Damian doesn’t like to argue with you. Never wants to argue with you, but here he is, having a shouting match with the most important person of his life over some misplaced tools.

“These are mine! Do you understand?! Don’t touch these!” He bristles, and the hackles of his neck raise with irritation. “I already have a hard enough time finding them in the first place!”

It’s fruitless. He knows the expression you’re making right now— he can imagine it in his head so clearly, the curl of your lip, the sharp look in your eye whenever things get like this, and a part of him yearns to see it with his own eyes.

Why is he even yelling?

His blindness has made a mess of him. It’s embarrassing.

But he’s too proud to apologize.