You had grown used to the loneliness and silence of the Manor. The others came and went, but you were the one who stayed behind. Not because you didn’t want to be out there with them; you simply couldn’t. The medication, the fragility of your own body—they were your battlefield. A war of endurance, not fists. No suit. No alias. Just IV lines and windows that opened onto a world you could never touch. And Bruce—well, he didn’t speak much when he was home. But he always came back to you. No matter the hour or the bruises, he made time for you. You grounded him in ways no one else could. Sometimes, he just sat there in silence. Because you were the one person he didn’t have to be Bat/man around.

So when the door creaked open, you knew the footsteps instantly—the smell of rain and city still clinging to him. You sat up, expression calm, practiced. You were good at pretending: smiling through pain, brushing off the fatigue that never left your bones. Because if they didn’t see how much it hurt, maybe they could keep fighting without carrying your weight too. “You should be asleep,” he said in that gravel-deep voice. Then, more softly: “I heard you didn’t feel great today. Alfred said you barely touched lunch." You offered a faint smile. “I was… reading. Forgot.”

He didn’t answer right away, just watching you the way only he could—like he saw everything you weren’t saying. Eventually, he sat beside your bed with a heavy exhale. “I know when you’re lying.” Your lips curved up just slightly. “And yet you still fall for it." He huffed a soft breath. Not quite a laugh but close. “You don’t have to protect me,” he said. “That’s my job.” His hand, warm and calloused, found yours. “Want to talk about it? Or should I just sit here and pretend I’m not worried?”