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As soon as the sun sets in the city, it gets very cold, very quickly. Every city has its little quirks, he thinks, rubbing his arms where the wind seems to cut right through the spandex to the bone. Gotham’s quirks just so happen to all be malicious, gloomy, and hostile. A lifetime of patrolling the ugly underbelly at night should have prepared him for the chill, but that’s not important. And really, Gotham doesn’t have an underbelly. The whole place is equally a shithole.
He turns down some dark alley, almost amazed at how well he knows this city, even after so long. Being back feels good, gives him a rush. He wants to visit all his old haunts, the dark crevices that he’s carved out for himself over the years.
The mansion is smaller than he’d remembered, but just as depressing. Gotham really is an acquired taste. He knocks at the front door for whatever reason, even though there are approximately a hundred different ways he could get in if he wanted. He smirks to himself, picturing all those school nights sneaking back in after doing something with someone or another. He’d lost his virginity just down the block from here, after slipping out of his bedroom window and stealthing his way to a girl’s car. She was from his favorite strip club, and she’d paid him. Not that he’d let it go to his head. Either of them. He grins to himself like a smug little cat.
“What’s that look on your face for?” Tim says with the door open.
“Tim!” Dick exclaims. “C’mere.” And he gives him a hug. They walk in together. Jason’s in the foyer, reclining on a very expensive sofa, just as regal as you please.
“Hello Jason, please get your disgusting combat boots off of the coffee table before Alfred beats your ass like a rug.” He singsongs. Jason barely moves.
“Sup,” he says with a wave, eyes glued on flipping TV channels. Dick goes over and ruffles his hair anyway. “You just missed Alfred and B.”
Dick pouts. “They couldn’t have waited?”
“Pretty sure Alfred’s been waiting fifty years for this vacation.”
“Fair. Where are they going, again?”
Tim looks up from his iPad, tapping away. “They’ll be in Aruba for fourteen days, staying beachside at the Wayne private property. They arrive in exactly 8.25 hours, and on Monday their itinerary is—“
“We have a private property?” Jason says. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing of this.”
“Probably because your grades weren’t good enough for B to take you.” Dick jokes.
“You better watch your mouth, circus freak, because I just so happen to remember a conversation regarding you failing the tenth grade.” Jason says, snickering.
“Whatever.”
Tim stops typing. “Dick, you failed tenth grade? That’s the easiest one. Chem, intro to calc, micro economics?”
“Yeah, Dick, that stuff is practically preschool.” Jason mocks.
Dick rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright. I don’t have to take this from you guys. B left me in charge, comprende?”
“What are you gonna do, ground us? Oh no, watch out, Timmy, or we’ll be in twouble!” Jason deadpans.
“Jason,” Dick says, laughing, “Don’t you have to go be stupid somewhere else?”
Jason checks his watch. “Not until four.”
“Are you guys quoting spongebob?” Tim asks incredulously.
“And what about it?” Jason quips. “It’s a masterpiece.” Tim rolls his eyes, and plops onto the sofa, where Jason’s legs are taking up half the seating space.
“Move your legs, Jay. They’re not very good cushions.”
“Since you decided to deliberately sit on them, I think you’re the one who has to move.”
“No,” huffs Tim. “It’s not fair for you to have the whole couch to yourself.” Jason scowls.
“I’ll kill you.”
Dick takes this as his cue to get some snacks. He may be reluctant to take Bruce’s money, but damn if he’s going to stay out of the kitchen cabinets. The pantry’s near-ish to the living room, as close as two rooms can be in a mansion that spans multiple city blocks. Everything is the same and different now, all at once. The furniture and decorations are still there from his childhood, but now there are touches of life in the once drearily wealthy hallways. There are school pictures from everyone, organized by grade, and the yearly holiday portrait of the entire family, which increased in size so often that some years they had to take two to make sure everyone was included. They haven’t taken one in a good while, haven’t had the time, but he’s been waging a campaign with Jason to wear matching tacky sweaters. The Kent’s all take family photos in matching flannels, because, as Jason would say snarkily, they’re a real family. Bruce (well, all of them, actually) can’t stand to be outdone by Clark and the Supers, so Dick has a pretty good feeling that the sweater idea will prevail, even if they have to compromise and wear button-ups underneath.
The pantry’s been expanded since his last visit years ago, probably to keep up with the amount of teens dropping by to periodically devour everything. Back when he was a kid, Bruce wouldn’t allow any junk in the house, and they relied solely on Alfred, but after Jason showed up, there have always been Sour Patch Kids tucked away on one of the shelves, because they’re Jason’s favorite, and for all their constant bitching, Bruce really does have a hard time saying no to Jason. And then Tim came along with Doritos, and Dick knows for a fact the Swedish Fish next to them are Bruce’s secret weakness, because he’d eaten them once and Bruce was despondent until the next shopping trip. Alfred likes really old, disgusting candy, like mary janes and mint life savers, and they stay in the pantry forever because no one else will touch them. He rifles through the shelves until he finds what he’s looking for: popcorn packets, extra butter, just like the circus. He checks the expiration date, and smiles when he sees it was three months ago. The kernels taste better stale. He turns to get out of the pantry and practically skips his way to the kitchen microwave.
There’s someone else in the kitchen, which would be fine because it’s freaking huge, but they’re using the only viable microwave. The second’s for experiments only, and has been since a fateful science fair when Tim decided to see if his radioactive goo would have different chemical properties heated up. The figure hogging the good microwave is tall and lithe, with close-cropped hair shaved on the sides. Dick gasps.
“Dami!” Holy shit, puberty hit this kid like the fucking batmobile. He looks like Taylor Swift lyrics. He’s gorgeous. No homo. “You’re so big!”
Damian turns, and pulls out an earbud, his face flickering with annoyance from being interrupted. His eyes widen when he sees Dick. “You’re home?”
Dick jumps up and down. “Duh!” He runs to Damian and picks him up in a smotheringly tight bear hug. Damian stiffens, but then relaxes and hugs back, and it’s like Dick’s world is all rainbows. “God, I missed you.” He sets Damian down.
Damian buries his head into Dick’s shoulder. “I missed you too.” They stay like that for a moment, each reluctant to either break the embrace or the silent communication between them.
The microwave dings.
Damian goes to stop the incessant beeping, and removes a misshapen giant marshmallow from the microwave. It’s lumpy and gooey at the same time, bloated terribly, almost breathing. Dick winces.
“Jeez,” he says, equal parts disgusted and fascinated by the jet puff chernobyl. “Would you please hurry up and put that thing out of its misery?” Damian bites into it, and it squishes.
“The jumbo marshmallows are my favorite. I like to make them explode and then consume their radioactive flesh.”
Dick blinks at him. “Sure. Ok. That’s-- you know what, I’m not going to even try to comment on that. Get out of the way so I can make my popcorn.” He puts in the bag and sets the timer. Damian makes a face.
“That popcorn is at least two months old.”
“It’s three, actually,” Dick says, watching the bag expand through the microwave door. The kernels pop comfortingly, and the smell of fake butter product wafts toward him.
Damian clicks his tongue. “So you’re going to eat expired popcorn?”
Dick rolls his eyes. “So you’re allowed to torture innocent marshmallows and I’m some sort of freak for enjoying perfectly viable Pop Secret deliciousness?”
“It’s expired. ”
“I like it that way.” The microwave dings again, and Dick quickly rescues his popcorn, cursing under his breath when the bag burns his fingertips. “Why do the things we love always hurt us?”
Damian laughs. “You’re supposed to let it sit for a minute to cool down.” Dick opens the bag into the bowl, grinning as chunks of solid and liquid sunshine pour out. He’s so hungry.
“C’mon,” he says, swinging an arm over Damian’s shoulder. “Let’s go watch something and order take out.”
They walk back almost in silence, Dick trying not to shove all the popcorn into his mouth, MCR faintly blasting from the headphones around Damian’s neck. There’s so much to say, but at the same time, nothing really needs to be said. Nothing’s really changed.
They find Jason half asleep, still sprawled across the entire couch, and Tim still stubbornly on top of him, typing on his tablet. A western’s playing on the TV. Dick sets down the popcorn on one of the end tables and grabs the remote, switching the channel. Jason voices a muffled protest.
