Chapter Text
Gotham was not a happy place. Damian had known this since he had seen pictures of the city as a child, still under his mother’s thumb.
It was a place of debauchery, grief, and violence. Where gunshots were more common than bird tweets and maniacal laughter could be heard echoing through the hollowed-out buildings at least twice a week. If they were lucky.
Yes, Gotham was, all in all, a horrendous city that Damian, on his particularly angry days, considered burning to the ground himself. He knew several people who would happily assist him in the endeavor.
But, he had to admit, snow made it look less ugly.
“It’s hasn’t snowed this much in years,” he breathed, staring with awe and confusion out the window. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, but I’m freezing,” Jon shuddered. “Just our luck to get caught in a blizzard in the middle of patrol.”
“Oh, calm down. It’s a light snowfall, hardly a blizzard.”
Jon glanced sideways at him. They were in the main house now, fresh off patrol and out of their suits, which meant he could stare in his “amused boyfriend” way and not in his “thoughtful crime-fighting partner” way.
“Okay, you’re not theorizing about what Mr. Freeze could be up to. Or wondering what this “unusual weather pattern is harbinging.” What’s going on?”
When Damian didn’t respond, he crept up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and hooking his chin over Damian’s right shoulder. “C’mon, babe. Talk to me.”
“What did I say about the word babe?”
“That it was a horrendous moniker and brought to mind the movie with the pig,” Jon quoted. “Why do you think I said it? I’m trying to annoy you.”
“Mission failed spectacularly,” Damian declared.
“Seriously. What’s up?”
“I like snow,” he shrugged. “I’d never seen it before coming to Gotham. And that first winter here… it was one of the first times I felt truly happy, just walking in the fresh snow.”
“That’s really nice,” Jon said quietly, smiling at him. “Merry Christmas.”
“It is December first.”
“And I started celebrating on Thanksgiving.”
“One of the many reasons I question my affection for you on the daily,” he smirked, flashing a look at Jon over his shoulder.
Jon clutched at his chest, apparently mortally wounded. “And how can I make up for this severe lapse in judgment?”
Damian twisted around in Jon’s arms until they were face-to-face and whispered, “I can think of a few ways.”
He couldn’t stop smiling, even after Jon kissed him.
***
Damian still couldn’t quite believe that Jon Kent was his boyfriend.
When they had made things official last summer, he had been terrified for months. Terrified of ruining this fragile, new thing somehow, that at any moment Jon would snap awake from whatever kryptonite-induced trance he’d been stuck in and realize Damian was nothing like he’d imagined.
It never happened, surprisingly. The only thing left of the kryptonite were the pale red scars all down his arms and torso where the chains had been wrapped, never healing all the way.
Damian had cried the first time he saw them.
When Jon hadn’t run for the hills after seeing that, Damian figured they were probably okay.
But even now, as they lie on his bed, just breathing in each other’s arms, he can’t quite believe it. That he deserves this peace, that he ever found it in the first place.
“I like the nail polish,” Jon comments, humming appreciatively as he strokes Damian’s hand. “When’d you put that on?”
“Lizzie tag-teamed with Brown the last time she was here,” he grumbles. “Unfortunately, I quite liked it, though I had Steph put black on instead of pink.”
“Any chance she has photos of the pink?”
“No chance, Kent.”
“Awww, not even for Christmas?” He pouts. Damian feels his resolve weaken.
Resolve, his ass; who is he kidding? Around Jon Kent, his resolve may as well be Silly Putty. Still, he pinches the back of Jon’s neck and replies, “No.”
He makes a discontented hum, but if the way he starts to kiss Damian’s neck is any indicator, he’s feeling just fine.
“No marks,” Damian reminds him- not that he needs to. That was how Dick had found out, after all.
Being new to physical intimacy, Damian hadn’t exactly known what hickeys were, and he had still been working up the courage to tell Dick about he and Jon’s relationship. He had assumed he had somehow gotten the bruises from training.
Unfortunately for Damian’s carefully planned speech, Dick had yelped when he saw the mark on Damian’s neck (dramatic bastard that he was), and all his planning went out the window.
Dick had been thrilled- of course he had. But he had also apparently never learned to keep his mouth shut, as he attracted the attention (and merciless torment) of a nearby Jason, who Damian had to bribe with a week in the Bahamas with Roy to shut up about it and not mock him for the rest of eternity.
Ah, sibling love.
Jason, of course, had already known, and when Damian was surprised, he only took a drag of his cigarette and replied, “The kid’s been looking at you with heart eyes since you two were fourteen, and you’ve had your tounge hanging out of your mouth for months now. You idiots aren’t subtle one fucking bit.”
He’d left Damian in stunned silence for a moment while he stubbed the butt out on the arm of Bruce’s office chair and added, “Congratulations on the gay awakening. Use protection.”
He’d left the office without another word. In retrospect, Damian wasn’t sure why he’d been surprised.
