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He was in the living room, doing some pre-patrol yoga with Alfred the cat, when the front door opened, and was roughly slammed shut.
He carefully lowered himself down onto his knees, even as Alfred mewed and trotted towards the foyer. Damian craned his neck to look over the back of the sofa, a greeting already on his lips. He held it though, when he saw Jon’s state.
Shoulders slumped, head bowed, leaned back against the door he’d just closed.
“Jonathan?” He called quietly, gracefully shifting up onto his feet. Jon didn’t move, even as Damian came towards him. Watched as Alfred meowed some more, rubbed against Jon’s ankles. Normally, that’d send Jon into a fit of smiles and cooing. Today, it appeared, not so much. “Are you alright?”
Jon shrugged when he felt Damian’s fingers skim his arm. “Long day, I guess.”
“You guess?” Damian questioned.
“Work sucked. My boss was pissed all day. Nothing really got done. Not to mention I got in a fight with Dad over lunch. Mom is, of course, taking his side. When she’s not interrogating me about my own life anyway. Then I was going through some of the evidence on the case we’re working on right now – turns out we’re barking up the completely wrong tree. Oh, and did I mention a lady dropped her groceries so I went to help her, and she hit me with her cane? Broke my glasses. Then a cheerleader from the high school spit on me while I was waiting for a bus. I don’t know why. She appeared to be spitting on everyone she passed, including a pigeon eating a fry.” Jon sighed, ran a hand down his face. Damian only just now realized the glasses were absent. “So I’m just…tired, I guess.”
Jon finally looked up at him then, his typical soft smile already on his lips even though he clearly didn’t want it there. There were light circles under his eyes – Jon wasn’t just tired, he was exhausted. Worn out and hiding it, just like he always tried to do.
(He always failed, though. Damian always saw it. Just never knew what to say. Never knew how to help, so he just opted for the next best option – not helping at all. Ignored it and let Jon think he’d ‘pulled a fast one.’ Let him think he bested one of the world’s greatest detectives.)
“But enough about me. How was your day?” Jon tried, voice still tight, but iced with fake pleasantness. “Sorry I’m home late, by the way. But I can be ready for patrol in twenty minutes, if you can wait for me.”
Damian just looked him over. The light bruise on his head, his crumbled jacket. He could see the still-drying spit on the knee of his jeans. His nails were picked to the cuticle – a habit when Jon got nervous or stressed. Always present when the stress and nerves is caused by his parents.
Then Jon’s stomach growled.
(He said he’d fought with Clark over lunch. And the Kent boys’ arguments were legendary. Rivaled the fights between him and his own father. Could go hours. Or days. Regardless, over lunch – Jon hadn’t eaten all day.)
“Oh, you know what?” Jon suddenly waved his hand. “Forget I said that. It’s my fault I’m late, I’m not gonna force you to change your schedule just for me. Go on ahead, I’ll just catch-”
“…No.” Damian cut off, and Jon looked surprised, almost hurt. “Jonathan, we’re not going to do that.”
Jon cocked his head as Damian suddenly pulled at his jacket, tugging it off his shoulders. “Do what?”
But Damian didn’t answer. Tossed the jacket to the corner, and leaned down to pick up his cat before spinning away, back towards the family room.
“Damian?” Jon asked, remaining at the door. Damian gently deposited Alfred onto the nearby loveseat, swung around an end table to shut the open window – the one they always opened as they prepared for the night’s patrol.
“Chinese? Or Italian? Or would you like to just have ice cream and sweets for dinner?” Damian asked, pulling out his phone, dialing a number.
“Dinner…?” Jon mumbled as Damian disappeared into the kitchen. “But it’s late…? And patrol…”
“Wilkes?” Damian hummed into the phone. “Yes, we’re fine. But I’ve decided that we’re taking the night.” A pause and Jon felt his mouth drop open. “…Yes, he does, and I will see to it that he gets what he needs.” Another stop. “Yes, I’m aware. And I’ve asked him, but he has yet to answer. Please inform Grayson and whomever else you feel needs to know. Be honest if you wish to be. I’m indifferent to what you tell anyone. Mhm. Mhm. Thank you. Bye.”
Damian reappeared, hanging up the phone. Looked up at Jon expectantly. Jon could only stare at him as Damian glided back towards him. “You…We’re taking the night off?”
“Yes.” Damian said, matter-of-factly. “Have you decided what you wanted for dinner?”
“But…Damian.” Jon laughed incredulously. “The city needs us.”
“You need your rest more.” Damian countered. Reached around Jon’s shoulder and loudly locked the deadbolt behind him. Kept his hand there, his wrist brushing the hairs on Jon’s neck as he whispered: “…I need you to be okay, more.”
“But I’m fine, Damian.” Jon offered. “I told you, I’m just tired.”
“No, you’re worn out. You’re being beaten down, and pulled in too many different directions.” Damian put his other hand on Jon’s arm. Smiled softly. “It’s called burn-out, Jonathan. And believe it or not, even I get there sometimes too.”