“You weren’t watching it anyway,” Dick says. “Besides, I want to watch a monster movie.” Revenge of the Three-Headed Sharkrantula or something equally dumb is on. Damian clicks his tongue. Again. “Shut up,” Dick says, lighthearted. “You know you secretly love these.” Damian makes no reply, but reaches for the popcorn.
Dick snatches the bowl away and sits on the old recliner, the ancient leather one that Bruce used to fall asleep on after patrol. It’s his favorite, because of the memories and also because it’s comfortable as fuck. Damian gives him a look that to anyone else would look like annoyance. It’s actually an implicit question. Dick moves the popcorn to his lap and extends the legs of the recliner, patting the sliver of chair beside him. Damian smiles slightly, and clambers next to him. The joints of the chair creak slightly, but there’s no other objection.
They used to curl up like this when they were younger and could comfortably sit next to one another, dwarfed by the expanse of leather cushions. But they’ve both grown considerably, so Damian snuggles up to his side and they tangle their limbs to be able to reach the popcorn. Dick stretches down and grabs the blanket Jason’s forgotten about, draping it over the two of them. On the TV, someone chops off one of the Sharkrantuka’s heads. Even with the fake blood spurting out of the fleshy stump on screen, he can’t help but feel peaceful. He ruffles Damian’s hair, then leaves his hand on top of the boy’s head to card through the strands.
“I missed this.” He says, and it’s true. He didn’t realize how much he missed it, how much he missed Damian , until right then.
“I missed this, too.” Damian says, voice obstructed from his face being pressed up against Dick’s chest.
He doesn’t know what time they fall asleep, and he doesn’t know what time he wakes up, but the TV is playing an infomercial for a machine that makes noodles from any sort of vegetable. Jason and Tim are gone, probably passed out upstairs or in the Batcave somewhere. Damian is still sleeping, adorably spooned in his lap, and Dick picks him up carefully. He suddenly flashes back to when it was just the two of them, when he was Batman and Damian was his Robin, when they would be so exhausted after patrol that he would carry Damian to bed cradled in his arms, and they would both crash on Dick’s bed because it was the closest to the stairs. His heart tightens. Damian’s heavier now, obviously, but he almost doesn’t notice until the second flight of stairs, when he deeply regrets his own nostalgia and Damian’s muscle mass.
His room hasn’t changed all that much since he left. Sure, it’s definitely cleaner, which is a good thing, even if that means Alfred has probably combed through piles of unsavory debris. Dick makes a mental note to write a thank you card. The same old posters hang on his walls; the vintage Wonder Woman body shot fading gracefully across from his bed, a promotional flyer for the first opera he saw with Bruce over his wardrobe. He cringes when he sees the familiar bottle of Hollister perfume on his nightstand. God, no wonder no one wanted to go near him during puberty. As anachronistic as it all is, something’s a bit off. It doesn’t smell the same, and some things have been moved ever so slightly. And the sheets are black with a thread count so high they feel like silk. Dick narrows his eyes. Bruce never allowed that when he was a kid. The old man’s gotten softer with age, not that he’s bitter about it. He pulls back his covers anyway, and he’s scarcely tucked Damian in when his own eyes grow heavy and he conks out with the boy still halfway in his arms.
He wakes up to the incessant, painful throbbing of his neck, and his arm numb up to his shoulder where Damian is curled onto him, breathing softly. Light pours in from the windows, so it can’t be that early, but he really just wants to stay in bed a while longer. Despite the aches from his uncomfortable position, this is the best sleep he’s had in a long time. It could be the sheets, but it’s more likely from the warm body next to his. Not that he would admit that. Damian is so peaceful when he sleeps, deceptively angelic, and Dick can’t stop staring at him, his soft skin, his dark eyelashes, the curves of dormant muscle. He’s gorgeous, really. Dick carefully extricates his arm from under the crush of their entwined bodies, flexing his hand to regain some feeling. He sits up, stretching and cracking almost every joint at once. Damian stirs as he gets out of bed and digs through his drawers, but settles back into the nest of covers as Dick clicks the door shut behind him. He slept in his jeans last night, and he forgot to do his skincare routine, so the morning isn’t off to the best start. He stumbles bleary-eyed to the bathroom for a hot shower to wake up. As the water beats down on his spine, Dick studies the shower tiles and tries not to think about Damian sleeping. He’s not a creeper, no matter what Jason tells everyone. But Damian felt so good pressed up to his chest, smelled so good in his bed. Ok, that was creepy. Thinking about how enticing other people smell is never not creepy, especially when those people happen to exist in a weird quasi-familial limbo and are also freshly eighteen. Even if they do look stunning in the first rays of morning. Whatever. Dick successfully distracts himself into being able to finish bathing without jerking off, and changes into black stretchy yoga leggings and a matching flowy tank top that shows off his arms. The set had been a joke gift, but Dick’s been known to wear crazier shit for much more impractical reasons. And the pants make his ass look divine.
The yoga studio is on the third floor of the mansion, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let the natural light stream in to warm the smooth hardwood floors. There’s also a mirror wall that he particularly likes to gaze into in his free time, and a ballet barre ostensibly for warm up stretches that originated from a failed attempt by Bruce to put all the boys into dance classes. It’s Dick’s favorite room in the house. He crosses the studio to the closet where all the gear is stored and finds his personalized yoga mat. It’s black with “Richard” emblazoned on the bottom in blue, because Jason kept stealing all the ones that said “Dick”. He unrolls the mat in the middle of the room, facing the mirrors, and loses himself in an endless cycle of sun salutations.
By the time he makes his way downstairs to the kitchen, he’s ravenous. It’s brunch time, steadily approaching lunch, so Tim should be finishing his second workout of the day (strength training) and Jason should be awake in approximately forty-five minutes. He doesn’t know how Damian’s sleep schedule has evolved. He hopes he gets up soon so they can have mickey mouse waffles together like they used to. Dick got the waffle iron back when Bruce took him to Disney World for the first time because he was obsessed with the ones the fancy hotel served for breakfast. He wonders if Damian’s ever been, or if Bruce gave up trying to explain the concept of fun to him. That’s kind of ironic, because Bruce wouldn’t know fun if it hit him in the face with a bouncy castle. They’re hopeless.
As expected, Tim’s in the kitchen making a mess of the marble countertops trying to assemble what looks to be a protein shake. There’s whey powder clouding up the atmosphere, and peanut butter on almost every open surface. Various ingredients are strewn about in various states of use. Tim’s been on a shake kick ever since he read about them in some fitness magazine, says they’re the most efficient way to up calorie and protein intake to increase muscle gain. He’s like a mad scientist in the kitchen, calculating and weighing and blending and tasting. He pours the toxic sludge from the blender and into a bowl. “Want some?” He asks when he sees Dick standing in the doorway. Dick shakes his head. He tried a sip, once. Rookie mistake. He’s pretty sure Tim puts raw eggs in them. They taste like running on the treadmill feels. “It’s good for you,” Tim sing-songs, and Dick grimaces.
“Keep that shit away from me.” He says as Tim slurps up the concoction. “And clean up your mess so the rest of us don’t have to cook in a biohazard zone.”
Tim rolls his eyes, but grabs a washrag to start wiping off the counters. Dick cautiously transfers the blender into the sink.
“How was your workout?” He asks as he rummages through cabinets looking for the waffle iron.
“It was good,” Tim replies, “But Damian didn’t show up for our morning run. And he wasn’t in his room.”
Dick continues rummaging although this heart swoops down into his stomach, switching to digging around an upper shelf so high he has to stand on his tiptoes. “He was in my room. Last night.”
Tim chokes on smoothie. “Wow. Ok. Uh. That feels like oversharing. Huh. I mean, congrats? Is this a congrats situation, or, like, should I not mention it, or, uh. When were you going to tell everyone you guys are sleeping together.” He finishes awkwardly, not making eye contact. Dick goes bright red. And opens his mouth to correct him when Jason walks in.
“Who’s all fucking? Who’s sleeping together?” He says groggily, still in PJs even though the stove clock says it’s 12:15.
“Dami and Dick,” Tim says quickly before Dick can get a word in. Jason laughs.
