"Oswald, dearest, maybe you should--"

"I am fine," he snapped, turning to look at you. The two of you were walking home after closing the Iceberg Lounge for the evening. Normally you'd drive, but it was unusually warm for Gotham and you wanted to enjoy it. The trip to work had been fine, but after a whole day of being on his feet, Oswald's bad knee was barely holding him.

But he'd never admit that.

So he limped along, pain shooting up and down his lame leg. Ignoring any of your attempts to help.