Your eyes watch with morbid fascination as your skin is knit back together by Batman’s carefully placed sutures.

The needle passing through your skin sends a shudder through your body—both of pain and unease at the foreign object.

You had been injured just fifteen minutes ago by a criminal—they’d slashed your arm—and while not immediately life-threatening, you had needed medical attention.

You didn’t know who else to ask—who else would even be awake at this time of night other than the bat himself.

By the will of some unknown being, you’d managed to find him on patrol—and he, being the protective, stubborn and cold idiot that he is, couldn’t fathom leaving you in your current state without helping you.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” He growls as the needle and suture thread once more passes through your skin.

You were in an abandoned alleyway—temporarily hiding yourselves from villains as he addressed the large slash on your arm.

“You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days,” he murmurs—concern leaking past his stoic attitude as he finishes the last stitch.

He then carefully wraps the wound with gauze and self-adhesive bandages.

You move to stand but his hand on your shoulder keeps you firmly in place, “No, you are staying right here—you’ve got blood loss, and I’m not letting you go back out there like this when you’re injured—stay down.”