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Bruce clears his throat, folding his newspaper as Damian wanders into the kitchen, hair sticking up all over, light creases from his pillowcase still indented on his cheek. He looks at Dick, who’s fork has stopped halfway to his mouth, bits of pancake dangling off the end of it, and sighs. “Damian.”
Damian doesn’t say a word, doesn’t grunt, doesn’t even look at Bruce until he has a cup of coffee in his hands and has taken the first sip. “What.”
“A word, please. In the study.”
“Can I not finish my coffee first?” Damian snarls around the rim of the mug.
Bruce glances over at Dick, fork still paused mid-bite, syrup puddled on the tablecloth where it had been dripping off steadily. Staring.Bruce has half a mind to kick the chair beneath him and put him on his ass.
“No,” he says tersely. “Bring it with you, but come with me.”
Damian mutters words in a language Bruce isn’t even fluent in under his breath as he pads through the kitchen and out the door leading to the study.
Bruce looks over at Dick and frowns, taking the fork out of the poor boy’s hand before he leaves.
“What is this about?” Damian questions him as soon as he walks in and shuts the door, curled up in one of the leather armchairs, clutching his coffee possessively. “It’s a weekend so I know it’s not business and you usually allow me at least breakfast before starting in on the mission. So what is so important that -”
“You are too old to be walking around the house in your underwear.” He grits his teeth. “Especially when we have guests.”
“Guests? We don’t have guests. Are you referring to Grayson? He practically lives here. I mean, when was the last time he slept at his own place?”
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. That’s even worse.
“What,” Damian snaps. “are you making that loathsome face for? It’s my house, I’ll dress how I want to.”
“It’s my house,” Bruce corrects him because he's on edge and when he's on edge he acts like a dick. He accepts that. “And you can’t walk around like that around...Dick. Not anymore.”
Damian narrows his eyes. “Why.”
Bruce groans inwardly. Of course. Of course he’d make this more difficult than it has to be. He’s Damian. If he didn’t make something more difficult than it had to be, Bruce would probably have to check his DNA, make sure he hadn’t been body snatched. “Because,” he says slowly, dreading the next part maybe more than anything he’s ever dreaded in life, including every single time he has ever had to interact with Oliver Queen. “You’ve grown up, Damian. You’re a…” Bruce coughs, the air suddenly overly stuffy and dry. If he were a lucky man he would just choke to death and save himself this misery. “A, well, a handsome young man and --”
“Oh god,” Damian whispers. “This is appalling. Cease. Cease speaking right now. Please.”
“Ohthankgod,” Bruce mutters, then clears his throat, straightening in his chair. “I mean. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
A truly, honest to god, terrifying grin spreads out across Damian’s face. It’s the thing of nightmares. It's the kind of look that’s only ever driven Bruce to legitimately drink. “Grayson’s a pervert,” he says and takes a casual sip of his coffee, still grinning around the edge of it.
Bruce buries his face in his hands. This is not going how he'd meant it to go. “Just. Put on some damn pants, Damian.” He has to bite his own tongue to keep from saying please.
Damian slides his feet out from under him and stands up, eyes sparkling bright with bad intentions. It makes Bruce’s ulcer flare up. “I’ll consider it.”
Bruce groans and pages Alfred through the intercom.
“Yes, Master Bruce?”
“I’ll be taking my breakfast in the study, Alfred,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut and muttering, “for the rest of my damn life.”