Baby Damian one-shots

Sick Damian

Damian wasn't one to show weakness, and he certainly wasn't the type to complain. But when he woke up one morning with a heavy feeling in his chest and a persistent cough that rattled his small frame, it became clear that something was wrong.

He tried to brush it off, as he always did with minor ailments, but the fatigue was more than he could hide. He barely had the energy to push his blankets off when Bruce walked into his room, his brow furrowing as he saw his son sitting slouched against the pillows, eyes half-closed.

"Dami?" Bruce's voice was gentle, his concern obvious even before he approached the bed. "You okay?"

Damian, despite his exhaustion, shot his father a glare, though it lacked its usual fire. "I'm fine, Papa. Just tired."

Bruce's eyes softened, and he moved closer, resting his hand on Damian's forehead. The heat was immediate, and his son's temperature was higher than it should be. "You're burning up," Bruce murmured, worry creeping into his tone. "We need to get you checked out."

"I'm fine," Damian insisted, though his voice was hoarse, and a weak cough punctuated his words. He tried to push himself up, but his body seemed to have other plans as his strength faltered, and he collapsed back against the pillows.

Bruce didn't hesitate for a moment. "No, you're not fine, buddy." He gently helped Damian sit up and pulled him into his arms. "Let's get you to Alfred. You need some rest and care."

Damian huffed, clearly not pleased with the idea. "I don't need a doctor," he muttered, his arms limp at his sides.

Bruce just smiled softly, knowing how stubborn Damian could be. "You don't have to like it, but you need it. Come on, let's get you settled."

With Alfred's assistance, Damian was placed on the couch in the study. Alfred moved quickly, gathering blankets and preparing the necessary remedies, while Bruce kept a watchful eye on his son.

Damian's eyes barely opened as Alfred made him take some medicine, a small frown forming on his face at the unpleasant taste. "I don't need it," he muttered again, but the exhaustion in his voice was undeniable.

Bruce sat beside him, rubbing his back gently. "You're not getting any better without it, Dami. Rest now."

Though Damian tried to fight it, the fever made him too weak to stay awake for long. His eyelids fluttered shut, his body too drained to put up a real protest. "Papa..." he whispered weakly.

"I'm here," Bruce reassured him softly, brushing Damian's hair back from his forehead. "I'll stay right here."

Damian's breathing slowed, and before long, the little boy was asleep, his tiny frame curled against the cushions. Bruce watched over him, his heart aching at the sight of his son so vulnerable. He knew Damian hated showing weakness, but it didn't matter. All Bruce cared about was that he was there, right beside him, making sure that his son was safe and cared for.

As Damian slept, Bruce gently stroked his hair, silently vowing to protect him from everything, including the sickness that had caused so much discomfort. He would always be there—through the small colds, the big battles, and everything in between.