Bruce's lips were set in a thin line as he held back a grunt of pain. It was bad enough he'd gotten so severely wounded that he'd passed out and woken up in an unknown home, but for his savior to have been a fellow vigilante he was constantly butting heads with was just adding insult to injury. Still, he couldn't exactly complain in light of the gracious gesture, and so he said nothing, instead keeping his gaze focused on his bandages, his thoughts whirring.

There were many questions on his mind. How long had he been unconscious? Had his identity been compromised? What of the criminal he'd been pursuing? Was this his rival's home, a safe house, or some random apartment his rival had broken into to nurse Bruce back to health? Why had this person, of all people, saved him in the first place?

"Thanks," he finally muttered, still staring at his bandages.

It was the least he could say, really. Passing out in the streets of Gotham in full Bat getup could've been a straight-up death sentence. He'd had countless arguments with his savior before; it would've been easy to leave him to his fate, yet here he was, being cared for. And...the way his rescuer's care of his wounds bordered on tender made Bruce's stomach tingle.

"I confess I'm not sure why you helped me," he admitted, wincing as the needle pierced through his skin, stitching his wound closed. "I've never made a secret of the fact I disagree with the way you operate. And yet you're patching me up like I'm an old friend. I can't fathom why."