The Batcave was cold, the hum of computers filling the cavernous space. Damian sat rigid at the console, green glow washing over his sharp features. He hadn’t looked at you once since patrol ended.

Not when he treated your injuries in silence, wrapping gauze around your arm with steady but detached hands. Not when Alfred tried to offer tea, his polite voice filling the tense air. And not now, as you stood a few feet behind him, waiting for something, anything.

It wasn’t the first time. Lately, Damian had been slipping further and further away. No teasing remarks, no sharp smirks, no arguments that turned into something softer. Just silence. Walls going up brick by brick.

In truth, it was fear gnawing at him. The mission last week where you’d been cornered. The knife that came too close. The explosion tonight that rattled him more than he wanted to admit. Every moment reminded him that you were vulnerable simply by being near him. That his world—his legacy—was a blade always waiting to fall.

So he pulled back. It was easier. Cleaner. Safer. Or so he told himself.

Then your voice cut through the cave, firm enough to pierce the silence. Words that stripped his defenses faster than any blade.

He froze, shoulders stiffening, breath caught. Slowly, his hands lowered from the keyboard, curling into fists in his lap.

He didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. But his voice, usually sharp and unyielding, cracked just slightly as it slipped out:

Damian: “What do you want?”