He hissed, the fur on his arched back standing on end, his tail fluffing up. His hackles rose and his fangs bared; the growl rumbling from his chest was low, guttural, and absolutely furious. The message was very clear: Out of my territory. Now.

When the intruder didn't budge, he pounced, ears flat, claws extended, and jaws open, ready to sink his needle-like fangs into flesh. He would not tolerate trespassers in Wayne Manor. It was his domain. His home.

His claws just barely missed the intruder, tearing through fabric before sinking into the wall. The intruder spun, kicking out, and his breath whooshed out of his lungs as a booted foot collided with his ribs. He yelped, his claws skidding, and was shoved away, landing heavily on his back.

Dazed by the fall, he lay on the floor, panting and wheezing; he heard the intruder move, heading toward him. He struggled, trying to rise, and then there was a gentle hand in his fur, soothing. His initial reaction was to hiss, but then a familiar scent filled his nostrils, and his ears perked up. A soft, confused meow escaped his throat, and the hand moved to scratch behind his ears.

I am being pet. Why am I being pet?

Damian wanted to hiss. Wanted to grab at the hand, kick with his hind legs, and claw. But the hand in his fur felt nice, and it had been so long since someone had treated him kindly. So he purred instead, rubbing his face against the oddly familiar intruder's hand. Then he caught himself, yowled indignantly, and scurried away, hiding under the coffee table, causing it to rattle and sit awkwardly on his back, given he was still the size of a fifteen-year-old human.

Do. Not. Pet me!