Chapter Text
It all started when another soul-sucking day-long shift gave way to a night Jon ultimately wouldn’t get to spend studying for Gotham U’s infamously brutal Biology midterms. Instead, he arrived at his apartment to find Robin on the floor of his kitchen, shirtless but still wearing his domino, stitching up his own side (one of too many cuts to count), surrounded by a mess of bloody rags and scattered first-aid supplies.
Jon wished he were surprised.
Robin looked up from his handiwork when he heard the front door. “Oh, good, you’re back. Mind helping me finish up? I could probably handle it myself but it’s an awkward angle and-”
“What the hell, Damian???” Jon dropped his backpack by the door, then hurried to the kitchen sink.
“Long story,” he grunted. “Good to see you, too.”
“Would it kill ya to drop by when you’re not bleedin’ out for once?” Jon asked over the running tap, squirting soap on his hands.
“Would you rather I didn’t come at all?”
“Don’t say that. I miss you.”
“Tt.”
Jon shut off the tap and dried his hands with a little heat vision, then knelt down to pick up Damian’s stitching. “So what’s the deal this time? Killer Croc bite? Ivy finally invented chainsaw-grass?” He sterilized the needle again, just to be safe.
“As if.” Damian finally got around to peeling off his domino. “...it was Clownhunter,’ he confessed. “We had a truce while we were tailing Punchline, but then he crossed the line.”
Jon saw where this was going. “You tried to stop him.”
“I didn’t want him to regret it later. He saw it differently.”
“Is she okay?”
“ICU at Gotham Mercy General. Under guard awaiting transfer to Arkham.” Damian didn’t flinch a single time the needle pierced his flesh.
“Mhm. And what about Bao?”
“Probably at Leslie’s playing the victim again.”
“That why you came to me?” Jon asked.
“That’s one reason.”
“What’s the other?”
Damian smiled. “I missed you.”
Jon smiled back, tied off the thread, snipped the end, and wrapped the closed wound in bandages just to be safe. “Okay, sutures, check, but the wound looked pretty deep. Might take weeks to finish healing so you might wanna stay here and rest up awhile, but I know I can’t keep you here any-”
“Okay.”
“-longer than you- wait, what?”
“Okay. I’ll stay. Doctor’s orders, right?” Damian said.
For a moment there, Jon was utterly speechless. “Uh, okay, lemme just... patch up the smaller ones and we’ll get you set up and… yeah.”
421 Violet Street. That’s what Damian wrote.
Jon looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand, then back up at the corresponding sign on the building before him. No. This couldn’t be right.
421 Violet Street was, to put it generously, a hovel. The dilapidated house had faded imprints where the numbers once hung on the door, cardboard covering its shattered windows, too many missing shingles on the roof to count, and some suspicious-looking weeds growing out front.
But when Jon poked around inside with his x-ray vision, sure enough he found the duffel bags of clothes and toiletries, the boxes of books and files, the laptop, and, underneath some loose floorboards, the jackpot: a large plastic tote containing a spare Robin uniform (sans belt), a few dozen batarangs, a small collection of swords and knives, a cheap first-aid kit, and a wallet. Damian’s wallet. Conspicuously empty, save for IDs and some miscellaneous small bills.
Someone had some explaining to do.
“I told you to pick up my clothes, not haul everything I own!”
“How is this everything you own?!”
“It’s called bankruptcy. Look it up.” Damian fidgeted. “A few months ago, Joker hit us where it hurt most. Our wallets.”
“Is the rest of the family homeless, too?”
“No. Father and Pennyworth found a marginally affordable townhome, and everyone else was pretty much on their own anyway. Give or take a trust fund and a birthday check.”
“Why aren’t you at least staying with your dad then?”
Damian went quiet.
“Okay, fine. But why didn’t you tell me you were living in a SHACK?!”
“I dunno, you never asked?”
Jon folded his arms and glared. From Damian’s position, reclined on the couch as he was, Jon loomed tall indeed.
Damian rolled his head to face the back of the couch. “Fine. I didn’t want you to worry,” he mumbled.
