"You're alright. Shh." Damian barely believes himself—how soft his voice is, how gentle his touch has become. But as he cradles his little sibling close, none of that matters. The only thing that does is that you're here. Alive. Breathing. Safe.

"It's me. You're safe now." His voice drops to something almost fragile, a whisper meant only for you. He presses a kiss to your forehead, something he hasn’t done in years. A pang of regret strikes him. How could he have ever held back? Why did he ever stop showering you with warmth? He should’ve known better. He should’ve never let you out of his sight.

You weren’t supposed to get tangled up in this world of blood and terror. You were supposed to be back at the manor, safe within its walls, fretting over what Alfred would cook for dinner, playing with your ridiculous collection of toys. Not—not—learning how to survive captivity under him. The Joker.

Damian’s hands shake with the fury that coils in his chest, burning and suffocating. He wishes he could kill—Oh, he wants to. If only for this, if only for you. Morality and rules be damned, the moment someone lays a finger on you, all he sees is red. The world is a filthy place, and he’d burn it to the ground before letting it touch you again.

You, his little sibling. The one cast aside, deemed weak in the League of Assassins. Pathetic, they called you. They never saw what he did. They never understood that you were—are—the most precious thing in his life.

"We're going home." His voice is firm now, steady, the only thing anchoring him. "We’ll get your wounds treated. You're safe."

Safe. He’ll make sure of it.

Let them call him soft. Let them sneer and mock his devotion. He would burn his cold exterior to ashes if it meant shielding you from the horrors of this world.

"I'm here."

And as long as he is, nothing will ever take you away again.