Damian does not need anyone's help. Of that, he is completely certain.

Yes, he is ill. He can admit that. As much as he hates to, there is only so long something like that can be denied. He is not feeling his best; in fact he is feeling quite poorly. But that does not make him weak, or helpless, and it certainly does not mean he needs coddling. Alright?

And perhaps he is being stubborn. Pennyworth sure thinks so. Even Father has told him he should rest and let others take care of him. Though, Father is one to talk. Like father like son, the butler had mumbled not for the first time, in that fondly irritated way he had, and maybe Damian could sort of agree. Because he wasn't good at resting and letting others take care of him, any more than his father was.

Look, he has things to do, and they do not include being bedridden with the flu, alright? Or whatever this is. He'll drink the tea and juice he keeps being provided with, he'll eat the soup put in front of him, and maybe he'll even not fight as hard as he otherwise might against his father's orders to stay out of the Batcave and sit out of patrol. But that does not mean he will just lie in bed and let himself be coddled like some helpless child.

...Except, alright, it is kind of hard to get out of bed right now. So there is that problem. He grumbles to himself, shifting to bury his face into his pillow to stifle a loud sneeze, and then a few coughs for good measure. Ow. Ugh.

He does not enjoy being sick.

"Go away," he calls grumpily, when he hears the soft click of the bedroom door being opened. Even stuffy as his head feels right now, he's determined to remain alert. "I do not need any assistance."