“Well guess what. Cat’s out of the bag. So once you’re healed, you can either go back out to the Narrows, sleep in the cold, and leave me worried sick every waking second for the foreseeable future. OR you can swallow your precious pride and ask someone for a place to crash! Y’know, at least somewhere with a solid roof and central heating? You know you have FRIENDS, don’t you?!”
“I know…”
“And you know what friends are for?”
Damian took a deep, frustrated breath. “Friends help each other when they need it most.”
Jon nodded. “Damn straight. So. What’ll it be?”
“...Fine. You win. Jonathan Samuel Kent, will you let me be your roommate?”
Jon smirked. “Of course. Was it really so hard to ask?”
“Like pulling teeth.”
“Here’s to the pa-ast, you can kiss my gla-ass, I hope she-e-e’s happy with him,” Jon sang, earbuds in, jamming his key into the lock of his apartment’s front door.
“Here’s to the girl, who wrecked my world, that angel who did me iiiiiiiin-” It wouldn't open, so he fumbled with his keyring to find the right one.
Finally, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Hey, I'm home!" No response- was Damian out? "Dooown in Brokenheartsville," he mumbled as the lyrics came up.
He set his backpack on the floor by the door, hung his coat on the peg, and- oh, Damian was just sitting in the blind spot from the front door. Face buried in arms folded on the dining table, which was littered with papers, laptop resting in the eye of the hurricane. "Oh hey D, watcha workin' on?"
Still no reply. Jon gave his shoulder a gentle nudge. "You awake?"
Damian lifted his head a little. "Unh, g'morning, you're up early." He stretched his arms up and yawned. His face was imprinted with the fabric of his sweater.
"It's four-fifteen PM," Jon replied.
Damian glanced at the analog clock in the wall- the hands said fourteen, but whatever. An evening glow filtered through the sliding balcony door; the days grew short in December. "What? No, I was just resting my eyes a little..."
"When was the last time you ate?"
Damian shrugged. "Dunno, dinner last night?"
“Wha- that was almost twenty-four hours ago!”
“I can survive off one meal a day.”
"No, you can’t. Clear this mess off the table. I'll get you something quick."
"No I need to solve this case, I'm so close- "
"-and you'll knock it out of the park once you've been properly fed," Jon countered from the kitchen, fetching bowls and spoons.
Damian's stomach gurgled. Can’t argue with that. So he stacked the papers in order and placed them on the floor on top of his laptop. Soon enough, Jon returned with two bowls of Bat-flakes and set them down. "Brinner is served."
"I thought you said properly fed," Damian chided.
"Sorry. Woulda cooked if I didn't have a five-o'-clock shift."
*...brinner?"
"Breakfast for you, dinner for me. Kinda like brunch but later." Jon crunched down a bite of cereal.
"No, I got it, it's just stupid."
Jon's spoon clinked on the rim of his bowl. "Tell ya what. Get up an’ eat at a normal time and I’ll never use that word again.”
“Except it wasn’t a word to begin with.”
“Just eat your brinner.”
“Tt.” Damian stirred his bowl idly. “Did you remember the oat milk?”
“Like you’d ever let me forget.”
Damian took a bite and nodded.
Damian was just tapping away at his keyboard, so why in the world was Jon yelling his name so loud??? He blinked, and got up to investigate.
He poked his head into the bathroom (where the washer and dryer were hooked up). "You rang?"
"Damian, what is this???" Jon asked, holding up…
"...my Robin uniform. Why-?"
"What was it doing in my hamper?!"
"Waiting for you to clean it...?" Damian said, a little confused by the question.
Jon brushed past him out of the bathroom, shoving the bundle of cloth into his arms. "Your uniform, you deal with it."
Damian drooped. "Jon, wait, I-"
“Gotta run to class but before I forget, last night’s dishes are piled up in the sink, mind taking care of those? Now where did I put my shoes…” Jon hurried through the tiny apartment looking for them. “Oh and the trash is starting to smell. And actually now that I look at it we’re really letting the place slip, so if you could tidy up a bit that would be great...”
