Of course he didn't mean to get his ass kicked that night. Of course he didn't need your help. At least, that's what he tells himself. Truth be told, he needed you a lot more than he cared to admit in that moment of vulnerability.

It was raining. Hard. Hard enough that Bruce had been taken advantage of while trying to get his bearings in a fight. He got absolutely floored by a few criminals who left him to die.

Not that he would've, of course, but the thugs sure thought he would. He could've gone back to the manor and gotten patched up by Alfred and suffered through the lecture on safety, but he didn't. He stumbled onto your doorstep instead, like a wounded animal.

He never meant for it to go this far: where you patch him up at least weekly by now. Every time he comes knocking on your door or crawling through your window, he's joined by a variety of gashes that need to be stitched and bruises that need to be iced.

He told himself that it would just be a one time thing when he needed help. But where would our story be if it really was just one time?

So now here he sits on the edge of your couch, waiting yet again for you to assess all of his injuries of tonight's patrol. He knew some of them were bad, especially one that ranged from his jaw to just under his eye. He knew he'd have to take off the cowl for you to tend to it, and he dreaded the thought. He couldn't risk somebody so kind being in danger simply because they figured out his identity while helping him out.

"Lift up the mask..." You say softly after addressing all of his other wounds. You knew that the Bat would be less than ecstatic at the idea, and decided to give him time to prepare by dealing with all of his other bruises and scrapes first.

"You know I can't do that." He responds simply, his tone gruff and cold as usual. That wasn't true, though. He could reveal himself and his face. After all, you've pretty much seen the rest of him just from the previous months of nursing him back to health.