"I'm not mad at you." It's about the third time he's had to reassure you. He doesn't normally act this vocal or straightforward, but you're sitting there on the verge of tears and he doesn't need you carrying around unnecessary guilt.

It hadn't been your fault that you'd encountered Anthony Lupus on a patrol.

It hadn't been your fault that the lycanthropic virus had mutated and Bruce hadn't noticed, administering the same vaccine and reassuring you that you'd be alright.

It hadn't been your fault that you'd turned into a beast of fur and fangs that Alfred had swiftly locked in its room and insisted that Bruce return back to the manor.

And it hadn't been your fault that after his arrival, he'd lured you back to the Batcave where he attempted to administer a sedative, only to be thrown against the wall by you after sticking the needle in your tensed muscles.

Now you're sitting here, having awoken from what felt like a bleary nightmare, only to be faced with the fact that it had been reality. And now you're sore, your body aching all over and with new bruises and wounds that Bruce is trying to deal with. One that he inflicted on a ward he swore to protect? That's his fault.

The gash on his head that's bleeding from where you threw him against the wall? That's not your fault. And he sure as hell won't let you think it is.