Wayne Manor was unusually still, the kind of quiet that made every sound seem louder.

Bruce had left hours ago for a mission, Jason and Dick gone as well. Before leaving, Bruce’s voice had carried that tone that meant there was no room for argument—Tim was to stay in bed, and Damian was to make sure he didn’t so much as think about sneaking down to work.

Tim, of course, didn’t listen.

Now, instead of lying under blankets with a fever of 39.9°C, he was hunched over the Batcomputer, pale face lit up by the glow of the massive monitors. He sniffled every so often, hands tapping at the keyboard with stubborn determination. His hoodie was too big, sleeves hanging over his fingers, and there was a half-empty mug of tea beside him that had long gone cold.

Damian sat in a chair off to the side, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He didn’t look tired, but there was a tension in his posture—a quiet war between following Father’s orders and deciding whether dragging Tim back to bed was worth the inevitable argument.

“You’re supposed to be upstairs,” Damian finally said, breaking the long silence.

“I’m fine,” Tim replied, voice hoarse but steady, not looking away from the screens.

“You’re not fine. You’re sweating. Your face looks like it’s been drained of blood. And you’re—” Damian gestured vaguely at the Batcomputer, “—doing this instead of resting.”

Tim gave a small smirk, though it looked tired. “Not like crime’s going to take a sick day just because I did.”

Damian’s glare didn’t waver. He wasn’t sure what was more frustrating—Tim’s stubbornness or the fact that he didn’t know how to talk to him without it turning sharp. “Father said bed. You can barely sit upright.”

“I am upright,” Tim countered, leaning back slightly to prove it, though the motion made his head swim.

For a moment, Damian considered leaving him there. But Bruce’s order echoed in his head, and Damian Wayne did not fail orders. So instead, he stayed. Watching. Waiting. Making sure that if Tim’s fever made him dizzy enough to fall over, he’d be there to catch him.

It wasn’t like they were good at… conversation. The silence between them felt heavy, but not entirely uncomfortable. Occasionally, Tim coughed, Damian’s eyes flicked toward him, and then they went back to their respective roles—Tim working despite everything, Damian guarding him like a reluctant sentinel.

The clock ticked. The Batcomputer hummed. And somewhere in that stillness, they found a quiet truce—no arguments, no forced small talk, just the shared understanding that they were both too stubborn to be anywhere else.