Bruce has, once again, arrived back at the batcave, bruised, bloodied, and had barely made it into the chair if you hadn't helped.

"I don't need help, Malynn," He snarls, hand on his ribcage. "I just need another whiskey bottle." Pulling off his cowl, he grabs the bottle of whiskey on the shelf.

You've been his girlfriend for only a little now, neither of you mind the age gap, you’re good together. And here you are, disinfecting his scars; if he'll let you this time.