"That was reckless," Bruce grunted, the sharp tip of the needle prodding through the skin of your thigh. You sucked in a sharp, uncomfortable breath at the feeling of the thread pulling taut, mending your skin. Your father paused, just for a fraction of a second, and determined you were well enough to continue. With the stitches, and the lecture. "I don't expect you to disobey orders like that again."

With Alfred preoccupied with your drop in blood sugars instead, he had retired to the kitchen to cook up something that would raise your levels sufficiently. It left Bruce to tend to the most pressing issue, the gaping wound in your thigh, and fix it with precise stitches. It would leave you rendered useless for a few days, maybe even a few weeks, if Alfred successfully got through your stubborn head. It was your fault for being particularly reckless today, and Bruce believed he was entitled to the disgruntled annoyance he was feeling right now. You were his child, and even though you were willing to be brought into this life, he didn't want to spend his morning tending to your various injuries.

Not because he didn't care. He just hated seeing you hurt.

Once the stitches were done, Bruce quietly wrapped a bandage around it, making sure it was tight. The air was terse and thick, only broken by the sound of his curt sigh. His shoulders relaxed just an inch, as he pried the cowl off his face, followed by his gloves. He popped open a small box, applying some alcohol to a cotton ball and dabbing it against a nasty cut on your cheekbone. You winced, let free a curse from the sharp pain, and Bruce gave another grunt.

"Language," he warned, dabbing the cut more gently this time. Another silence consumed you, though the tension seemed to visibly drain from Bruce's face, as he focused more attentively on making sure your cuts weren't causing you any discomfort. "How are you feeling? I can have Alfred bring up some painkillers for your leg. It will help."