“The great Damian Wayne gets burnt out?” Jon smirked. Damian chuckled and pushed off the door, took hold of Jon’s wrists and gently pulled him forward. “Where are we going?”
“The bedroom.”
“Damian,” Jon sighed, letting himself be led anyway. “I’m not…really in the mood for…”
“Don’t be obscene.” Damian snorted. “You’re going to shower and change into whatever you feel most comfortable in this evening. I’ll order dinner and wait for the delivery person. Then we will lie in bed and you can tell me about your day, or what you’re feeling, or nothing. We can just watch those terrible movies you enjoy, and – I swear – I will keep my commentary to a minimum.”
“…What if I like your commentary?” Jon asked. Unimportant, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Whatever you want, we’ll do.” Damian reworded. “Just so long as it involves lying in that bed and you resting.”
Jon laughed. “Damian, I’m fine.”
“And after a mandatory twenty-four hour observation, I will make that determination.” Damian declared royally, though they both knew it was a joke. When they reached the bedroom, Damian spun Jon around, in the direction of the bathroom. “Now, go clean yourself up. Take as long as you need.”
“…Okay.” Jon whispered. Then, before Damian could escape, tugged him forward with his own grip, and kissed his forehead. Lingered there, then looked down into those bright teal eyes. “Thank you.”
Damian just smiled, released Jon’s wrists, and went to dash back into the apartment. But Jon caught him at the doorframe.
“Damian?”
The other glanced over his shoulder.
“Chinese with ice cream dessert?”
Damian grinned, nodded, and turned away once more. Jon watched him go, before shaking his head and disappearing into their bathroom.
And…maybe Damian had been right. The second the hot water hit his skin, he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. The crap at work, the crap with his family. Just…the crap. Of everything.
He could feel tears in his eyes, as he leaned his face against the cool tile of the shower. Could have fallen asleep right there. Thought about doing it, honestly. But, you know, the drowning in only a few inches of water thing. And his bed was much more comfortable.
So after what felt like hours, he forced himself away from the warmth of the water, with the idea of the warmth of his bed – and of the man he’d by lying in it with – as his incentive. Dried himself, threw on boxers, took a deep inhale. (Something he felt he hadn’t done in months.)
He was ready to relax.
But when he emerged from the bathroom, he couldn’t help but stop immediately. Freeze, as he watched Damian set up a tray beside the bed. Full of all of Jon’s favorites from the restaurant down the street, beautifully displayed on plates. A 3-liter bottle of Jon’s favorite soda – that he didn’t drink often, due to its lack of health value – sat behind the plates, on the corner of the tray. In the other corner was a brown bucket, a gallon of gelato on ice within it.
Alfred was flopped comfortably along the bottom of the mattress.
And Damian was a Bat. Damian was so focused on getting what Jon wanted and needed, that he hadn’t even turned the lights on. Just the TV, probably for background noise.
Otherwise, it was dark. And Jon realized – he kind of wanted it that way.
Still, it was a secondary thought, because his own focus was on Damian, and how kind he was being. How hard he was working to make sure Jon was okay. Turned his back on his city and his duty and the only thing he’d ever wanted to do with his life…for him.
“Why?” He whispered. Damian turned to look at him, his eyes glowing in the light of the television. Looked like stars, like the ocean. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you need it.” Damian returned gently.
“But you wouldn’t do this for…for Dick. Or for your dad or…for anyone.” Jon shook his head. “Not…not that it’s a bad thing, or it makes you a bad person, I just mean…”
But Damian smiled, and stepped towards him. Hooked his fingers around Jon’s.
“Beloved,” Damian murmured. “You are not just anyone.”
And he felt those tears in his eyes again, as he took in Damian’s words, stared at his gorgeous face. Then collapsed into his arms, clung to Damian’s shoulders, buried his face in his neck, as Damian silently rubbed his back.
“What do you need, Jonathan?” Damian asked tenderly. “Tell me and I’ll get it for you.”
“Lay with you.” Jon tried weakly, his emotions pulsing through his veins. How much he loved Damian. How defeated he felt by the world. How worn out he really was. Everything. “…I just want to lay with you. I’m so tired. Please.”
“Done.” Damian promised. Shifting in Jon’s grip only so he could lead him to their bed. Carefully, he untangled himself from Jon to pull the covers back. Let Jon crawl onto their mattress, then motioned to a plate. “Food?”
“You first.” Jon breathed, holding his arms out. Damian chuckled, and crawled into the blankets after him. Wrapped them both up in it as Jon clung to his waist, rested his head against his chest. Listened to his heartbeat and relished in the sound.
Damian wrapped an arm around Jon’s shoulders, kept him close as he grabbed a plate with his free hand. Rested it on Jon’s hip. Grabbed only one fork – a clear sign that he was going to hand-feed Jon if he so chose it.
As soon as the food was settled, Damian lifted the remote, and changed the television to one of Jon’s favorite movies. Softly began stroking his fingers through Jon’s hair as the credits began.
Jon just smiled, closed his eyes for a moment, and squeezed Damian’s hip in equal parts gratitude and adoration.
Damian just kissed his head and held him.
He was starting to feel better already.