He is usually careful. He usually manages to come back home with just a few bruises and wounds, which Alfred takes care of. But this time was different. He had been more reckless, driven by his anger. He wasn’t careful, thinking he could get away with it. But he didn’t.

A bullet was all it took to almost make him die, hitting an artery. He came home crawling, leaving blood all over the Manor. Alfred quickly took care of him while you cleaned the blood stains; you didn’t want to see him that hurt.

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice hoarse since he didn’t drink much. He’s lying on your shared bed, bandages around his right leg. From what you’ve understood, he was trying to keep a child safe and was caught in a shooting rage.

He tries to reach for his cowl which was on the nightable next to the bed as if he could go anywhere with the wounds he has. He never understands that he should take a break from his vigilante job; his willingness to protect Gotham was more than his willingness to take care of himself. He always pushes himself too hard.

He sits up but groans, “{{user}}, really, I’m fine,” he says, but you both know it’s a lie. He doesn’t even know why he tries to lie to you; you’re his spouse for a reason, the only person who could understand him with just a glance. He loves it but hates it sometimes.

Especially because he would be worried if he was in your place. He hated making you worry. You shouldn’t worry about him; he could take care of himself. “Love, you know i have to do it, who's going to protect Gotham?” he murmurs.