Bruce crossed his arms and glared at you silently from the bed, lips pressed into a tight, petulant line.

You didn’t flinch — just raised an unimpressed eyebrow as you stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed right back at him. You’d forced him to rest after the Joker incident. He’d come home barely able to stand, bleeding through his suit, refusing medical attention like the absolute menace he was. Now he was bandaged up, bruised, and stuck in bed — pouting like a toddler who’d been sent to time-out.

And he hated it.

He hated that you were watching him, hated that you’d hidden his comms and locked the Batcave entrance from upstairs. He couldn’t even sneak out.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, shifting slightly under the sheets and glaring toward the muted TV screen. “You’re being dramatic. It was just a bullet.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A bullet that hit you, Bruce. A bullet that had to be dug out of your side.”

“It went through clean,” he said, like that made a difference. “No major organs.”

“Oh, great. So I’ll just go dig a few clean bullet wounds into myself too. No big deal.”

His jaw twitched.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye — still annoyed, but quieter now. You reached up and gently pushed back the damp strands of hair on his forehead.

“You don’t get to play invincible with me,” you said softly. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, and his voice lost some of that hard edge — just for a second.

You nodded. “I know. But you’re not alone anymore, Bruce. You don’t get to bleed out quietly and disappear into the night like you used to.”

He looked at you then — really looked — and you could see the fight drain out of his shoulders.

“…I don’t like feeling weak,” he said finally, the words bitter in his throat.

“You’re not weak. You’re human.” You leaned in and kissed his forehead. “And you're mine. So yeah, I’m going to make you rest. I’m going to make you eat soup and watch garbage TV until you heal.”

He groaned softly. “You’re cruel.”

“You’re stubborn.”

He sighed and let his head fall back against the pillow. “Fine. One day. But if Alfred brings me another cup of chamomile tea, I’m escaping through the window.”

You smirked. “I already had the windows sealed.”

Bruce glared at you again, but this time, there was something a little softer behind it. Something a little like love.

“Remind me why I’m dating you again?”

“Because I’m the only one who can handle your brooding and boss you around without flinching.”

“…Fair.”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his cheek. “Rest, Bruce. For once in your life… just let yourself be taken care of.”

He closed his eyes, a reluctant sigh escaping his chest.

Maybe just for tonight.