“Well I’ll be damned. I knew it. Roy owes me, like, a dollar.” He reaches over to pat Dick on the shoulder. “God bless you.”
Dick shoves his hand off. “We are not sleeping together. Ok, we slept together, physically, but we are not actively fucking. At all. Because that is weird. Also, Jason, I’m not going to comment on whatever it is that just came out of your mouth, but just know that you and Roy are dead to me.” Jason shrugs.
Tim nods sagely, cradling his smoothie bowl. “Ah, a one-night stand. I’ve heard of those. Are you sure that was a wise choice, considering you’re both emotionally unstable time bombs, and such a fleeting moment of intimacy followed by a what can be interpreted as a personal rejection will likely wreak havoc on both your mental health and co-dependency issues?”
Jason looks more confused than when he walked in. Dick blinks, then shakes his head. A one night stand? With Dami? “ No, what I’m trying to tell you if you’d just shut up and stop psychoanalyzing me is that we did not, are not, and will never have sex. Period.”
“Like, individually as separate people, or together? ‘Cause I think Dami’s still a virgin but your body count is higher than the black plague in 1350’s Europe.” Jason quips.
“Hey!” Dick yells, almost offended. Mental note: look up death toll from black plague.
Jason snickers and pushes past him to grab a can of Red Bull from the fridge. Tim gags when he sees the can.
“Is that really going to be your breakfast?” He asks, and Jason grins.
“And lunch, baby. It gives you wings.”
Dick has had enough of this family. “Alright, get out, both of you. I’m making waffles.”
Jason and Tim barely leave the kitchen, hovering to watch Dick gather a large bowl, measuring cups, and a hand beater. He plugs in the waffle iron so it can warm up while he makes the batter. Behind him, Jason finishes chugging the RedBull, and crushes the can against Tim’s head.
“Ow, what the fuck!” Tim says, and smacks Jason’s shoulder. Jason laughs it off.
“You love me, replacement,” he says.
“No I don’t; go to hell.” Tim rebuffs, throwing the can back at Jason. They start shoving each other.
Dick is starting to realize why he left the manor in the first place. “Guys, I’m trying to focus here.” When he gets no response from the two and the scuffle seems to be escalating from playful catfight to relationship-severing bloodshed, he sighs. “C’mon. Break it up. It hasn’t even been 24 hours, and Alfred will kill me if you get your cooties on the marble.”
Tim looks up from scratching Jason and sticks out his tongue, but they both separate in an uneasy peace. Dick will take it. “Tim, come whip the eggs. Jason, go to the pantry and grab flour, oil, salt, sugar, baking powder, and vanilla.” Tim gets the carton of eggs from the fridge and starts cracking four of them with swift, precise movements. Jason scowls.
“I’m not going to be able to remember that.” He’s probably right. He did just wake up twenty minutes ago.
Dick gives the hand beater to Tim, and claps Jason on the shoulder. “I’ll come with you, then.” He says cheerfully. Jason rolls his eyes, but leaves the kitchen without throttling Tim. Small victories. They walk in a comfortable silence to the pantry down the hall, Dick trying very hard to think about the ingredients and not about any earlier conversations involving a certain--
“You can’t fool me,” Jason says suddenly. “Tim can be oblivious sometimes, and Bruce is Bruce, but I know you. And I know you have the hots for Damian.”
Dick chokes on air and grabs the pantry door for moral support. “What? What’s wrong with you? How can you-- how can you tell that when I only just saw him yesterday night?”
Jason shrugs. “Do you or do you not think he’s cute? I’m not going to judge you.” That’s true, Dick supposes. Jason’s probably done worse. Wait, not probably. Definitely . Sure, Dick’s fucked a lot of people, but Jason is quality over quantity. If by ‘quality’ he means ‘the singular worst person to have a sexual relationship with at any given time’. Dick’s royally screwed up his fair share of relationships, but at least he didn’t bang his adopted little brother’s mom.
His face must give him away, because Jason raises his hands and exclaims, “That was one time!” Dick gives him a look. “Ok, maybe twice.”
“Only twice?”
“Do you really want to know?” Jason shoots back. Dick grimaces.
“Nevermind. Let’s just get the stuff.” He walks into the pantry and starts collecting the various ingredients in his arms. Jason is infuriatingly taller than him by, like, two inches, so he reaches up to grab the flour. They leave the pantry cradling bags and boxes, following the whir of the hand beater in the kitchen. Thankfully, Jason remains quiet, although Dick can tell there’s still something he wants to say. But the thought is gone when they get back to the kitchen.
He dumps the contents of his pantry haul onto the countertop, Jason doing the same. Dick grabs milk from the fridge and starts to measure out the ingredients while Tim mixes everything in patiently. Jason sticks his finger into the bag of sugar and licks it. Tim eyes him, then reaches out his hand. Jason pinches some sugar into his palm, and Tim dumps the sugar into his mouth. Dick sighs and takes the hand beater himself, finally finishing the batter while the other two goof off. The waffle iron’s hot, and when he sprays cooking oil onto the griddle, it sizzles violently. Perfect. He carefully scoops some of the batter onto the iron, trying not to overload it while still getting the biggest waffle possible. The first mickey mouse head is burnt, but Tim folds it in half anyway and swallows it whole like a pelican. Dick is fascinated and disgusted. The rest of the waffles are golden brown, striking the delicious balance of fluffy and crispy. They’d doubled the recipe because the four of them can clear out inhuman amounts of food.
When Jason first came back, after the raging and the fighting, when he was ready to truly be back, they had all gone out to a questionable Chinese buffet, Jason’s favorite. Alfred had walked in, turned green, and walked back out to wait in the limo, but the rest of them crowded around the biggest two tables in the restaurant pushed together, and stacked plate after plate with food until the manager had kicked them out because Jason had eaten all the king crab legs and Damian kept throwing fortune cookies at people with an unsurprising level of civilian casualties. Bruce had smiled softly even with the waiters yelling, and had calmly placed down his Amex, and suddenly, all was forgiven. They looked like a small field trip group leaving the building, wandering slowly and clutching their stomachs, laughing and shoving and taking snapchat videos of Tim opening his jacket pockets to reveal a hideously large stash of stolen starlight mints. Later, everyone had thrown up except Jason, who had smirked and made himself a sundae.
All in all, the batter makes a staggering pile of waffles, enough for almost ten minutes of dedicated eating. Dick hands the serving plate with the small army of mickey mouse heads to Jason and tells them to set the table for breakfast. The two look at him questioningly.
“I’m going to check on Damian,” he clarifies, and Jason’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
“Be careful,” He says cryptically. Tim nods. Dick rolls his eyes.
“He’s not some sort of gremlin. He’s just a normal kid.” Dick shrugs, and Tim laughs in a way that suggests he’s been stockpiling evidence on the contrary. “Besides, it’s lunch time. He should be up.”
He leaves Jason and Tim in the kitchen and wanders up the stairs to his room, half hoping that Damian will be up and half hoping that he won’t, that he’ll still be curled up in the sheets, sleeping softly, all soft skin and silky hair--
He misses the last step, embarrassingly distracted, and mutters a curse under his breath. Damian, he scolds himself, is his brother (Not really, a voice in his head whispers. Not in any way that matters. He squashes this voice like a whack-a-mole.), a kid who he took care of , who he loves so deeply that any indecent feelings make him sick to his stomach.
The door to his room is shut, and his first mistake is entering without knocking. The second is not immediately leaving when he processes Damian tangled in the sheets, hand dangerously low and moving quickly, head turned sideways into his pillow-- Dick’s pillow-- and lush little mouth opening slightly to let out these noises, these little gasps and sighs and holy shit holy shit holy shit holy fucking shit fuck fuck fuck-- Dick spins around and leaves as fast as he can, sprinting down the stairs but his feet are fumbling and it feels like his limbs aren’t connected to his brain, because all he can picture now is long, dark eyelashes fluttering, the slip of tan skin between shirt and sheet going lower and lower and it’s getting more difficult to run because his lungs are burning and he can’t breathe because all of his blood has gone straight between his legs.
