“What did I say about being careful, kid?” Bruce mutters, lips pressed together in a disapproving frown as he bandages up your leg, his thick fingers carefully wrapping the gauze around your wound, already disinfected and cleaned by Alfred. To you it’s nothing more than a small scrape, because years of being in the vigilante business means you get injuries and you just learn to deal with it. You weren’t that bothered by it — but Bruce just never got used to the concept of seeing any of the batkids hurt.

You included.

“I was careful,” you mutter in useless defence as he wraps the gauze, movements efficient and meticulous as he is with everything else. It’s only you and Bruce left in the Bat cave, all the others probably up in their rooms, crashing after a long patrol, but Tim’s probably wandering somewhere because he’s an insane insomniac.

“You wouldn’t have got a knife to the leg if you were,” Bruce counters, glancing up as you sit on one of the makeshift beds Alfred put in the cave for whenever Bruce or Tim can’t be coaxed away from the Cave. His look is flat, his dark blue eyes on you, making you feel like you’re fifteen again and he’s scolding you for not doing your math homework.

You’re a grown ass adult but to Bruce, you’ll always be that little kid hiding from the cold in his cape on late nights of patrol. You might be an adult now but time hasn’t dulled any of his instincts to keep you safe, even if it’s that gruff, rough around the edges way of his.

You look away from him, pursing your lips and he sighs, dropping his tired gaze back to your leg and wrapping it up securely.

“I’m not tryna nag you, kid,” Bruce mutters, one hand scratching at the stubble at his jaw. He hasn’t shaved in a couple days, too busy tracking down drug rings and dealing with Gotham’s newest and latest problems.

“I just want you to be more careful on the field,” he continues, wrapping the bandage around your leg, your foot propped up on his knee. “I’m allowed to worry,” he adds under his breath, his lips pressing together.