“Wait, mind showing me how the laundry machines work again?” Damian hollered.
“If you can hotwire the Batmobile you can definitely figure it out. Later!”
Damian was sure Jon hadn’t meant to slam the door on his way out. After all, he was in a hurry...
He looked around. Jon was right, neither of them had been cleaning up much over the last few weeks, and it showed. Blankets and throw cushions were strewn about the living room area. Dishes from three meals ago were still scattered everywhere. Mail needed to be sorted, books and DVDs needed to be reshelved, all sorts of odds and ends needed to be put away, the floors were covered in mealtime detritus and dust, and OH that trash really did need to be taken out…
Damian set his Robin uniform aside. It could wait. There was much to be done, and no one else around to do it.
Jon didn’t get back until approximately 11:04 PM that evening, and when he did he found the apartment… somewhat okay. Most of the clutter was dealt with, at least. The old dishes had been cleared, but it looked like Damian gave up halfway on the washing part, and there were still some new ones on the table. Jon found the mail neatly stacked there as well. When he used the bathroom, he found it surprisingly clean… and then he noticed the Robin uniform resting on top of the washing machine, stains untouched. The floors still needed to be vacuumed.
He went back out to the living room. Damian seemed to be asleep under a couple of blankets, stretched out across the entire couch as usual.
Jon sighed, washed the rest of the dishes, and went to bed himself.
“No way,” Jon said, arms crossed.
“But Jon-”
“No buts! We can’t afford an animal right now!”
“But look at his face! How can you say no?!” Damian demanded, holding up a small white rabbit with brown ears and spots, including a big one around its left eye.
“Damian I just said I can’t afford it! My budget’s barely enough for one person to live off of as it is. Two is already pushing it- I already took extra shifts and dropped classes. Which I’m okay with, but still treading water. But one more unnecessary expense will put us-”
“It’s not unnecessary!” The rabbit hopped out of Damian’s arms and explored a bit. “This poor, defenseless creature was just sitting in a box, shivering in the rain-”
“Then find a shelter!” Jon insisted. Damian glared. “Fine, a kill-free shelter, whatever. Or better yet, find a job! Then we both get what we want!”
“But it takes time to-”
“Then what’ve you been doing the last three months?!” Jon just got louder and louder. The rabbit cowered behind the loveseat.
“Saving lives is what! Vigilante detective work is still work!”
“Maybe, but it sure doesn’t put food on the table!”
Damian couldn’t believe his ears. “I thought… we talked about that!”
“Well maybe we should talk about it again,” Jon said, eyes seething.
Damian took in the ultimatum. “No need. I’ll… see what I can do.”
Claws dug into his chest. “Sh sh sh, it’s okay, Anton. I’ll keep you warm,” Damian whispered to the sharp ball of fur tucked underneath his coat.
It was still raining, but he remembered a shelter maybe ten or fifteen blocks down from their apartment complex; he figured he could still walk it. And he needed… time. To process.
It wasn’t the end of the world, that he couldn’t keep Anton- true, he already had a name picked out, but it’s not like he’d woken up that morning thinking, “I’m definitely going to adopt a stray rabbit today!” No. That’s not how things worked. In his experience, accidents would happen, and occasionally something good might come of it. Alfred the Cat came from a friend of Pennyworth’s; if they hadn’t reached out, that would’ve been that, he wouldn’t have had a cat. He only became friends with Maya after she tried to take revenge for murdering her father; and he wouldn’t have killed her father if not for a feud going back to his own father’s training days, which he had no say in whatsoever. He was only born because his grandfather was a power-hungry eugenicist and his mother…
“Tt.”
He never asked to be born like that.
Funny how it never took him long to wander into the darker corners of his memory… No matter how hard he tried to focus on footsteps splashing across wet pavement, raindrops falling like pebbles on his coat, city lights mirrored in tiny pools all around; there was always something gnawing at his peace of mind, the way Anton gnawed at the drawstring of his hood. He never asked to be an heir or a murderer, but here he was. His father never wanted a red-fisted ten-year-old dropped in his lap, either. Colin never wanted to be pumped full of venom in one of Scarecrow’s sick experiments. Maya never wanted to be orphaned, the Titans never wanted to be a team, Jon never wanted to be kidnapped...