Dick stumbles into the dining room and stops himself even though his gut is urging him to run out of the house and off into the sunset. He slams his fist down onto the long mahogany table, rattling the place settings and startling Jason and Tim. Tim pauses mid bite to stare at him, mickey mouse ear dangerously close to falling off of his fork. Jason is staring at him, too, seemingly forgetting that he’s squirting strawberry sauce all over his plate. His waffles look like a murder scene when he realizes and puts down the bottle.
“You good, bro?” Jason asks cautiously, like Dick is a rabid animal being backed into a corner. He feels like one, honestly. His heart’s beating out of his chest and he’s experiencing every human emotion in rapid-fire sequence like some sort of fucked-up merry-go-round with a death wish. He’s going to pass out.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Dick says, out of breath, Tim and Jason glance at one another. “Why do you ask? I’m chill, totally good. Awesome. Never better. Good.”
“Is that why you look like you’ve been dragged feet first through the Lazarus pit?” Tim says with waffle in his mouth.
Dick gasps out a laugh and pulls out a chair with shaking arms, sitting quickly to hide the tremble in his legs. “Who, me? I look bad? Why do you say that? Me?”
“Well,” Jason says nonchalantly, swirling his fork in the strawberry massacre in front of him, “You spent approximately 45 seconds running two stairwells and three hallways from your room to here, you’re white as a sheet, and also you’re half hard. You kind of look like a trainwreck.”
Dick breathes out slowly. Curse Jason’s slightly above average eyesight. “Uh. Hm. I actually-- I’m hungry. Are there any more Mickey Mouse heads?” Tim gestures to the pile of waffles on the serving platter. Right in the middle of the table. Dick laughs nervously. “Oh. Well. There they are.” He spears two with a knife and starts to saw them vigorously on his plate, resolutely not looking at Jason or Tim. “Boy, I love waffles,” he says with his mouth full.
“Okay, that’s enough weirdness for one meal. I’m going to the batcave.” Tim announces, picking up his dishes and pushing in his chair. “Goodbye, freakazoids.”
Jason slides the bottle of strawberry sauce down the table to Dick like a weary bartender in the Wild West. “So,” he says.
“So.” Dick replies, swallowing a little harder than necessary.
Jason shoots him an unimpressed look. “Damian decide not to come down for waffles?” Dick chokes a bit, but recovers semi-gracefully.
“He’s-- busy.”
“You know he’s eighteen, right? He’s allowed to be, uh, ‘busy’.” Jason shoots back, standing and gathering his plate and silverware. In my bed? , Dick wants to ask, but that thought makes his stomach swoop, so he ignores it. Jason smirks at him like he’s some sort of mind-reader. Damn him.
“I’m just saying,” Jason sing-songs as he leaves the room. “Just talk to him. Don’t be a pussy.”
Dick stares down at his remaining waffle, which has been absolutely desecrated by stabbing. He wants to melt into the ground and disappear, but at the same time, he wants to relish the image of Damian curled up on the mattress. He glares at the door. ‘Just talk to him!’ Bullshit. Easy for Jason to say when he’s not the one with a dumb-ass crush on his pseudo-brother. But, God, he watched this kid grow up , and he wants to be there for him forever, no matter what, to fight next to him and sometimes against him, to stick bandaids on his cuts and wipe the tears from his eyes, to hold him in his arms, to protect him and love him and that’s it, really, and with that everything just seems to click into place. He loves Damian, always has.
But he’s still going to be a pussy about it. Because fuck you, Jason .
He can love Damian all he wants, but if Damian doesn’t feel the same way, that’s it. Period. Finito. He might be a jerk sometimes when it comes to feelings, and there might be a cut-out of his mugshot taped neatly next to the dictionary entry for “asshole” courtesy of Barbara, but there is no fucking way he’s going to go creeper mode on Damian. So honestly it’s better to just let the non-platonic sentiments whither away painfully in some dark, isolated crevice of his psyche and squash any other out-of-line feelings like disgusting little bugs. No harm, no foul, right? Damian will never know. Ever.
So he decides to do what any self-respecting dessexualized older brother figure would do in this situation. He stacks some waffles onto a plate along with a fork and a knife, and goes back up to his room. This time, he knocks. And when there’s no response, he knocks again, and when there’s still no response, he decides teenagers are fucking annoying and barges in in spite of himself. Damian is fully clothed, thank God, and sitting on the edge of the bed. He looks a little shell-shocked, which is exactly how Dick’s soul feels, but hey, he’s supposed to be the adult here. The bedsheets are neatly folded next to him, and Dick wonders how the hell he got the fitted sheet to look so perfect. Alfred probably taught him.
“Hey, buddy,” he says and immediately cringes because he sounds like some clueless but ultimately well-meaning dad from a 90’s movie. When did he get so old? He clears his throat to try again. “Dami?”
It occurs to him that Damian is concentrating on the floor and is also blushing, which is a bad sign, because he can’t remember the last time he saw Damian flush. Dick moves to sit down next to him, balancing the plate on his lap, and Damian subtly tries to scoot away. “Sorry,” Damian mumbles, voice thick with embarrassment.
Dick tries to recall what happened when Bruce undoubtedly had this same talk with him some fifteen years ago, only to come to the conclusion that oh, yeah, Bruce didn’t give him any talk. Nada. Dick’s lucky he even knows what a fucking penis is. “Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s a totally healthy, natural thing. Completely normal. Trust me.” Damian still won’t look at him, but he relaxes slightly.
“It’s just that-- I--” he starts, but Dick lifts up his hand and waves him off.
“Dami, you don’t have to explain. Seriously. You’re eighteen; I should have knocked. Really. This was my bad.”
Damian nods like he’s just processing everything Dick says. “Okay,” he whispers.
“Okay.” Dick affirms.
“Are those waffles for me?” Damian asks, and he almost sounds shy about it. He’s so cute Dick wants to pinch his cheeks.
“They sure are,” Dick answers. “But I forgot the butter downstairs, and they’re probably cold by now.”
Damain shrugs, and grins up at Dick, snatching one off the plate and folding it up like a taco to take a bite. “I missed these.”
Dick smiles. “I missed them too. I would have brought you more, but Jason and Tim ate them all.” Damian clicks his tongue.
“Fucking assholes.”
Dick ruffles his hair, and stands up. “C’mon. Let’s go make more.”
They walk down to the kitchen together, talking about what Dick’s been up to. Damian doesn’t seem surprised at any of the details he offers about his recent escapades as Nightwing, which leads Dick to suspect he’s been looking around his file. But that’s fine; he’d be lying to say that he hadn’t kept up-to-date with Damian’s. “When’s your high school graduation?” He asks, and Damian scowls.
“I’m not having one. I was home-schooled, remember?” He says sullenly, and Dick stops in his tracks.
“What? No way. You have to have one! It’s a right of passage!” He exclaims. When he graduated, he’d wanted to throw a massive kegger at the mansion, but Bruce had put his foot down, so they settled on a fancy dinner gala that all of his ‘hoodlum’ friends had felt wildly uncomfortable with. Bruce had turned a blind eye to them all drinking champagne, though, so the night wasn’t a total loss. Tim’s official graduation party had been a similarly tight-knit, formal affair with his friends, followed by a rager at the Tower over summer break. Jason got his GED a few years back, and had opted-out of a soirée with Bruce in favor of a pub crawl with Gotham’s finest. Bruce had been pissed, but that had only encouraged Jason to extend the night longer.
Damain rolls his eyes. “Why should I? Who would even come?”
“What about Jon?” Dick asks. “Aren’t you two besties?”
“Not really. And he’s in Kansas for the summer.” Damian tugs his hand, urging his toward the kitchen. “Come on, it’s not that important. I’d rather just spend time with you guys.”
Dick isn’t satisfied with this answer, although the idea of a night alone with Damian gives him butterflies. Which one of them is the frigging doe-eyed high schooler, again? But he lets the topic go for now, content to hold Damian’s hand as they enter the kitchen, which is still a disaster zone from cooking breakfast. Alfred’s absence makes itself known. Damian grimaces.
“Did you guys make waffles in here, or just fling the batter onto the walls?”
Dick frowns at him. “Shut up, it’s not that bad. Do you want Mickey Mouse heads or not?”
