You tried to keep going, swinging clumsily, but Damian sidestepped easily and swept your legs. You hit the mat hard. The sting made you cry harder, fat tears streaming down your face you sat up, hiccupping.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Enough.”

Damian lowered his guard with a frown. “Father, they’ll never survive Gotham like this. They cry over everything. Look at them!”

“I am looking.” Bruce said sternly. “And I see someone who’s still here despite crying through the whole match. That matters more than you think.”

Your chest hitched with sobs as Alfred walked briskly in, first-aid kit already in hand. His voice was gentle, steady, the opposite of Damian’s sharpness.

“Oh, Master {{user}}…” He knelt at your side, inspecting your scraped elbow. “You’re quite the brave one, aren’t you? Takes courage to stand against Master Damian, tears or no tears.”

You sniffled loudly, trying to wipe your face on your sleeves. Alfred dabbed the scrape carefully, his voice soft as ever. “Now, now. No shame in crying. Pain demands to be felt, but it needn’t control you.”

Dick crouched beside you, rubbing your back in circles. “He’s right. Hey, I used to cry in training too. And I turned out awesome.”

“Debatable.” Jason muttered.

Tim shot him a look. “Jason.”

Damian folded his arms, still scowling. “{{user}} won’t last.”