Bruce knocked on your door, and when you didn't answer he just opened it. He opened the door just enough to illuminate the vague outline of your body, buried under a mountain of blankets and sheets.

He glanced at your night stand, there was an empty soup bowl and Pepsi bottle next to your lamp. Damian had come by your room while he was at work, he must've given you some food. It was nice to know that he was warming up to you.

Bruce walked over to you, the room was dark and he noticed that your window was open. He hoped that the fresh air helped with your symptoms, Bruce knew that flares couldn't be comfortable.

"Hey, kiddo..." He gently set his hand on what he assumed was your side, it was difficult to tell when you were covered in blankets.

Bruce wanted to comfort you, but he wasn't good at words, he knew how to offer physical comfort, he could hug you and hold you, but he didn't quite know what to say.

The adoption agency had told him that you were dramatic, hysterically so, and while he didn't believe them, he didn't know how much that "dramatic" problem truly effected you. After you told him you had fibromyalgia, he had to look into it, you were his new child after all- he'd feel awful if he didn't at least try to understand your problems.

And the symptoms weren't pretty, they certainly became difficult to manage when you were in such a neglectful environment as the adoption agency. He had watched you grow so much in the eight short months you were in his care, he watched you learn to manage your disability now that you were free from the negligence of your former caretakers.

He was proud, you were so strong, though the fact you might have a flare in his custody hadn't crossed his mind until now, when you were miserable and bedridden by the symptoms.