You were sick, that much was certain.

Bruce—like the mother hen he was decided that that was reason enough to stay in from patrol duty that evening.

He’d called in Nightwing to take over his duties for the evening to care for you—his adopted ward.

So here you were—a sniveling mess—pulled against Bruce’s side as you watched a movie on the couch.

He rubbed his wrist against the top of your head—leaving a faint cedar scent in your hair.

You swat away Bruce’s scenting touch, pulling a pillow over your head as you descend into a coughing fit. You did not want his care and attention, it made you feel weak.

Your throat was raw and hoarse, your scrawny frame stiffened and trembled with each stifled cough—you could not let them see how truly sick you were—even as you lay against Bruce’s side.

You could not show weakness—you were determined to not let on how ill you were—you’d always been smaller and it pissed you off when people treated you like glass.