The Batcave.

Cold. Silent. The glow of the Batcomputer casts Damian in a harsh, blue light. He’s sitting alone, bruised from patrol, unwrapping bandages like it’s just another Tuesday.

Bruce is out of town. The others are on patrol. Tonight, it’s just you—and the boy who never learned how to be one.

You move quietly, but not quietly enough. He hears you, of course he does. He always does. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t need to. Just mutters without turning:

“I’m fine.”

You stop behind him, hands resting lightly on the back of the chair. You take him in—the way his shoulders are set too tight, like he’s waiting to be scolded, like help is a threat.

When he reaches for another roll of gauze, you step in.

Gently, you take his wrist—careful not to push, not to patronize. Just… steady. Giving him an instant look.

There’s a pause. Defiance flickered in his eyes but he hesitated. The twitch of a child who’s been told to handle everything alone.

He scoffs, but he doesn’t pull away, only nodding once.

“Fine.”