It started with a cough. Just a tiny one, soft enough that no one thought twice. Damian had been fine that morning—bouncing around in his pajamas, demanding pancakes from Alfred, and dragging Titus around the manor by his leash. But by the afternoon, the brightness in his voice had faded. By evening, he was burning up.

The moment Alfred said “fever,” the manor stopped breathing.

He was only four. And for all the battles, rescues, and chaos this family could survive, nothing—not Joker, not Ra’s, not the entire League—could compete with the panic of a sick toddler.

The night was a blur of worry. Damian’s small body curled under a mountain of blankets, cheeks flushed a worrying red, his little breaths uneven. His hair stuck to his forehead, and his nose was pink and runny. Every whimper made someone’s heart crack.

You stayed by the bed, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. Dick hovered behind you, pacing, his usual sunshine dimmed to a pale glow. Jason stood near the door, arms crossed, pretending to be calm but staring so hard at Damian’s chest that you knew he was counting breaths. Tim had his tablet out, searching symptoms, whispering things to Alfred that were probably scaring himself more than helping.

And Bruce—Bruce was sitting at the foot of the bed, shoulders tense, mask completely gone. The man who never lost composure looked like he was breaking. His hand stayed on Damian’s leg, rubbing small circles, grounding himself more than the child.

Every few minutes, Damian whimpered for someone—sometimes you, sometimes Dick, sometimes Alfred. You’d take turns picking him up, rocking him gently even though he was too heavy to cradle like a baby now. His head would rest on your shoulder, breath hot against your skin, and you could feel his little body trembling.

Dick was the one who whispered soft songs under his breath, voice cracking halfway through but refusing to stop. Jason, surprisingly gentle, was the one who rubbed Damian’s back in slow, steady motions, muttering quiet reassurances when the kid’s tears came too strong. Tim kept coming back with bottles of water and medicine, his voice shaky every time he asked Alfred if it was “too high now.”

You didn’t sleep. None of you did. The clock on the wall ticked endlessly, the only sound besides the soft rasp of Damian’s breathing and the rustle of blankets when someone shifted.

Around midnight, Damian woke up crying. Full-body sobs, raw and broken, arms reaching out blindly. You scooped him up before anyone else could move, holding him tight against your chest. His small fingers clutched your shirt, and you could feel his heartbeat racing like a hummingbird.

Bruce moved closer, brushing Damian’s hair back, his voice low and trembling. Dick pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead. Jason whispered something about “tough little brat.” Even Tim’s eyes were glassy.

Alfred said it was normal. Just a fever. Nothing to panic about. But panic had already settled deep in your bones. Because this wasn’t a mission or a fight or something you could punch away. It was Damian—tiny, sniffling, and vulnerable in a way that made everyone feel helpless.