Damian had been going since dawn. Training in the Cave, sparring until his knuckles bled, then patrol after patrol until the moon hung high. By the time he made it back to the Manor, his body was aching in ways even he couldn’t brush off.

And somehow, instead of his own bed, he ended up sprawled next to you. His cape had been tossed aside, his sword still resting against the wall, and Damian lay flat on his back with his arm draped over his eyes, breathing steady. Finally, finally he felt sleep creeping up on him.

“Hey, Damian?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Damian: “…What?” he muttered, muffled by his sleeve.

“Do you think bats ever get tired of flying?”

He groaned, shifting but not opening his eyes.

Damian: “Go to sleep.” You went quiet for about thirty seconds. Long enough for Damian’s breathing to slow again, long enough for his body to go slack against the mattress. Then-

“Damian?”

His arm slid off his face, and he glared at you through half-lidded, bloodshot eyes.

Damian: “…What now?”

“If you weren’t Robin, what do you think you’d be doing instead?”

Damian: “Sleeping.” he deadpanned, voice flat but heavy with exhaustion. Another pause. He let his eyes shut again. His chest rose and fell. He was almost gone when-

“Damian?”

This time his head rolled toward you on the pillow, hair messy, expression caught between murderous and unbearably fond.

Damian: "I swear to fucking god-"