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Everything hurts.
That’s the first thing Jason thinks when he wakes up. Everything hurts, and he has to stop trying to outdrink Artemis. Everytime he tries, he ends up in the same; violently hungover in the spare room of the manor, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
The manor is the best place to be hungover. There’s an endless supply of food and the beds are ridiculously soft; the best money can buy, literally. Not to mention that if Jason asks nicely enough, Alfred will make him a late breakfast. Oh yeah. Jason definitely needs something to eat, his stomach is upsettingly empty right now.
Once the room has stopped spinning, and Jason accepts that this headache isn’t going to shift without pain medication and coffee, Jason sits up. He squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the bedsheets the moment he does, nausea washing over him. He’s never drinking again (if he was in a better state, he’d laugh at his own joke). He rubs his eyes and stands up, groaning as self-pity drips off his like sweat on a summer’s day.
His descent downstairs is slow as he clings to the banister, preferring to get to the kitchen slowly than take a shortcut, aka, fall down the stairs. He reaches the bottom uninjured. After slipping the slippers that Dick left by the door (they’re stupidly expensive, yet stupdily soft, and it isn’t Jason’s money anyway), he shuffles into the kitchen.
The sun is obnoxiously bright through the kitchen blinds, causing Jason to hiss and cover his eyes. “Stupid morning,” he mumbles to himself, opening the fridge. He takes a bottle of water and immediately downs half of it, not having realised just how thirsty he is. He shuts the fridge and turns, only to jump so hard he nearly drops his water.
“Do you know it’s impolite to sneak up on people?”
Damian’s sat on the kitchen table, looking unamused as ever. “Technically, you snuck up on me. I was here first.”
Jason waves his hand dismissively. “Whatever.” He’s two steps out of the kitchen when he realises. “Hey,” he walks back in the kitchen, “it’s Monday.”
“Well done,” Damian says flatly, “would you like a reward?”
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Jason folds his arms over his chest, only to unfold them. Despite wearing his slippers, he doesn’t want to start acting like Dick. “Not that I care, obviously.”
“I don’t see how that’s your business.”
Wow. Jason should be the one giving Damian a reward, his manners are immaculate. He waits a couple of seconds, but when Damian doesn’t say anything else, instead fiddling with something hidden behind his propped up leg, Jason gives in. “So?”
Damian doesn’t even look at him. “So what?”
“So why aren’t you in school?” Jason makes his way over to the table. Damian’s in school uniform, so an inset day is ruled out. It’s then that he realises that what’s being hidden behind Damian’s leg is the first aid box. He furrows his brows. “What happened?”
“Nothing that concerns you.” Despite this, Damian pulls his trouser leg up to reveal a rather nasty cut. It’s not bleeding but is definitely fresh, given the dried blood around it. There’s also small rocks stuck in there, telling Jason that this happened outside the manor; probably at school.
“As the only present adult right now, I believe it does.” Jason takes the antiseptic wipes out of Damian’s hands, “So spill it, kid.”
“Don’t call me that.” If looks could kill, Jason would be dead (ha, jokes on Damian, Talia would just put him in the pit again). “Go nurse your hangover. I can look after myself.”
“I beg to differ.” Jason puts his water to one side and takes a wipe out, only for Damian to try and grab it. Of course, Jason dodges him.
Damian crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re incredibly annoying, do you know that?”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Jason pushes the leg of Damian’s trousers up further. This is the last thing he wants to be doing right now.
“... It’s embarrassing.”
Jason looks at Damian, only to see that he’s now looking away from him. “Last night I tried fighting someone who walked into me. Tried fighting him for two minutes, only for it to turn out that the ‘guy’ was a statue, and I’d walked into him.”
Damian doesn’t say a word. Not even a smile. Damn. Tough crowd.
And then, he lets out a sigh. “Some imbecile at school ran into me and I tripped down the last few steps of the stairs.” A few more moments of silence, and then, “I wanted to fight him, but I knew Father wouldn’t approve. I didn’t want to go to the nurse, because she’d make a fuss and that’s even more embarrassing. So I came home before registration, and once I’m patched up, I’ll go in and pretend I was just late.”
Mmh. Not the worst plan. However, “You know they’re gonna ring Bruce to ask where you are, right?”
