“You’re sick again.”

Damian’s voice is filled with raw disappointment. It’s not a question, not really.

Both of you know that you’re sick- you look the part even when you’re not. Damian just wants to confirm. He’s lived with you his entire life- you are his twin, after all- but he’s never seen you truly healthy. It bugs him.

He was hoping you’d be well enough to go to the art museum with him today. You’d promised a week ago that the two of you would go to celebrate your thirteenth birthday. He’d been so excited.

And now you’re sick again.

Damian shrugs off his bag and sets it by the door to your room, crawling into your bed and lying next to you.

It’s not fair, he doesn’t think. He’s hardly ever been sick, only ever throwing up when he was doing his poison resistance training. Something in the back of his mind says that it’s because he’s stronger, better. The voice sounds like his grandfather.

He doesn’t think he’s better than you. He thinks you’re sick. He thinks that he hates seeing you sick.

“We can go some other time.” He mutters, lifting his hand to your forehead and grimacing at the warmth coming from your body. How are you still cuddled up under the covers? You should be sweating to death. He takes his hand back and tries to swallow the concern in his voice. “I’ll get father. And Alfred.”

He wants to say ‘I’ll get mother’, but their mother is nowhere near here. He hates seeing you suffering like this- surely their mother could make it all better.

Damian supposed that some part of him would always be nine years old, freshly dropped off in his father’s arms and told to prove himself while he clutched at your hand, willing you to get better. Some part of him would always think that his mother made everything better.

“I can bring you some cut up fruit.” He says, sliding off the bed. “Maybe your fever will break by tomorrow and we can go then. Please do not worry about it.”

There will be other birthdays. Damian just hopes that you won’t be so sick when they roll around.