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Nights like these, you think, might just make it all worth it. Your shoulder aches - an old injury jerked back into your consciousness by a rough patrol, throbbing and reminding you of what is and what could've been.
Your fingers still tingle a bit from being out in the cold, the long hours on rooftops and in alleyways freezing you down to your core until your hands throbbed and your tongue felt heavy in your mouth.
But Damian's leg bumps against yours on the couch, and you think that maybe it's alright. The blanket that's been thrown over the two of you is warm and worn, years of love turning it into something known only by the two of you. The old radio in your kitchen plays Christmas music, and it sort of wafts through to your living room in low, mellow tones.
"What are you thinking about, my love?" Damian's voice has you blinking, shaking you out of whatever daze you'd been in.
"Do you think we're doing this right?" you ask plainly, and he cocks his head to the side.
"You know," you gesture around. "This. Christmas, I guess."
"Oh," he says slowly, looking around like he's cataloguing the home that he's built. There's no Christmas tree, no armfuls of decorations strewn around, nothing big or grand or… anything.
But there are little white lights strung up in the windows. The Christmas music from the kitchen statics and crackles and then holds steady. There's a plate on the coffee table, empty other than whatever crumbles are left from the gingerbread cookies that had been there.
"Should we have done it differently?" Damian muses, and you wonder, at his little frown, if you should've even brought it up at all.
"I don't know," you say sheepishly. "Should we have gotten a tree?"
"Or… wrapped gifts?" he adds.
"Or… bought gifts at all," you counter. He pauses, his lips pressed together thoughtfully.
"We should've, shouldn't we," Damian agrees, sheepish in a way that he isn't normally.
"People usually do," you say quietly, something unsure settling in your gut. You wonder, sort of achingly, if you'll ever be able to do this right - or if you'll always be just sort of off balance, sort of wrong, sort of stumbling.
You wonder what a holiday like this is doing, trying to make a home in a thing like you.
"Hey," Damian nudges your leg with his foot under the blanket, ripping you out of whatever spiral you'd begun down.
"Hey," you say softly. "Sorry."
"You're alright," he murmurs, and the knowing little tilt to his voice has you sniffing and turning your head to look out the window instead of at him. You think maybe that, if you don't look at him, he won't be able to pry your chest open and look at your heart anymore.
You're wrong, you know, but you look away, anyhow.
"Are you enjoying yourself tonight?" he asks quietly, and that's all it takes for you to crumble - it's all it takes for you to turn back to him, earnest and loving in a way that you're not sure either of you have earned.
"Of course I am," you murmur. "This is nice, isn't it? Are… are you having a good time?"
"Of course I am," he echoes, and something in you softens even further, melting amidst the cold outside.
"Do you think maybe… that's all we need?" you prompt gently, hesitant and unsteady.
But Damian never lets you struggle for long, and his hand reaches out to rest on your thigh, palm up - an invitation that you take greedily, tangling your fingers with his.
"I think maybe it is," he muses quietly. "I don't know. Who's to say we're doing it wrong just because we're not doing it the way the others are?"
"I don't know," you say quietly. "Sometimes, I… I just feel like it's all wrong. Don't you?"
"I do," he admits gently, smoothing some of the hair out of your face with a gentle hand.
"What do you do to fix that?" you ask, and he smiles at you like he's finally found something holy.
"I come to you," he says immediately, a surety in his voice that rocks you a bit.
"And that… helps?"
"Of course it does, beloved," he insists, tugging the blanket out of the way so that he can gather you into his arms, pulling you gently into his lap and pressing his nose to your cheek. "Of course it does."
"So… you don't think we need a Christmas tree?" you say slowly, and then a short little giggle is heard as he pinches your side gently.
"No, I don't," Damian says easily. "I just think we need… this. Don't you?"
"This is pretty nice," you agree softly, leaning your head onto his shoulder, warm and sturdy underneath you. He tightens his arms around you just a bit, and the little white lights strung up in the windows pinprick his skin with endless little dots of light.
You think, as you tuck yourself closer to him, how right it is for him to be bathed in light.
You think that - just maybe, it's alright for you to catch some of it in your own palms, as well.
"I think people have been telling us how to do things for a long time," Damian says thoughtfully, and you lift your head slightly to look at him.
"Yea?" you prompt gently.
"You know they have," he counters softly.
"Yea, I guess I do."
"So," he continues, slow and thoughtful in an unhurried sort of way. "Maybe now, it's just that… no one's telling us how to do this."
"What if we can't figure it out on our own?" you ask.
"It's a Christmas tree, it can't be that hard."
"You know that's not what I mean," you say, your words jumbled by a surprised sort of laugh. "What if… I don't know. What if that was all we're good for?"
"It wasn't," Damian says, firm and unwavering in a way that he isn't often with you.
"How do you know?" you press anyway, and he cups the back of your head in his hand to pull you forward gently and place a kiss to your forehead.
"Because I've seen you," he murmurs against your skin. "Doing the things that you like and saying the things that you want, and…"
He pulls back, then, just enough to cup your cheeks in his palms.
"I've watched you become yourself, my love," he murmurs sweetly, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles into your skin. "All on your own."
"Oh," you breathe out, because you think that any other words would fall flat in the wake of such a confession. "Well."
"And if you really want some Christmas, we'll go stay with Father for a few days," Damian tacks on. "The tree he got is so big I don't know how they fit it through the front door."
That cracks the weight in the room, just a bit, and you stifle a laugh against Damian's shoulder as you duck forward again.
"Good deal," you murmur against his skin, and his arms find their way around your waist again to squeeze you closer.
"You know what," you continue, and he hums against you. "This is a pretty good Christmas present. Just this, you know."
"Yes," he agrees softly, rocking the two of you side to side gently as the music from the kitchen gives him a slanted sort of tempo to follow. "I think this is the best gift we could've had."