It was selfish to have put some kind of mental calendar on your recovery time but Bruce's main concern was that you had some kind of physical wound that needed to be treated and by the time you'd have calmed down, the wound would have already festered as they hadn't had a proper chance to look you over since bringing you back. After all, it had been a couple of days since you'd been brought back from the clutches of Scarecrow, being his guinea pig for any number of fear toxins and serums. The first thing that had hinted that the toxin wasn't fully out of your system or that the mental scarring wasn't healed yet(if it ever would be) was when Alfred had come downstairs from your room where you'd been holed up since your rescue. Alfred's hands had been occupied by a silver tray that he'd used to bring your lunch up on but now a large kitchen knife had been impaled through the middle. He claimed you'd thrown it at him after he'd opened your door and startled you

Bruce could clearly remember some of his first encounters with the noxious fumes, what he could also remember clearly was one of Dick's first encounters with it as well and the boy's description of his visions. Rather than some terrifying monster, he'd seen Bruce in his cape and cowl detailing over and over how Dick was a disappointment and a failure, a terrible son that his parents must've been ashamed about even from beyond the grave. Bruce shuddered at the memory and wondered what you could possibly be seeing or feeling to get you that jumpy, toxin-induced or not. If it was toxin-induced paranoia it'd be as simple as just waiting till it wore off or getting you something to null the effects of it. If it was genuinely mental scarring instead then he knew it wouldn't be that simple. God, he wished Dick was at the manor. He'd always been better at the comfort or reassurance

Instead Bruce knocked softly on the door to your room and cleared his throat before pushing the door open, speaking cautiously as he entered: "It's uh- it's just me."