“They would, if I hadn’t put my own phone number down,” Damian replies, finally looking at Jason again.
Jason shakes his head. Damian is clever, he’ll give him that. “This might sting,” he warns, before carefully running the wipe of Damian’s wound. He inhales sharply, but otherwise, doesn’t react. Jason cleans it until he’s satisfied with it. He discards the wipe in the bin and shuffles back over to the table, gets a plaster, and is about to apply it when Damian’s phone starts ringing.
Incoming call: School
Before Damian has a chance, Jason answers the phone. “Hello, this is Bruce Wayne,” he says in his best, prestigious Bruce voice.
“Hello Mr Wayne,” answers the receptionist, “we’ve noticed Damian hasn’t come to school today. Will he be in later?”
Jason’s about to say yes, when he realises: 1) Damian probably can’t walk properly on his leg without pain (pain tolerance training be damned; it’ll still hurt like a bitch), and 2) Damian will have to get to school by Jason driving him - he is way too hungover for that - or he’ll try and hot wire one of Bruce’s cars, and Jason will get shit for that. “No. He’s not well,” he almost breaks character at the horrified look on Damian’s face, and steps away so he can’t take the phone from him, “he needs rest today. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Okay. I hope he feels better soon. Thank you, Mr Wayne.”
Jason hangs up. “Quit giving me the evils,” he tells Damian, handing him his phone back, “any other kid would love a day off.”
“They’re stupid,” Damian replies with a huff. “Father pays a lot of money for me to attend that school. I don’t want to be off when I am perfectly capable of attending.”
Jason hums. “Okay. Fine. Do me a favour; walk the length of the kitchen.”
Damian carefully gets down from the table. As instructed, he walks the length of the kitchen and back. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed, but Jason was brought up by Bruce Wayne. Nothing gets past him (except, maybe, when he’s trying to fight a statue). He notices the small inahles of breath whenever pressure is placed on Damian’s injured leg; how his thumb rubs against his index finger every now and again, and mostly importantly, the very slight, but noticeable limp.
“Yeah, nice try,” Jason tells him. “You’re staying off.”
Damian’s hands curl into fists. “But I’m fine,” he insists, teeth glaring. “Besides, what do you care? It’s not as if you like me much anyway.”
Jason blinks. What? He might not be running around telling everyone how much they mean to him, and sure it’s taken him some time to warm up to Damian, but he doesn’t know where Damian’s got this impression from. Jason’s spending his hangover looking after him instead of trying to persuade Alfred to cook him breakfast, does that not speak for itself? “What?” It’s present for a moment, if that, but Jason catches the hurt and embarrassment that flashes across Damian’s face. It’s times like these that Jason realises that despite being the son of a vigilante and product of The League, Damian’s still just a kid. “Of course I like you.”
Damian scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Whatever.” He begins walking away, and whether it be too painful to pretend or no longer needing to, his limp worsens.
Against Jason’s better judgement, especially given Damian’s talent of pulling knives out of thin air, Jason finds himself walking over to him and picking him up.
Damian immediately pushes him away, “Put me down now!” He insists.
“You’re in pain,” Jason says matter-of-factly. He’s really too hungover to argue anymore. “You’re also as light as a feather. So no, I won’t.” He carries Damian over to the table in order to get the first aid kit. “Besides, I suspect after me, you’re Alfred’s favourite. He can’t say no to making me a late breakfast if his two favourites ask.”
Damian, seemingly somewhat accepting that Jason’s not going to put him down any time soon, huffs. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re injured. Quite a pair we make, don’t ya think?” With that, Jason puts the first aid kit away and starts down the hallway. “Plus, I’ll sneak you some coffee when Alfred isn’t looking.”
Damian purses his lips. “Fine. But I like mine without sugar.”
“No sugar it is.”
They continue looking for Alfred, Jason keeping Damian on his side, talking him through the plan. By the time they’re closing in on Alfred, Damian’s head is resting against Jason’s shoulder. If asked, he’d insist that he must’ve hit his head when he fell. Jason knows better, of course, and where Damian’s shirt has raised up on his back, he rubs the pad of his thumb in little circles.
The two might not be the closest, but who knows, maybe that’ll change.