He does, so they measure out all of the ingredients again, swiftly cracking eggs and dumping everything into the bowl to mix it. Cooking together is almost like patrolling together, graceful and coordinated, each of them anticipating the other’s next move and accommodating it into the duet. They make a good team, always have, even for something as mundane as preparing the batter. Damian’s almost as tall as him now, which is irritating, but everything else is the same.
They make four perfect golden-brown heads, and Damian takes the stack out to the dining room while Dick gathers silverware, butter, and whipped cream. He plops himself right next to Damian at the table, even though there’s twelve extra empty seats. “Do you want me to cut up your waffle?” He asks playfully, because he knows how particular Damian is about food. For three years he would only eat PB&J if Dick made it and cut the de-crusted sandwich into two posh little triangles. Once, he had used a cookie cutter to shape the sandwich into a heart, and it had been Damian’s favorite food until one day he announced it was too ‘childish’ that way. Dick’s heart had broken a little, but he’d gone back to the triangles without complaint.
Damian glares at him. “I’m not a baby, you know. You don’t have to cut my waffles.”
“Whatever you say, macho man,” Dick says, and starts buttering the two on his own plate. Damian huffs, and grabs the whipped cream, squirting it in perfect little evenly spaced spirals around his waffles. Dick trades the butter for the can, and while Damian butters his waffles he covers his entire plate with one continuous strand of whipped cream. Damian wrinkles his nose.
“Don’t yuck my yum,” Dick laughs, and Damian snorts at that. They enjoy their waffles in a contented silence, and despite all of his efforts Damian ends up with whipped cream on his cheek anyway.
Without thinking, Dick reaches over and wipes it off with his thumb, then holds it out, and Damian instantly takes it into his mouth, sucking the whipped cream off wordlessly, swirling his tongue on the pad of Dick’s thumb.
Dick realizes what is actually happening at the same time Damian does, and they both jump apart. Dick stands, clearing his throat, and takes his dishes into the kitchen, leaving Damian to flee the scene. He tries, honestly tries, to forget the feeling of the wet heat of Damian’s mouth, the gentle pressure of his tongue, but each time he tries to shut down the thoughts all of his blood rushes straight to his dick so quickly he thinks he’s going to pass out. So he stands at the sink, ostensibly washing the dishes, but his left hand is gripping the counter for dear life while trying every trick in the book to will away his boner. He scrubs his way through every last plate, bowl, and measuring cup in a haze of distracted lust, half waiting for Damian to enter the kitchen. He doesn’t, and Dick doesn’t know if that makes him more disappointed or relieved. He dries all of the plates and puts them away before he realizes the kitchen has two perfectly working, state-of-the art dishwashers. Oh well.
He goes back to the dining room and finds Damian’s place setting untouched, with no trace of human life besides a sad, half-eaten waffle head and the bottle of whipped cream laying on its side. He feels like the biggest idiot on the East Coast, and that’s saying something, because Jason and Tim live there too.
“Great going, Dick,” He mutters to himself, and is so absorbed in his own little pity party that he doesn’t hear Tim behind him.
“You’re still eating waffles? It’s like 2:30.” Tim says, oblivious to the waves of despair that Dick’s emitting like the world’s most depressing radio tower.
Dick sighs dejectedly. “Well, I’m cleaning up, now.” Tim furrows his eyebrows.
“What’s up, Eeyore? Why the attitude? Is it still about Damian?” He pats Dick on the shoulder. “Really, don’t worry about him. He’s just a bit of a late bloomer.”
Dick looks at him. “You’re one to talk, Mr. I-didn’t-hit-puberty-until-20.” Tim shoves him on the shoulder.
“I was nineteen, actually, asshole.”
“What, when you finally stopped whole-heartedly believing that girls had cooties?” Dick says, cracking up. Tim goes red in the face.
“I thought it was some kind of STD.”
Dick cackles as he heads for the kitchen. “That’s so dumb.” Tim follows him in, going straight for the freezer to pull out an ice cream pop that looks like Superman. Dick gasps when he catches sight of it after putting Damian’s dishes in the dishwasher.
“Traitor!”
Tim rolls his eyes. “Jason ate all of the Batman ones. Viciously.” Dick steals one of Superman’s demented gumball eyes, grimacing when he pictures Jason biting ice cream-Bruce’s head off.
“What happened to being a health nut?” He questions. Tim shrugs.
“I got hungry. And besides, this fits my macros for today.”
Dick chews thoughtfully on the gumball. “I don’t know what that means.” Tim opens his mouth to explain, and he holds up a finger to silence him. “Correction: I don’t care what that means.” Tim closes his mouth.
But in reality he really does care about Tim’s opinion, so he asks, “Would it be weird if Dami and I--”
“Yes.” Tim says before he can finish the sentence. Dick pouts.
“Jerk. You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
Tim levels him a look like he’s on The Office. “Yes I do. And that’s not even the point. The point is, yes it would be weird, but would it even make the top 10 weirdest shit you’ve ever pulled? Probably not.”
Dick considers this. He’s probably right. “You’re probably right.”
“B would flip, though.” Tim says, calmly finishing off Superman’s chin. “But honestly, he has no room to be judging your relationship choices.”
Dick doesn’t know if that should make him laugh or cry. God, everyone he hangs out with is totally hopeless, both emotionally and mentally. Does that count as a coincidence?
“Bottom line: you’re fucked, he’s fucked. Everything’s fucked. As long as you guys are both willing, you can fuck. But if you hurt Damian I will string you from the streetlights. Don’t tell him I said that.”
Dick gives him two thumbs up, and it’s like a giant weight has been lifted off of his chest. He’s not a total freak, after all. Just, like 75%. Ok, maybe 80%. Conservative estimate.
Of course, all of his newfound confidence means nothing if Damian isn’t on board. And for all of Tim’s possibly not-empty threats, if he accidentally hurts Damian, Dick is going to string himself from the streetlights. Tim pats him on the shoulder as he leaves the kitchen, and Dick’s left alone to consider how his life went from being a physical circus to a metaphorical one.
He decides to go back to the yoga studio to help himself think, and because the scented candles make him feel tingly. Sue him. He’s pulling together a killer hot yoga routine in his head when he enters the dimly lit room, and realizes it is severely lacking in serenity because Jason is snoring on a yoga mat, still in corpse pose.
“The whole damn mansion,” Dick grumbles to himself, “and he had to sleep here ?” He pads softly over to Jason and nudges him with his foot.
Jason bolts up instantly, knife at the ready. “Don’t touch my fucking Chipotle!”
Dick screams and jumps backwards. “What the fuck, bro?”
“Eh?” Jason says, rubbing his eyes, and blinks up at Dick, confused. “Why are you in my room?”
Dick frowns at him. “This is the yoga studio.”
Jason groans and struggles to his feet, rubbing his head. “That’s probably why my head hurts so much. I hate yoga. These stupid candles just knock you out.” He rolls up his mat. “Why are you here?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Dick questions as Jason twists his spine and every vertebrae in his back pops.
“I figured I’d try it out. You know, get healthy ‘n shit.” Jason shrugs. “But weren’t you just here this morning?”
“Yeah, but I need to clear my head.”
Jason laughs and whacks him with his rolled-up mat. “Are you still hung up over Damian? Dude, that’s so unlike you. Just go, like--” he wiggles his fingers and his eyebrows simultaneously-- “work your magic.”
Dick decides a second yoga flow isn’t in the cards for today. “Don’t be such a tool, Jason. Damian’s different.” Dick’s always been a charmer, with both sexes. When Bruce used to regularly hold parties, it was hard to tell which of them enchanted the guests more. He loves the spotlight, the attention, the feeling of lighting up a room. It’s addictive, being desired. Jason was always fun, too, when he showed up, but Tim and Damian were quieter, more reserved. Damian, especially, is not a natural entertainer, despite all of his good breeding. He does that thing where he calculates the different escape routes and how many different people are in the room at any given time, and that weirds everyone out. It has come in handy, but still. Weird. But to Dick there’s still something so magnetic about Damian, even when he’s brooding in the shadows, trying his best not to be noticed. He’s just different, not like any of the flings he’s had. Dick could always lose himself in a good party or a good fight, forget about his current lover in favor of dissolving into the moment. Not Damian. He never leaves Dick’s radar or his subconscious. At the parties, during fights, it doesn’t matter. His presence is unmistakable and insistent, something Dick can’t just shake off. At this point, he’s not sure he wants to. He sighs.
