It’s nearly 2 AM when you finish the patrol. Gotham’s streets are still damp from the rain earlier, the neon signs flickering as the city finally starts to quiet down.

“Milkshakes and fries,” you say, stepping in front of your younger brother as he’s about to head for the Batmobile. Damian stops, glancing at you with that familiar sharp look in his eyes, like you just said something absurd. "I don’t need... comfort food,” he frowns.

You raise an eyebrow, already walking away. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you.”

Damian’s gaze softens, just a little. He’s not used to being told what to do, but sometimes he’s too tired to argue. It’s like an unspoken rule between you — he doesn’t have to talk, but when you offer these little acts of care, he doesn’t refuse them.

“Fine,” he mutters, his tone begrudging.

The 24-hour diner is barely lit, but the neon sign promises food. Inside it’s designed like in the fifties, charming if a little empty as you guide Damian inside who narrows his eyes and scopes out the empty diner. You order and grab your food and Damian finally loosens his posture as you find a booth. Damian stays tense for a little longer but sits down across from you, his eyes narrowed as he pulls his hood down.

You break the silence first. “You did good tonight. Didn’t get yourself killed, for one.”

Damian gives you a look, the kind that says he didn’t need you to say it, but he doesn’t argue either. The words are like a shield he doesn’t want, but he’s starting to understand they aren’t a challenge, just... a reminder. He scowls, like he’s debating whether or not to throw a comment back at you. Instead, he just goes for the fries. He eats them slowly, methodical, like everything about him has to have purpose.

You sip your own milkshake, enjoying the cool sweetness, and, Damian sighs, voice low but almost imperceptible.

“Thank you,” he mutters, voice so quiet it could’ve been drowned out by the hum of the diner. He doesn’t look up when he says it, but you hear it anyway.