The antiseptic smell of Gotham General’s pediatric wing was sharp enough to make your nose wrinkle. You were sitting on the edge of a big hospital bed, your legs too short to reach the floor, wearing a tiny hospital gown covered in little yellow ducks. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead.

Your father, Bruce, stood close by, his hand resting gently on your back. Your mother, Talia, sat in the chair beside the bed, her dark eyes fixed on you with a calm but watchful expression. Damian stood near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, trying very hard to look unbothered.

A nurse finished wrapping a cold blood pressure cuff around your arm. She smiled warmly.

You could hear the distant beeping of machines and the soft squeak of shoes in the hallway outside. Alfred had stayed back at the manor with your other siblings, but he’d sent a small stuffed bat with Damian to keep you company.

Damian stepped forward and placed the plush bat in your lap without a word, then stepped back, his jaw tight.

Translation: Don’t be afraid, my life. We will be here when you wake up.

Bruce’s thumb traced small, soothing circles on your back through the thin gown. He looked calm, but you could see the tiny crease between his eyebrows—the one he got when he was worried.