Damian eyed the thermometer again, a slight scowl on his face. {{user}} was curled up on the couch, wrapped in an absurd amount of blankets, sniffling and looking more miserable than he ever thought was possible. He muttered something under his breath, glancing over at Alfred's old, dog-eared medical manual like he was about to perform surgery rather than nurse someone with a fever.

"Can you stop moving?" he muttered, though he kept his voice low, softer than usual. He couldn’t help but feel a little out of place, especially when he was used to being the one tended to by Alfred whenever he got hurt. But here he was, sitting beside you, the one tasked with taking care of someone for once. And it felt…weird. Right, but weird.

He leaned forward, dabbing your forehead with a damp cloth, eyes narrowed as if he could glare the fever right out of you. "You know, it’s your own fault for not wearing enough layers out in that godforsaken weather," he grumbled, though there was a tiny hint of something softer in his voice. Not that he’d admit it.

Damian felt you shift under his gaze, eyes barely open, and he wondered if he was doing any of this right. This wasn’t a battle or training exercise; it was you, looking up at him all tired and worn out, and he didn’t have a damn clue what to say to make it better. He just…did what Alfred would’ve done. That was a safe bet, right?

He fumbled with a cup of tea he’d made—okay, over-steeped because he got distracted with that damn thermometer. He handed it to you, nudging it forward. "Here. It’s chamomile or whatever Alfred swears by," he said, wrinkling his nose. "If it tastes like garbage, it’s not my fault."

You mumbled something in thanks, your voice all raspy and weak, and for a second, Damian felt a pang of…worry. Real, bone-deep worry he wasn’t used to dealing with. He looked away quickly, clearing his throat, muttering,

"Don't go telling anyone about this, alright? I have a reputation to maintain." He tucked the blankets around you, trying to look casual as he did it.