The rest of the family had gone significantly better- both Steph and Cass had given him hugs, which was only minorly uncomfortable. Bruce and Pennyworth had had their suspicions, of course, but they’d thanked Damian for telling them and assured him it didn’t change anything.
It was a relief, all things considered. Just to get the assurance that everything was largely the same.
Well. The same, and much, much better.
Speaking of which…
Jon had ceased his loving attack on Damian’s neck and had thrown the covers over them, shivering as he huddled closer to him in the blanket cave he’d created.
“How are you this cold?” He scoffed.
“How are you not?”
“I knew how to regulate my body temperatures by the time I was seven. And my uniform is heated. It is not my fault you wear paper-thin Spandex.”
“You said I couldn’t wear my sweatshirt!”
“A sweatshirt is not a uniform!”
“I am the great and mighty Robin,” Jon intoned in a deep voice. Damian rolled his eyes- this joke had never been funny, but Jon nearly killed himself over it every time. “I never wear sweatshirts, and I can kill you with a spoon in forty-five ways.”
“Lies. It is only thirty-two.”
Jon stared at him for a moment, as if expecting Damian to smile and say it was a joke. He didn’t.
“You’re such a weirdo,” he whispered, but his eyes were so soft and loving that Damian almost couldn’t look at him. Instead, he buried his face in Jon’s collarbone.
This was his favorite place to be. The covers hiding them from the world, Jon’s arms wrapped securely around him.
It was one of the only places he felt truly safe anymore.
The first few months after the attack were the worst. He was constantly looking over his shoulder, misconstruing stranger’s glances as assassin’s knives. He hyper-analyzed every weak point in his armor, jumping at shadows when he was allowed back on patrol.
He didn’t like staying home, because it made him a sitting duck. But going out in public was a death sentence. Being asleep was an endless nightmare, and Jon had come flying to Gotham many a night after hearing Damian scream in his sleep. He’d lost count of how many times he awoke to Jon and several of his siblings shaking him awake.
Finally, it came to a head in August, when Damian had a complete mental breakdown after smelling Steph’s essential oils. All he could think about was the cold liquids poured over him during the ritual, the waxy smell of the holy oils.
When he’d come to, his arms were bleeding- he’d scratched them to shreds.
And finally, Bruce had decided enough was enough.
The office had been sterile and cold as they had told the doctors just enough to keep their identities safe- that Damian had been kidnapped by assassins and was suffering daily flashbacks.
And the little orange pill bottles now lining Damian’s sink- antidepressants, anxiety medications, and prescribed sleeping pills for the bad nights- were slowly but surely pushing the darkness in his head farther and farther away.
Steph had thrown out all of her oils, but Damian had gotten her a new set for her birthday a month ago, promising her that he was okay- and he was.
She had still promised to trash them again if they bothered him, but he could tell she was still glad to have her peppermint and lavender diffuser back.
And now, a month before Christmas, he was here. He still felt jumpy, still sat in dark corners sometimes, trying to control his breathing. But someone always found him- usually Bruce, or sometimes Pennyworth, and the latter always shoved a cup of tea into his hands, which helped more than he’d anticipated.
He wasn’t alone anymore. And he was slowly but surely getting used to the idea. Even after almost seven years since that fateful night of his arrival, it was still hard to believe sometimes.
“Hey,” Jon said, nudging him out of his musings. “You good?”
“I am fine,” Damian promised. “And you?”
“I’m fine.”
Jon had taken the capture much harder than he ever let on. His nightmares didn’t last long, but Damian knew that the fear of losing powers still rattled him to his core.
They still weren’t back. Not fully. There were days that they didn’t work whatsoever, and some, like his ice breath and accelerated healing, hadn’t come back since April.
The only permanent thing left of the encounter were the scars, and Jon had taken to rubbing the ones lining his arms when he got anxious. Damian usually took his hand in those moments, rubbing his thumb along Jon’s palm.
Slowly, but surely, they were healing. And as serene as the last few months had been, Damian couldn’t help but think it was all too good to be true, somehow. Like at any moment, it would all collapse around them.
After what seemed like only five seconds, Jon quietly kissed Damian’s forehead and said, “I’ve gotta go. Mom doesn’t want me to miss dinner.”
Damian wanted to protest- he’d always liked Jon’s attention, but these days it was a necessity. Keeping his boyfriend at his side was a must, but it wasn’t as if he was the only person in Jon’s life, so he only nodded and pulled him in for one last kiss.
After one kiss melted into two, three, and then Damian losing count for a while, Jon finally pulled away, slipped off the bed, and opened the window.
“Merry Christmas!” He called, making Damian scowl and Jon snicker before he launched out the window, into the sky.
Damian took a deep breath and lay back against the pillows. There was a faint buzzing in his ear.
The otherwise total quiet was nice, though. Peaceful. Just what he needed after-
The door burst open with a loud thud, which absolutely did not make Damian yelp with surprise and fall off his bed.
“Out of bed,” Jason announced. Damian glared at him, but he only continued talking. “Dickie’s got news.”