Work Text:
Dick had said Damian was a bit post-surgery loopy, but it wasn’t until Jon enters Damian’s hospital room and Damian looks up and beams at him that Jon realizes just how loopy that meant.
Jon isn’t embarrassed to say he melts in response, smiling back. “Hi, Dami.”
“Blue,” Damian breathes, knotting his fingers in the sleeve of Jon’s flannel. His grip is strong, steady, and Jon feels his heart start to settle just a bit. His medical knowledge is admittedly limited, but using his x-ray vision to check on Damian’s spine—thing seems fine. He’s alive, he’s healing.
Damian is still scrutinizing Jon’s sleeve like there’s a secret resting in the stitching. Jon gently loosens Damian’s hold, lacing their fingers together. Jon brushes a kiss against Damian’s knuckles, smiling helplessly when he sees the blush dusting Damian’s cheeks. “Blue? What about it?”
“’s you, ” Damian says. His eyebrows furrow. “‘Can never match the color properly,” he mutters, quiet enough that it’s because of Jon’s enhanced hearing that he catches it all. Why is Damian trying to color match him?
“Were you gonna draw me?” Jon coos.
Damian scowls, and it’s so familiar, so reminiscent of the weeks before they knew Damian needed a reconstructive surgery that Jon’s heart aches at the sight. “ Painting,” Damian says, insistent, face still twisted like Jon had insulted each of his animals personally.
Jon decides to push his luck a little bit. “Painting me ?” He sets his free hand over his heart, flashing his best Kon-approved puppy-dog eyes. “You must really love me.”
He’s expecting Damian to scowl the question away or roll his eyes. He is not expecting for Damian’s mouth to dip into a frown, eyes flickering as his gaze drops to his blanket covered lap.
Jon squeezes their still linked hands. “Dames?” he prods, gently.
Damian’s shoulders curl. “I–yes.” His voice is so small. “Is that not…obvious?”
And Jon gapes for a moment. Because oh , he’s an idiot. “It’s so obvious,” he says earnestly (and he isn’t lying, you just have to know how to look ) and then, for good measure, “I’m just bein’ an idiot.”
Damian hums. “My idiot,” he says, peering up at Jon, and years of knowing Damian means Jon hears the question tucked behind those two words.
“Your idiot,” he affirms, beaming.
Damian’s smile is small, matching the way his eyes curve happily. A little bubble of peace curving around their shoulders, something few get to see and Jon hoards the sight with the greed of a dragon. But it doesn’t last–again. (Jon wants to punch the universe just a bit, if Damian has to be hurt he should at least get to feel nice for extended periods of time.)
Jon catches Damian murmur softly, but it’s a language he doesn’t know. He feels his eyes narrow; Damian tends to do that when he’s self-deprecating, because then Jon (theoretically) can’t call him out on it. As if.
“What was that?” Jon leans against the edge of the bed. He tilts his head, playing up the lost-confused-innocent look he perfected the third time he got caught hanging around Gotham as Superboy. “Can you say it again?”
Damian’s glare is almost petulant. Jon waits him out, brushing a thumb over Damian’s pulse. “You must be an idiot, to be with me,” he finally bites out, looking away the moment the words finish tumbling out of his mouth.
Jon swallows down the fury that sparks in his throat. He pulls in a breath he doesn’t technically need, and one more just to be sure. He’s been around Damian’s voice mimicking exercises enough to differentiate when Damian is repeating something. “Who said that to you?” He keeps his voice level through sheer force of fucking will. People think Damian’s abrasiveness means crap slides off of him instead of sticking to his nerves like thorns. If Damian internalized that it–it means he sees a scrap of logic in it.
Jon’s not gonna let that fly.
Watching for any sign of the touch not being welcome, Jon slides an arm around Damian’s shoulders, careful of the assortment of wires monitoring Damian’s vitals. He pulls his hand from Damian’s grip, laying his palm flat over Damian’s heart.
He leans forward until he can nuzzle at Damian’s temple. It puts him at the perfect height to whisper, “I love you.” And his hold on Damian means the easiest way for Damian to not -hide is to turn inward, to hide his face in the crook of Jon’s shoulder, because Jon is a Richard Grayson approved mastermind™ when it comes to coaxing Damian into cuddling. Jon doesn’t need super hearing to catch the hitch in Damian’s breath.
Jon smiles against Damian’s hair, still carrying the faint scent of Jon’s shampoo which he will never admit to stealing. “I love you,” Jon says, and for good measure he taps it out in code over Damian’s heart. He’s so, so far from done. “I love you,” he murmurs in Kryptonese, the curl of syllables sweet on his tongue, and made even sweeter by the way Damian’s pulse jumps in recognition.
Then, because working with Bats is a good way to learn how to lunge for the metaphorical throat, Jon says, “if loving you makes me an idiot, then it’ll be my favorite title for the rest of ‘ever.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Damian grumbles against his throat.
“ You don’t make sense,” Jon returns happily.
Damian huffs, sinking further in Jon’s hold. He’s matching his breathing to Jon’s, headed towards the sleep Jon knows his body needs to keep healing. It’s not over. Oh–it’s so far from over. But Jon isn’t gonna stop Damian from sleeping. Especially not when he’s sleeping in Jon’s arms, because when Damian points out romance novels where a buff hero is cradling the heroine in his arms and comments ‘look, Hayseed, it’s you,’ he maybe, maybe has a point.
“I love you,” Jon says once more. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
For now, that’s enough.