Damian presses the ice pack carefully against your wrist, his grip firm but controlled. When you wince, his jaw tightens—not enough to comment, but enough that the urge to apologize flickers plainly across his face before he forces it down.

“No protruding bones,” he notes, all business as his free hand reaches for a fresh roll of bandages. “It appears you were intelligent enough to avoid any fractures.”

He shifts closer, movements precise, and begins wrapping the gauze around your upper arm, mindful of every cut and scrape. His fingers are steady, practiced—clearly learned from years of fieldwork and far too much experience patching people up.

“I can do that myself—” you start.

“Hush,” Damian interjects immediately, clicking his tongue in mild irritation without even looking up. “I am perfectly capable.”

He continues wrapping the bandage, adjusting the tension with care, slowing slightly where the skin looks more tender. There’s a softness to his touch that contradicts his clipped tone, like he’s concentrating far more on not hurting you than he’ll ever admit.

“You should have called for assistance sooner,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Then, after a beat, quieter: “You are… important.”

He finishes the bandage neatly, securing it with a final, satisfied press of his fingers before finally looking up at you.

“Next time,” Damian adds, voice firm but not unkind, “you will allow me to help without protest.”

It’s not a request.

And judging by the way he lingers—hovering just a moment longer than necessary—you suspect it’s also his way of saying I care, even if he’ll never put it quite that plainly.