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Damian rubs his chin in staring at himself in the hall mirror for a good five minutes, stroking his beard with an uncertain frown.
He's not sure why he decided to grow it but, as he runs his fingertips over those increasingly thick hairs and frowns, he mutters to himself and tells himself that maybe that idiot Todd, years ago, was right: with that stupid beard he looks like his grandfather in the best days of his youth. As he looks at his square, hair-covered jaw, his eyebrows forming a V toward his nasal arch, and his green eyes staring back at him through thinned eyelids and into the mirror, he can't tell if it's an insult or a compliment.
He knows that the Al Ghul genes have done their work and that the inherent beauty of his parents did the rest, but the more he looks in the mirror, the more he cannot help but think that he's simply aging. He has a small streak of white hair on either side of his head, frown lines marking his forehead and a little in the corners of his eyes, but all in all he does not have the premature aging that he feared for a few years even though his body bears the full weight of his years. He can lie to himself all he wants, but soon he will be fifty-eight and he's not as young as he used to be, the work on the farm is beginning to take its toll, and the aches and pains of so many years of vigilantism are now being felt all too much, between aching joints and broken bones as a young boy. The work at the clinic helps relax him, but the bruise he got from holding down a bernese dog who literally knocked him to the ground feels it all. And his right buttock feels it well, too. Yeah, he's not as young as he used to be.
Damian runs a hand through his hair and flicks it back, grumbling something at his reflected image before finally crossing the hallway to the kitchen. Thomas called him that morning to say that he'll be by to see them later this afternoon, and it's a shame the kids are in Metropolis with Amanda 'cause he hasn't seen his grandchildren in a while. Grandchildren... what a strange thing. If someone had told him that it would end like this, that he would really make it to that age and live a quiet life in the country, he would have laughed in his face and given him a big middle finger. Because, yes, Damian never thought he would have such a happy life.
It's bad to think of himself like this, but as a kid, he always believed that he would be like his father and end up pretending to love someone just to carry out a stupid undercover for his patrol nights. Then he matured, understood human and social relationships at least minimally, began to get attached to people who could breach his emotional wall... and eventually met Jon. As sentimental as it sounds, Jon really showed him what it means to be "normal" and taught him to trust and open up more to people. Years have passed, they've argued, fought, made up, faced good times and depression, but they still love each other like the first day and Damian didn't think it was really possible. It's romantic comedy stuff, warm feelings that he's only ever seen in the actions of a few people like the Kents, and experiencing things like that was never on his mind. No, he definitely didn't expect a beautiful life like that.
Damian smiles at the thought as he washes his hands, and shakes his head in reaching for the cupboard and grabbing the kettle. Pennyworth has instilled in him the nasty habit of the five o'clock tea, and he has been convinced for years that he makes it only to finish the stock of Earl Gray they have in the pantry and not to pay homage to the tradition of their dear butler, even though Jon knows all too well that that's the real reason. And it's humming with that thought in his head that he puts the water on to boil, his gaze lost in an indefinite spot as he waits and ponders with that vague smile painted on his lips. Life does indeed take strange paths.
He hears Jon's footsteps even though he's overthinking and Jon tries to be as quiet as possible, tilting his head to the side to allow him to rest his chin before he even gets close; he hears him grumbling, but the arms that encircle his waist are strong and warm and smell of ground, sunshine and threshed wheat, and the lips that brush against his neck are soft and fleshy.
«I knew I'd find you here,» Jon teases him, and Damian can't help but snort in amusement.
«If I'm becoming so obvious I need to change my ways,» he says in lifting a hand to Jon's head to thread fingers through his hair, feeling Jon rub against him. «I wouldn't want you to start getting bored.»
Jon laughs, a crystalline laughter that seems to flood the kitchen like a tide. «Damn, you found out my plan,» he feigns bewilderment, and Damian tugs at his hair strands a little before patting his nose.
«Idiot,» he apostrophizes, ignoring Jon's new amused laughter, who merely hugs him tighter.
Neither of them speaks for a while, enjoying that complicit silence made up of words that don't need to be spoken, of breaths against each other's skin and boiling water, until it is Jon himself who breaks that silence at the very moment Damian soaks the filters, grabbing him by the hips with both hands; Damian's sudden exclamation echoes through the kitchen and he finds himself sitting on the shelf behind without even knowing how, raising both eyebrows in lowering his gaze to Jon. He stares at him with those bright blue eyes through the lenses of his glasses - age has begun to take its toll on him as well, and now it's ironic that he wears them for real and not just pretend like he did as a kid -, and Damian is sure he sees a willing glow making its way into them.
«Do you realize that, if I'm sitting here, it's only 'cause I let you do it, right?» Damian says to keep the point - he will never admit that despite being well placed, Jon is physically stronger than he is -, and the smile on Jon's lips widens to a wide grin.
«Don't worry, I knew that.»
Damian snaps his tongue under his palate. He senses the irony Jon has imprinted in those words, but for once he decides to let it go, even as he reaches out the prostethic to rest the foot on Jon's chest. «Do you remember who you're dealing with?»
«With my handsome bearded husband,» Jon retorts without abandoning the amusement in his voice, but Damian snorts and rolls his eyes.
«Say goodbye to it, 'cause I think I'll cut it off. It ages me.»
«No.» Jon kisses his lips devotedly, and Damian tastes chapstick before that mouth moves to his chin, caressing the hairs with his tongue. A strange shiver runs down his spine, but he tries to ignore it. «It doesn't age you at all. You've just gotten better looking.»
«From the way you say it, it sounds like I was ugly before,» Damian ironizes, and Jon's booming laughter is a joy to his ears and a jolt to his body as it vibrates against his skin through his chin.
«Not at all. Now you're my silver fox.»
«I don't think that can be applies to men, and I don't have all this white hair.»
«My soft-bearded daddy-o.»
«Jonathan...»
«A dilf--»
«...I'll really cut your tongue out this time!»
Upon seeing the dangerous gleam in Damian's eyes, Jon pulls away and begins to run away without a second thought, laughing in amusement as Damian threatens him with mock angry agency. And when hours later Tommy, using his own key, enters the house drenched from head to toe and heads for all the commotion he hears, he isn't surprised at all to see his parents chasing each other around the kitchen.