Jason must take pity on him, because he tugs Dick right out of the studio. “C’mon, let’s go do what I always do when I need to clear my head: beat the shit out of people.”
It can’t be past four in the afternoon, but Jason seems to find trouble, or maybe the trouble finds him. They take one of the less expensive cars in the Batcave, still sleek and black yet only worth a mere 13 months of Dick’s rent for his apartment. Jason grins when he starts the engine.
“Why did I let you drive, again?” Dick asks.
“Because you’re a shitty driver,” Jason replies easily. The radio starts blasting Taylor Swift, making them both jump.
Dick raises his eyebrows. “‘Fearless’? I’m surprised.”
“Are you?” Jason scoffs. “It’s her best album.”
Dick starts to protest, but the chorus starts, and really, he really does have a soft spot for the yee haw Taylor Swift era. They both start singing along, except Jason is kind of screaming as he hits the gas.
Eventually, the car rolls up to a dingy, decrepit corner of the city. It’s identical to all of the other dingy, decrepit corners of the city. Dick glances at Jason. “We’re here?”
Jason puts the car in park. “Drug den sweet drug den, baby.” He puts on his hood. “Let’s roll.”
The building on the corner is not actually just walls, as Dick had thought. There is a small, dark door on one of the intersecting streets. Jason nonchalantly knocks three times. A small slot opens at eye level. Dick rolls his eyes. Cliché.
“What’s the pass-- what the fu- ”
Jason kicks down the door, and they stride in. And interrupt a scene from The Godfather . There’s a cast of gruff men seated around a long table. The boss is seated at the head. They’re all wearing suits. Dick rolls his eyes again. God, he hates Gotham.
“Hello, boys,” Jason says, clicking the safety off of his gun. “Did you miss me?”
“Red Hood!” The boss exclaims. His accent is like getting slapped in the face by the Jersey Shore. “We had a deal!”
“Yeah, well, the deal said you couldn’t deal to kids.” Jason shrugs, pseudo-apologetic.
Dick makes a face. “You guys give drugs to kids ? That’s low.”
“ Nightwing? Why are you here?” Another guy exclaims.
“Just stopping pieces of shit like you, I guess. Go figure.”
Jason clears his throat. “Alright, alright, back to business. You morons broke the deal, so that means,” -- Dick cracks his knuckles for dramatic effect-- “All bets are off.”
Everyone is still for thirty seconds before all hell breaks loose. The boss jumps up and tries to flip the table and escape, but there are too many henchmen in the way. Dick generously takes out two of them with a kickflip. Jason seems like he’s muttering something, but when Dick gets closer, he realizes that Jason is still singing “Fearless”.
“And I don’t know--” --Jason grabs someone and cracks his head on the overturned table-- “how it gets better than this--” he sings. He’s even doing the accent. Dick decides he wants in on the concert.
“You take my hand and drag me headfirst,” Dick sings as he throws a henchman bodily into a wall. “Fearless!”
Jason has found the Big Bad Evil Guy. “I swear, I won’t do it again!” he pleads.
“I know!” Jason says cheerfully, and knocks him out with the butt of his gun.
Jason turns to Dick. “I would have killed him, but I know how you feel about that sort of thing.”
They brush themselves off and walk back out to the car, stepping over bodies as they go. “I’ve already sent an anonymous tip to the police. Let’s get out of here.” Dick says.
The fight has totally gotten his heart rate up, and he feels great.
Jason looks over at him and turns down the radio. “So, ready to talk to Damian?”
Well, there goes his rush. “Can I at least get out of my spandex first?”
“And lose the tactical advantage from showing off your muscles?” Jason laughs.
Dick frowns. “Tactical advantage? I want a heart-to-heart, not a battle.”
Now it’s Jason’s turn to frown. “You’re a freak, you know that? ‘Oh, look at me! I’m Dick, and I want a heart-to-heart and long walks on the beach with my demonic, soulless--’” Dick elbows him in the ribs. “Ow!”
“He’s not demonic,” Dick says as the pull into the batcave. “He’s serious, yes, but he’s also caring, and smart, and dedicated, and--” he stops mid-sentence. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Jason shakes his head and parks the car. “Nothing. No comment.”
Inside the manor, it’s oddly quiet. Suspiciously quiet. “Late afternoon siesta,” Jason explains. “There’s not much to do here except beat the shit out of people.”
Dick looks at him like he’s crazy. “Nothing to do here? This is, like, the most expensive house on Earth! Jeff Bezos modeled his mansion off of this one ! There’s a yoga studio upstairs! We have a fucking bowling alley! ”
Jason shrugs. “Go wake them up, then. I’m down for bowling.”
They comprise with Jason waking up Damian and Tim (because like hell is Dick making the same mistake twice) while Dick gets the bowling alley ready. He puts up the rails because, despite all being highly trained for incredible aim with deadly weapons, none of them can roll a ball without it going in the gutters.
“Sweet!” Tim says when the three get downstairs. “It’s been forever since we used this thing!”
Damian clicks his tongue. “The rails? Are we three?”
“Shut up, squirt.” Jason says. “We all know your aim is shit, so we’re taking it easy on you.”
“ My aim? You must be joking, you--”
Dick claps his hands. “Alright, let’s bowl!”
He goes for a 10 pound ball. It’s bright purple. Jason chooses a deep red 10 pound ball. He hands a six pound one to Damian, who appears to be increasingly considering homicide. Dick tries not to laugh.
“Come on, Tim. Pick one so-- Tim? What are you doing?” He asks Tim, who is perched on a barstool with a calculator that looks like a government weapon.
“I’m calculating the most mathematically suitable one based off of weight, my average pitch speed, the density of the--”
“Whoa,” Jason says, waving his hand like he’s trying to physically clear the air of math. “Just take this one, you fucking nerd.” He hands Tim a pink ball. “Done.”
“It’s not about being a nerd , Jason, it’s simply a tactical advantage .” Tim says, but doesn’t put down the ball.
Dick snorts. “We have the rails up. This isn’t really high stakes.”
“Correct. Which is why we should raise the stakes.” Damian says in a slightly evil tone. God, why can’t they just have a friendly game of bowling?
Jason strokes his chin. “Interesting. I like it. Name your terms, gremlin.” Damian narrows his eyes.
“Getting out of galas? Not having to wash the cars?” Tim suggests.
Damian shakes his head. “Too low. It has to be worth the risk, remember? What about… winner gets all of Alfred’s peanut butter bars?”
The other three gasp.
“Those are sacred!” Dick says. Alfred only makes them once a year, and they mysteriously disappear in about 20 minutes. The bars are peanut butter on the bottom and chocolate on top, deliciously fudgy and probably laced with crack because they are addicting. Alfred doesn’t understand why the entire extended family goes crazy for them; it’s a simple recipe, out of place in the lavish seven-course meals he can whip up without a sweat.
“You sick little piece of shit.” Jason says. “I’m in.”
Tim looks like he does before a particularly important mission. Dick wishes he had let them all nap instead. Even the fun here is tainted with competition. Then again, he does love a good fight as much as the rest of them.
“Let’s bowl.” He says, and they do.
The game is close, enough so that for a split second Dick thinks the old rivalries will reignite, but then one of them will get a strike or a spare, and everyone celebrates together. Of course, there’s some good-natured ribbing, but for them, that’s expected.
Tim wins, and Jason immediately claims that math can count as foul play. Damian clicks his tongue, but does not dispute the victory. Dick is just happy they finished the game without somebody losing a body part, which is probably a first given the context.
Tim asks if anyone wants a rematch, and Dick interrupts Damian to say they should probably have dinner. He is the one in charge, after all.
“Hell yes,” Jason says, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get tacos.”
Dick frowns. “Alfred left us a lot--” But he can’t finish the sentence before Jason starts a chant of “tacos!” and Tim and Damian join in.
Oh, well. At least tacos probably have more vegetables than pizza. They go back upstairs to the main living room (God, they’re so fucking obnoxiously rich that they have multiple sitting rooms, living rooms, salons, whatever) to wait for the delivery.
Jason disappears while Tim flips through TV channels, and Dick and Damian sit next to one another on the couch. Jason reappears looking suspiciously proud of himself.