And Anton never wanted to be abandoned in a cardboard box, left alone in the rain to starve.
He clutched the rabbit a little closer to his chest.
Damian held on to a lot of things he never wanted. He was used to the load. But if he could just make it a little lighter for someone else… well, it’s not like he would deserve such kindness, himself, but he could always dream.
He’d only made it a few blocks before he saw someone in a neon pink raincoat with a clear umbrella, stapling something to a telephone pole. They moved on well before he reached it; and the rain had already dug into the paper so the lettering was hard to make out. But the picture… a white rabbit with brown spots…
“HEY!” Damian ran to catch up. “HEY YOU!”
They turned around, a little apprehensive- she looked like she might be in college. Or high school. “Yeah?”
Damian wasn’t really winded, but he gasped a few times anyway. “That rabbit in the picture. Is it yours?”
“Yeah. My little brother left him out as a joke. Been lookin’ for him all day.”
“Oh. That’s not funny.”
She nodded.
“Well…” Damian opened his jacket, and out popped a floppy-eared head.
She gasped. “Mopsy! How?!”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She looked down at her hands, full; one held the umbrella, the other her remaining ‘lost pet’ posters.
“Here, let me take those- you won’t be needing them anymore,” Damian offered.
She gladly handed him the papers, then scooped up her furry companion; he hopped down and up her arm, resting on her shoulder to nuzzle her cheek.
“Thanks so much! Have a good night!” She walked past him, back in the direction from which he’d just come.
“You too.” He turned to look back, and she was waving. He feebly waved back, then zipped his jacket back up and put his hands in his pockets. It would be awkward to follow her, so… he kept walking, deeper into downtown Gotham.
He wasn’t in much of a hurry to get home anyway. Jon was angry with him. And why shouldn’t he be? He never wanted a helpless freeloader burning up his hard-earned paychecks, week after week, month after month. Not that Damian could help it; his entire life, everything was handed to him on a silver platter. He always assumed he had a destiny as the heir to the Demon’s Head or to Wayne Enterprises. He never wasted time learning to cook or clean; he had servants for that, and he had other talents too. Higher talents. Like combat and strategy. Economics and finance. History. Science. Politics. Painting. Acting. The violin. He was born to rule, and thus never taught to serve.
Except for the rare occasions Jon’s father made him help wash dishes and whatnot when he visited their abode. If not for those rare morsels of experience, he would be in much, much deeper trouble. He supposed he should be grateful.
As it was, he had no diploma, no proof of the vast store of knowledge he’d bled for. He’d procrastinated on college because he thought he didn’t need it, and now it wasn’t an option, unless he were willing to go into debt like Jon- but debt was a trap! So, washed up with no degree, and no money to his name… he couldn’t think of a stupider reason to return to Grandfather but he shamefully considered it for more than two seconds.
There was no way around it. Although he never wanted to be, Damian now knew for a fact that he was a burden to Jon. And the solution was always so, so very simple: get a job. The kind of job a normal twenty-something might find if he were building a life from nothing.
Damian had reinvented himself several times before; this would be no different. He wasn’t going to like it. But he owed it to himself to try.
The rain intensified, and he debated whether or not to turn back; but either way he could stand to get out of the cold downpour for a few minutes. You’ve gone soft, scoffed a voice in his head. And it may be true; he was once more than able to withstand far more extreme temperatures than these, with far less substantial clothing. But it’d taken him years to learn that prolonging one’s own suffering was meaningless, without just cause. He still struggled to remember he had nothing to prove anymore. He looked for an awning to stand under, and found one soon enough.
The shopfront window was strung with blinking multicolored lights, hanging like a curtain; and taped to the inside was a sign which read, ‘Help Wanted.’
Jon turned on the TV and waited on the couch for Damian to come home and reclaim his bed.
Except Damian never came home that night.