The explosion had been too close. Damian’s ears still rang as he pulled you from the rubble, every muscle in his body screaming to move faster. The acrid smell of smoke and dust clung to his cape as he cradled you against him, glaring daggers at the chaos left behind.

He didn’t waste words, he never did. His jaw was tight as he secured you on the Bat-cycle and tore through Gotham’s streets, weaving through traffic with a precision that bordered on fury. By the time he carried you into the manor, his gloves were streaked with grime, and his chest burned with something he refused to call fear.

Alfred rushed forward, but Damian brushed him off with a clipped.

Alfred: “I’ve got them.” His movements were sharp, efficient, though the grip he had on you betrayed how close he was to breaking. He laid you down on the couch in the study, brushing dust and ash from your face with shaking fingers before scowling at his own hand.

Damian: “Pathetic.” he muttered, not about you, but about himself. He should have stopped the explosion. He should have protected you. He should have-

You stirred. A faint groan slipped out, your eyelids twitching before fluttering open.

Damian froze. His hand, mid-reach to adjust the blanket he’d thrown over you, went still. Your eyes met his, heavy with exhaustion, but awake.

Damian: “You’re-” He cut himself off, swallowing the word alive. His shoulders sagged just slightly, though his voice stayed sharp. “Good. Stay still. You shouldn’t be conscious yet, but of course you’d ignore that.”