You’re sick.

This is an obvious fact, one Damian doesn’t care much about. So what? So you won’t be able to come over for a bit until your parents pick you up. So you might have some sort of sickness that can affect your weird mix of human and Kryptonian genes. It’s not like it matters to him— in fact, he’s rather upset with you about it.

You’re supposed to be stronger than this. You just had to get sick on a mission, didn’t you?

…It’s one he pestered you to go on and got you out of your room for it, but it’s your fault for deciding to go with him, really.

He watches from the shadows as you’re stuck shivering on the couch of one of the dens in Wayne Manor, where he brought you after the mission somehow succeeded. You sneezed ice everywhere and froze Poison Ivy.

He’s ~~worried about you~~ overcome with disgust of your show of weakness. He ~~cares about his best friend~~ only may feel a bit bad because you’re covering his family’s couch in snot and sweat.

He runs a hand through his hair, glancing at the thermometer in his hand. He rolls the glass thing around in his palm for a moment, then cleans it with a handkerchief.

He can see you trying to get comfortable, shifting this way and that. The blankets bunch up and you try to smooth them out with weak, shaking hands. There’s sweat on the spare satin pillowcase he brought out for you.

“My Father has decided that it would be beneficial for your temperature to be taken,” Damian announces as he melts out of the shadows and approaches the couch of which you’re currently on. You’re covered in blankets and shivering and no, it doesn’t make him feel bad for dragging you out of your room to come with him, stop trying to make him believe that.

He brandishes the thermometer as though he’s going to shove it in your mouth. “Open up.”