You'd be surprised. We've had some useful new medicals developed at Wayne Enterprises.
[ Damian's never been the best at field dressings, too impatient with himself to do more than slap some pressure on and call it good, ready to jump back in the fray, but he's more careful with the injuries of his brood. Jason's raw, ragged fingers are inspected for a moment, before the older man's hands press against his palms and wrists to hold them steady while he applies a sterilization gel over the worst damage at the tips; touch easily ghosting across with light precision, like how he works with the delicate, small parts of his latest mechanical project.
The gel itself is cooling, with a topical numbing agent of considerable strength, and Damian takes the time to bandage each of the fingers in turn; Alfred will probably put medical mitts on Jason later, but this is what they have on hand.
His stare only flicks up occasionally from his work, though he hums at the question, brow furrowing as he thinks over his response. ]
...Yeah. I think he will be. You'll have to be patient with him. Father has never been the best at dealing with emotion, and losing you--
[ A press, to his wrist; a quick reassurance to himself, maybe. ]
--it changed everything. He wasn't the same. None of us were, but him especially.
[ Darker, angrier, Bruce had shut himself up tight, thrown the doors closed, even as money flooded into the military tech division and their suits saw constant upgrades in defense. Damian tried his hardest to make sure he alone bore the brunt of it, made sure that Bruce damn well knew he couldn't close himself off from Tim or Cass, and they'd fought, constantly. Sometimes physically.
He'd been so close to leaving, so many times. But Damian had dug his heels in hard for his right to be a Wayne, to stay with his father, and he wasn't about to let himself be turned out so easily; not when he had others to protect. ]
But he is going to be so happy. [ The eldest brother is sure of this, confident. He adds, wryly: ] He may even smile. Prepare yourself.
no subject
[ Damian's never been the best at field dressings, too impatient with himself to do more than slap some pressure on and call it good, ready to jump back in the fray, but he's more careful with the injuries of his brood. Jason's raw, ragged fingers are inspected for a moment, before the older man's hands press against his palms and wrists to hold them steady while he applies a sterilization gel over the worst damage at the tips; touch easily ghosting across with light precision, like how he works with the delicate, small parts of his latest mechanical project.
The gel itself is cooling, with a topical numbing agent of considerable strength, and Damian takes the time to bandage each of the fingers in turn; Alfred will probably put medical mitts on Jason later, but this is what they have on hand.
His stare only flicks up occasionally from his work, though he hums at the question, brow furrowing as he thinks over his response. ]
...Yeah. I think he will be. You'll have to be patient with him. Father has never been the best at dealing with emotion, and losing you--
[ A press, to his wrist; a quick reassurance to himself, maybe. ]
--it changed everything. He wasn't the same. None of us were, but him especially.
[ Darker, angrier, Bruce had shut himself up tight, thrown the doors closed, even as money flooded into the military tech division and their suits saw constant upgrades in defense. Damian tried his hardest to make sure he alone bore the brunt of it, made sure that Bruce damn well knew he couldn't close himself off from Tim or Cass, and they'd fought, constantly. Sometimes physically.
He'd been so close to leaving, so many times. But Damian had dug his heels in hard for his right to be a Wayne, to stay with his father, and he wasn't about to let himself be turned out so easily; not when he had others to protect. ]
But he is going to be so happy. [ The eldest brother is sure of this, confident. He adds, wryly: ] He may even smile. Prepare yourself.