“Guess who found the wine!” He singsongs.
“It’s not very hard to do, we have a wine cellar.” Tim says flatly, without looking up. Dick, however, is impressed. Since when did the mansion have a fucking wine cellar?
“One more crack like that,” Jason says sternly, pointing at Tim with a bottle, “and you’re not getting a drop of this Pinot Noir.” That gets Tim to shut up.
“Where are the glasses?” Dick asks.
“We can drink from the bottle, like men. Also, this way there are less things to spill and ruin the carpet.”
Dick can’t argue with that logic.
By the time the food comes, half a bottle is gone. Dick may or may not slip the delivery boy an extra twenty. Jason is yelling encouragement to the men firing machine guns on TV.
“Jay, those are the bad guys,” Tim says.
“And? No , the balls! Go for the balls, moron!”
Dick passes out their various orders. Then remembers Damian is 18, not 21, as he goes for a swig. “Wait a minute. You’re too young to drink.”
Damian shoots a look at him. “Only here. Besides, I’ve already had alcohol before.” He takes a drink. Dick sighs. Bruce never let him drink until 21, even when they were in Europe.
“Fine,” Dick says. “I’ll allow it.”
“I’ll allow it,” Jason mocks from across the room. Damian snorts.
They finish the movie while they eat, and the first bottle is almost empty. Dick doesn’t feel drunk, not even really buzzed, but he’s always had a high tolerance. Tim opens the second bottle, and Damian reaches out for it, but Dick cuts him off.
“Let the rest work it’s way out before you have more.” He says. Damian clicks his tongue and scowls.
Dick gets up to go get everyone some water, kicking himself for not thinking of it earlier. “Ok,” he says, “nobody drink before I come back with water.” Jason boos.
He can’t stop thinking about Damian on the way to the kitchen. Damian’s flushed cheeks, pink from the wine and maybe Dick’s own body heat from the two of them sitting so close, the alcohol making him languid where normally he’d be rigid. The thought of returning to him on the couch and tangling themselves together makes Dick’s hands shake enough that he’s afraid he’ll drop the glass he’s trying to rescue from a cabinet. Fuck, he should not be as affected as he is. The worst part is that he’s not even drunk; nothing he’s feeling has to do with drinking.
“Fuck it,” he mumbles to himself when a particularly distracting mental image of Damian’s wine-stained mouth causes him to spill water on the floor. “Water bottles it is. Sorry sea turtles.”
He grabs four bottles of Fiji water (God, they really are disgustingly rich).
Unsurprisingly, Jason did not listen, and is mid-swig when Dick returns. At least he has the decency to look sheepish. “You took too long,” he explains. Dick frowns at him, and throws him a bottle of water, and another to Tim. Then he settles back next to Damian on the couch.
“I don’t need it.” Damian says petulantly when Dick tries to give him a bottle.
“Yeah, right. The last thing I need is you throwing up and Bruce finding out that I am a horrible babysitter.”
Damian positively scowls. “I am not a child, Grayson.”
“Of course not,” Dick says, snapping open the cap of the bottle. He holds it up to Damian. “Now, drink.”
Damian’s eyes widen, but he complies, drinking from the bottle as Dick holds it, and the sight of his throat moving to swallow the water is making Dick lightheaded. When he’s done, Dick almost doesn’t have the presence of mind to set it down on the coffee table.
Tim coughs, and he snaps out of the daze. Jason stands unsteadily.
“I have a great idea,” he says. “Let’s play another game.”
“Sure,” Dick agrees, trying to hide the wobble in his voice. Anything to get his brain to stop replaying Damian drinking. Fuck, he’s totally screwed.
Jason pulls a deck of cards from his jacket pocket. The other three look at each other.
“Why- wha- is that Uno?” Tim asks. “You want to play Uno?”
“Not just Uno,” Jason says proudly, and collapses back onto the ground. “ Strip Uno!”
Tim furrows his eyebrows. “That’s not a real thing. Do you mean strip poker ?”
“No,” Jason says. And burps. “I don’t know how to play poker.”
Damian clicks his tongue. “You associate with Gotham’s nastiest criminals and you can’t even play poker? What do you do in those trashy bars with your delinquent friends?”
Jason looks at him like he’s stupid. “ Uno. Duh. I already fucking told you. Why else do you think I have a deck in my pocket?”
Dick clears his throat. “But why strip Uno? Why not just regular Uno?”
Jason grins at him. “Why not raise the stakes?”
Everyone is silent for a beat. Then Damian clicks his tongue again. “I’m in.”
Tim shrugs. “Whatever.”
Jason raises the wine bottle triumphantly. “Ok, let’s do it.”
Dick shakes his head. “No way, this is a terrible idea.” Under other circumstances, he’d be game, but with a nonzero chance of Damian stripping, he’d rather not. Better to save what little self-respect he has.
“Uh uh.” Jason waggles his finger at him. “You’ve been outvoted.” Tim and Damian nod.
They all sit in a circle on the floor, and Jason explains the rules. “You either pick up cards, or remove an article of clothing. Socks count as one.” Dick wishes he were wearing a jacket. The last thing he needs is Damian seeing him take off his pants when he’s sporting a semi.
The game starts out uneventful. They all seem reluctant to strip, and everyone usually chooses to pick up a card instead. But them Tim hits Jason with a draw four card. Jason laughs, and takes off his jacket. “Come on, you nerds. Live a little.” He says as he lays down another draw four.
Dick stares at the draw four. It’s his turn, and really does have half the deck in his hands. He’s shit at Uno. He sighs, and takes off his socks. Jason claps gleefully. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”
Thirty minutes later, everyone is shirtless and sockless, and Jason and Tim are drunk. Dick wishes he were, too, but he has to make sure everybody else lives through the game. And stop Damian from getting wasted. Neither of them have had any more to drink, but Dick keeps intercepting Jason sneaking Damian the wine bottle.
Somewhere along the line, Tim puts down a reverse card, so Damian gets a second turn. He looks devilishly as Dick, and there must be something wrong with him, because Dick’s response to the devious look is fondness. Which disappears when Damian puts down a draw four.
“Shit,” Dick says, eyes widening. He’s so close to winning, too, because despite Jason’s expertise, he and Tim are sloppy players when drunk. He’s only got two cards in his hand. Drawing four would put him back to third. But then again, he kinda needs his pants for modesty reasons. Damian is staring intently at him. Dick takes a deep breath, and shimmies out of his pants. At least he’s wearing underwear. Jason whoops, and the game continues, but Dick could swear Damian is sneaking glances at him.
Dick wins, probably because Tim forfeits and Jason is dangerously close to passing out. But they’re all alive, so Dick counts it as another successful team bonding activity. At some point, Damian had stretched himself out along Dick’s side, pressed up against him, leaning his head on Dick’s shoulder. Dick had crossed his legs awkwardly to hide any, uh, physical changes. When the game ends, he looks down at Damian, who looks up, and for a second they are so close, sharing the same breath, Damian’s lips so pink and kissable that--
“Alright,” he says abruptly as he stands to haul Jason and Tim up to their feet. “Up you go. Time for bed.”
Tim protests, but Dick waves him off. “Make sure Jay gets to bed in one piece.”
“Heard tha’,” Jason says drunkenly. “Ican takkarea mysel.” Dick rolls his eyes as Tim leads Jason off to his room. Dick starts picking their discarded clothes off of the floor. It’s late, but the cool air on his skin feels electric. It definitely has nothing to do with Damian standing near him.
He throws Damian his shirt back. Damian catches it and pulls it back on, then drops his jeans unceremoniously. Dick has to physically step back. “What are you doing?” He says, ignoring how his own voice catches when he sees Damian's legs, bare except for boxers.
“This is how I sleep.” Damian says nonchalantly, but there is a hint of something else in his eyes. “It is time for bed, isn’t it?”
Dick nods, suddenly uncertain. “Uh- yes. It is. Bedtime.”
“Well then, let’s go upstairs.”
Dick follows him to the stairwell, forcing his eyes not to linger on the curve of Damian’s ass as he climbs, always one step ahead. They both stop in front of Dick’s room.
