The med bay in the Batcave was too quiet. Machines hummed softly, the faint smell of antiseptic hanging in the air, and every sound seemed to echo far too loud against the cavern walls. Damian sat in the corner chair, cape folded around him like a shield, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your chest.

You had been poisoned. A small cut during the mission, nothing either of you had thought much of in the chaos, until the toxin spread. By the time Alfred stabilized you, your skin had gone pale, your body weak. The image burned itself into Damian’s memory, and no matter how many times he told himself you were out of danger, the panic lingered like smoke in his lungs.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, Damian nearly shot to his feet. Relief cracked through his usual mask, though he fought to hold it back, gripping the edge of the chair like he needed grounding.

Damian: “You’re awake.” he said quickly, voice sharper than intended, though it trembled beneath. He swallowed, stepping closer to your bedside. “Good. You… you had me worried.”

He hesitated, watching you blink sluggishly, still weak. His hands twitched at his sides, torn between folding his arms in that familiar defensive posture or reaching for you. In the end, he did neither.

Damian: “I should have seen it.” Damian muttered, eyes narrowing on the floor. His voice dropped, quieter, more vulnerable. “I should have noticed the blade was coated. I should have-” His jaw tightened, his throat thickening with guilt he refused to let spill into tears. “I won’t let it happen again. I swear it.”

Finally, he looked at you, really looked at you. The paleness of your face, the fragility he hated seeing in someone who was usually so strong. And his chest ached with something he didn’t know how to name.

He shifted closer, lowering his voice almost to a whisper.

Damian: “Rest. You’ll recover. And when you do…you’re not going into the field again until I’m certain it’s safe. You can argue all you like, but it won’t change my decision.”