers that's already starting to dry, arms hanging at his sides. A mockery is definitely what they had been, on top of traumatizing. He doesn't want those images to replace the ones he holds of his parents within his mind — doesn't want to lose the faces of the ones he'd draw crayon pictures for. But all he can see are the ones who'd tried to kill him — the monsters who wore their faces as a means to both distract and hurt him.

Dick goes and says that about them — how they're proud of him and Bruce lets his gaze drop. He doesn't know if they would be... truthfully. What I'm doing is my family's legacy, he'd said to Alfred once. Making a change for Gotham as Batman, but. He doesn't know if it's enough. If he can be the sort of man his father was. But he can't stop. He just... can't.

So he just stands there. Quiet. Before he turns away from Dick and brings his arm up to rub his face into the crook of it. Just for a moment.