“Uh,” Dick starts awkwardly. Oh, how everyone would laugh if they could see him now. So much for being charming. “Goodnight.”
Damian, for all of his bravado, is almost as awkward. “I’ve actually, uh, been staying in your room.” Damian sucks in a breath. That explains the silk sheets on his bed.
“Oh,” is all Dick can think to say. The image of Damian in his bed is giving him some sort of full-body heartburn. In a good way. “I guess I’ll take yours, then.” He turns to leave, but Damian grabs his wrist.
“Stay,” Damian says, and Dicks heart explodes with want. “If you want to. I-- I want you to.”
And, God, Dick wants to too, more than anything, so against his brain screaming at him, he allows himself to be led into his old room. Damian’s hand on his spreads a warmth through his body. It’s intoxicating.
But he can’t let himself go over the edge like he wants to, take Damian into his arms and abandon everything but the two of them like he wants to. Damian probably just wants his platonic presence like the night before, and like hell is he going to push his own selfish desires onto someone unwilling. He fortifies his resolve, and then Damian takes off his shirt.
“I thought you slept with a shirt on,” Dick chokes.
Damian shrugs. “Sometimes. Usually I sleep naked.”
Dick is sure his blush is visible from space. “Oh,” he whispers as Damian pulls back the sheets on the bed and gets in, looking up expectantly at Dick.
“Well?” Damian says, and hypothetically, Dick knows he should probably move, but his legs refuse to go anywhere. Finally, he takes a few hesitant steps to the bed and gets in, careful not to touch Damian. Or get a boner. He lays as stiff as a board while Damian curls up in his side, and tries to keep his breathing even. Remember , he tells himself. Platonic guardian figure. You are a platonic guardian figure. Platonic--
“Why are you so rigid?” Damian asks. “Relax.” Easy for you to say, Dick thinks bitterly.
They lay in silence, Dick trying to meditate and failing miserably. None of his training has ever prepared for this. Not the softness of Damian’s hair on his chest, his warm breath, the way his touch feels like wildfire on his skin. The heat and pressure of Damian’s dick pressing into his leg.
Wait.
Dick shifts his right leg a little, testing his observation, and Damian gasps softly, which does nothing to relieve the pressure in Dick’s own underwear.
“Dick,” Damian says, breathy. His voice makes Dick’s heart lurch. They meet eyes, Dick looking down at Damian, Damian staring intently back up. “You almost kissed me. Tonight.”
“Uh,” Dick says eloquently.
“Why didn’t you?” Damian says, like he’s uncertain, disappointed, even, and Dick can’t help himself, he pulls Damian up and kisses him, hard. Their lips slide together, and Dick can tell Damian’s new at this, but he doesn’t care. They kiss until Dick breaks it to press his mouth to Damian’s jaw, his neck, the hollow of his throat. He’s about to bite when he realizes what the fuck he’s doing.
“Oh shit,” he breathes. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. Damian, I shouldn’t have, I’m so sorry. Fuck.” A spiral of guilt clenches his stomach, and he almost wants to cry. How could he take advantage of Damian, the person he loves most in the world?
Damian blinks at him. “What? Why are you sorry?” He tries to climb into Dick’s lap, but Dick stops him.
“It’s-- I’m-- We shouldn’t. It’s wrong.” Dick starts to get up. “Let’s just pretend this never happened.”
“Wait,” Damian says. “You don’t want to kiss me?”
Dick’s heart clenches. “No! Of course I do, you’re-- you’re gorgeous. But.”
“I want to kiss you.” Damian says softly. “You want to kiss me.”
“Yes,” Dick says.
“I am a consenting adult.”
“Yes,” Dick says hesitantly.
“You are a consenting adult.”
“Yes.”
“So we can kiss.”
“No.” Dick says. “I won’t take advantage of you.”
Damian stares at him. And surges up to kiss him again. Dick moves his head back so quickly it hits the headboard, one last token act of resistance, but then Damian is there, on his lips, in his lap, and he can’t find it in him to care.
“Have you-- have you ever kissed anyone before?” Dick says when they’ve broken apart. Damian shakes his head, and Dick almost moans from the spike of pleasure that comes from the thought of being his first. “Let me teach you.”
He repositions Damian in his lap so they’re facing one another, takes Damian’s face in one hand and kisses him slow and deep, eventually using his tongue. Damian whines when Dick coordinates the thrusts of his tongue with his hips, slotting their bodies together in a filthy rhythm. Dick sucks hickies into Damian’s collarbones. He feels like a teenager again, lightheaded from the noises Damian makes.
“Please,” Damian is saying breathlessly, “Dick, please,” and how could Dick deny him anything? So he guides Damian so his back is pressed to his front. He’s always liked watching and being watched.
“Strip,” he whispers in Damian’s ear, soft but firm. Damian shudders, and takes off his boxers, and settle back against Dick, naked. Dick is having heart palpitations. This time, Dick nips at Damian’s ear and whispers, “show me how you touch yourself.”
Damian moans, but his hand is sliding down his thigh. He licks his palm, then takes himself in hand, and strokes, slowly at first, but with pressure. He throws his head back onto Dick’s shoulder. When he flicks his wrist at the tip of his dick, he bites his lip so hard it starts to bleed. But they can’t have that, can they?
Dick kisses his temple. “So pretty, baby. Let me hear you. What do you think about when you do this?”
Damian lets out a shaky breath, hand speeding up slightly. “ You. I think about you.”
Now it’s Dick’s turn to feel shaky. Damian’s words hit him like a brick wall. “Oh, you do? Is that why you’ve been sleeping in my room? What do I do to you, in your fantasies?”
Damian nods, eyes screwed closed. “You,” he pants, like they’re just been on a difficult patrol. “C-coming in and-- ah-- coming in and finding me--” He whines. Dick has never been more aroused in his life, and being horny is like his part-time job. He laughs softly, surprised, but this is a delicious twist. Damian is really pushing all of his buttons without being told what they are.
“Finding you?” He says, kissing Damian’s neck. “Telling you how bad you’ve been, masturbating in my bed? How dirty you are?”
Damian stutters. “Yes.”
Dick’s hand finds his nipple. He pinches. “Do you want to be punished, baby?”
The noise Damian makes is utterly obscene. “Yes, please--” he gasps. “Dick, Dick, I’m gonna--”
“Let go, I’ve got you,” Dick says, and kisses Damian as he cums.
He foolishly thinks that will be the end of it. Of course, he’s hard as a fucking batarang, but he’s not going to push anything. But Damian looks up at him, kisses his jaw.
“Your turn,” he says, and turns around so that they’re facing each other again. God, he’s so beautiful, so fucking pretty with his hair messed up and spit-slick lips, flush high on his cheeks and down his chest, navel splattered with his own cum. “Tell me how to suck you off.”
Dick’s eyes almost roll back at the words. He moans, softly, and takes off his underwear. Damian looks apprehensive for a split second, and Dick panics internally, but then Damian leans forward and kisses the tip of his dick, open-mouthed. Dick’s fingers find their way into Damian’s hair, pulling when Damian licks a stripe up his length.
“That’s it,” Dick says. “Good. Now try taking it in your mouth. Not too far. Just what you can.” Damian does, but can’t fit all of him. “Breathe through your nose,” Dick coaches.
Damian sucks, swirling his tongue, and Dick moans. “Oh, you’re perfect. Just like that.”
It’s getting to be too much, Dick realizes too late. “Damian, that’s enough. I’m going to--”
Damian keeps at it, and Dick cums harder than he has in years. “You didn’t have to do that,” he tells Damian when he remembers how to breathe again.
“I wanted to,” Damian replies simply.
“Oh,” Dick whispers. Damian’s drifting off, giving into the lull of the afterglow. Dick get up, stopping when he hears Damian’s protest. “Not leaving,” he reassures. “Just getting stuff to clean you up.” He goes to the closest bathroom and grabs baby wipes, returning to wipe of Damian’s stomach. Damian’s eyes open lazily, and he gets in one more kiss. They tangle themselves in the sheets, and Dick pulls the covers over them.
“Bad time to ask,” Dick starts. “But do you want to come back to Bludhaven with me? Patrol together, just like old times?”
“No,” Damian says, and Dick’s heart stops. “This time will be even better.”
It is.
--