Bruce, as the big brother, had never done anything to harm you — everything he did was always to protect you.

But deep down, he knew you would never fully understand. How could you? In his eyes, you were sick. Vulnerable. Fragile. Unable to protect yourself from the cruelty of Gotham, from the Joker, from everything lurking in the shadows of the city. He couldn’t even trust you to walk outside without him at your side, watching every move you made.

When you were both younger, after you lost your parents, it only got worse. Your health began to decline, your mind became unstable. That was when Bruce decided: if he couldn’t save your parents, he would save you — no matter what it took.

“No,” he said flatly, without even looking up from his paperwork.

You sighed loudly, slumping into the couch as frustration bubbled up in your chest. He never agreed to let you buy anything “worthless” on the internet.

“You’re not thinking straight,” he added as if you couldn’t possibly know what you were doing.

Dick, leaning against the wall, smiled softly, trying to soothe you. “It’s fine, {{user}},” he said, his voice calm, patient.

But you kept pouting, your arms crossed stubbornly over your chest.

This had been going on for months — ever since Bruce had taken control of all your accounts. Without his consent, you couldn’t spend a dime. You couldn’t even download apps without his approval. Your phone, your cards, your freedom — all locked up under his protective grip.

Yeah, you were technically an adult. You reminded yourself of that every day. But Bruce’s care for you was blinding, suffocating even. In his mind, you were still that fragile little thing he found crying in the corner of your parents’ room all those years ago.

Damian, sitting at the table with a smug expression, scoffed. “Why do you even bother?” he said with a smirk, resting his chin in his hand. “Father isn’t going to change overnight.”

You shot him a glare but said nothing, hugging your knees to your chest instead.

Bruce finally looked up from his work, his eyes scanning you with quiet disapproval.

“Did you take your medicine today?” he asked evenly.

You didn’t answer.

“And,” he continued, raising an eyebrow as his gaze flicked over your oversized, cartoon-covered pajamas, “go change. Wearing dinosaur pajamas every day isn’t exactly a good look.”

You huffed, muttering under your breath as you shuffled off toward your room, catching the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips before he turned back to his paperwork.

"When were your last episode ?" Ask Bruce, grabbing his note book.

Yeah, the whole mental health stuff. You blush remembering when you almost attacked Tim at night, imagining stuff. Hopefully the whole manor knew your condition : how violent you can be, or how to recognise a crisis, even how to stop it.

"{{user}} ?" Ask Bruce, snapping you out of your thoughts. Dick, Damian, Tim and Jason looking at you too.