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When Damian wakes up, it’s in stages. First it’s the faint beeping that sounds like its coming from miles away, and his ragged breathing. Then it’s the dull throbbing originating from the left of his abdomen, spreading like ripples throughout his entire body. He winces and hears a familiar voice. “Damian?” It echoes strangely in his head, like dripping water in an empty cave. There’s soft pressure on his arm. “Breathe.”
Then he opens his eyes, and it’s the dim fluorescent lighting belonging to the medical wing of the Batcave, and Jon’s familiar features that look concerned, definitely, but strangely blank. Damian stares deep into his eyes, reassuring himself that they are, in fact, real, before letting his eyes drift. Jon’s half-sitting, half-lying on his side on a plush armchair taken from the manor’s living room, and judging by the indent made in the cushion he’s been in the same chair for several hours. There’s a plate of half-eaten food on the floor by the chair, and drag marks from where Jon had scooted the chair closer to the bed. His hair is messy from combing his fingers through it (stress, his mind supplies. he was worried about you.), face paler than usual, and Damian’s heart stutters when he realises that Jon is swamped in that oversized Robin sweater he’d got him as a gag gift for his birthday last year. Jon’s hand is resting in Damian’s comfortably, other one holding a book open with the cot as a table. (been here for some time, worried but not enough to neglect his schoolwork, knew he’d be fine but stayed anyway—)
Damian looks back up to Jon, who turns his eyes to his book and grits his jaw silently. This is the first thing that makes Damian still warily, because the book Jon’s reading is Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring, a book he’s already read twice over from his classes at school, and had threatened to burn on more than one occasion due to all the elaborate language. That, and the fact that Jon is eerily quiet as he flips a page, sends warning bells ringing loudly in his head.
Damian hesitates for a moment before clearing his throat. “Jon…?”
Jon shuts the book firmly and gets up, pretending not to notice the slight stagger that happens when he stands for the first time in the past seven hours. “Tea?” Jon asks coolly, and Damian doesn’t answer. He doesn’t, but Jon pours some for him anyway, dropping two sugar cubes into the drink. Scalding tea splashes onto the younger boy’s arm, but Jon doesn’t react.
Jon always lets down his invulnerability around Damian.
“Jon—“
“Don’t.” Jon says coldly as he sets Damian’s saucer down on the bedside table and settles himself back into the chair. Damian doesn’t reach for his, sitting up carefully and twisting his fingers in the sheets. Jon was mad at him, and he knew exactly why. He also knew he wouldn’t have done a single thing different if he could.
(There’s explosions left and right, and it looks a little like the world’s on fire. Damian hacks messily through robots, sparks fizzing and blasters dying down as their metal innards spill out of their body. His form gets sloppier as time wears on, face twisted in frustration as more of the stupid robots appear for every one he cuts down. It’s not like they’re particularly hard to take down, just a bunch of parts screwed together to make a functional fighting machine, but fuck if there weren’t enough of them to keep the heroes suitably occupied. Kon-El falls to his knees, wheezing breaths coughing out green gas, and Red Robin shouts.)
“You know why I’m mad.”
Damian nods jerkily and doesn’t look at Jon.
“I had to find out you got hurt on a mission from Dick. I had to find out from Dick, Dames,” Jon sets the saucer down and combs a hand through his hair angrily. “Do you have any idea what its like? Getting a call from your boyfriend’s brother to tell you that he’s lying on a surgery table with a fucking hole in his stomach?”
“Jon—“
“No.” Jon snaps, eyes flaring red, and Damian shuts up.
“You kept me from finding out. You knew that most of the team was going to be on the mission, and you deliberately kept me from knowing.” Jon leans in close, furious expression on his face. “Why?”
Damian closes his eyes.
“It was dangerous.”
“And?”
“They had kryptonite.”
“And?” Jon snarls. “Goddammit, Damian, we’ve come up against people with kryptonite before, and we’ve beaten every single one of them, so why was this one any different—“
“I don’t know.” Damian says quietly, and Jon stops. He opens his eyes to meet his boyfriend’s and idly notices that sometime in his tirade, he had gotten out of the chair. He turns his hand to slip it into Jon’s. “I don’t know why I left you out of it.”
Jon blinks. “You’re lying.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
Damian sighs, suddenly feeling tired. “I suspect it was because of the newest development in our…relationship.” His forefinger and thumb circle Jon’s knuckles absentmindedly. Jon blinks again, and this time he looks confused. “You left me out of a mission because we started dating.”
“Yes. No, I mean—“ Damian exhales. “It’s complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it.”
The older boy snorts uncharacteristically. “That isn’t a word.”
“Shut up,” Jon says, but he looks calmer now so Damian continues.
“I believe this recent change of events led me to a bit of a,” Damian searched his mind for the word, “revelation.” He lets his eyes drift to observe their clasped hands. “I don’t like it when you get hurt.”
When Jon speaks, he can hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. “Well, I hope it’s not only my dating you that’s made you realise that.”
“No, I—“ he makes a frustrated noise and drops Jon’s hand. “I mean, I don’t—“
Jon tugs at his finger gently. “Hey, I get it. Don’t sprain yourself.”
Damian chooses to ignore the comment in favour of lifting Jon’s hand to his face, running a thumb over a silver scar. “I can’t live without you,” he murmurs and looks up at the younger boy. Jon swallows.
“You can’t just—“ Jon cuts himself off, dragging his hand away to run agitatedly it through his already messy hair. “That’s not an excuse, Dames. We're heroes. It's all part of the job, right off the bat. You know that." Damian just nods, because he knows it’s not an excuse. If their positions were reversed, he's pretty sure he's be reacting the same. He knows, but it doesn’t make it any less true.
“You can’t—“ Jon closes his eyes and the fight seems to go out of him, dropping into the chair. “You can’t do that, Damian,” he whispers, and Damian chest aches from the hurt in his voice. “We’re partners, and I’m not just talking about when we’re at home, I’m talking about in the field, and—“ Jon lays his head down on the mattress and Damian lifts a heavy arm to run his fingers through Jon’s messy hair. “—you have to stop leaving me out of things just because you’re afraid I’ll get hurt.”
Damian makes a soft noise at the back of his throat. “I know.”
“And you really have to stop thinking you’re untouchable, Dames, ‘cause you’re not.”
“I know,” Damian says softly, throat hoarse.
“No,” Jon says, turning his head to nuzzle Damian’s palm, “no, I don’t think you do.”
Damian pats the space beside him on the cot and Jon climbs up without hesitation, manoeuvring carefully so as no to disturb any of his wounds. Jon settles himself, arm wrapped lightly around Damian’s waist and ear pressed to his chest, finding comfort in the steady thrum of Damian’s heartbeat.
“I’m actually invulnerable,” Jon says, tracing figure eights over his shirt. “You do remember that, right?”
The older teen makes an acknowledging sound.
“And you know that it was a really shitty thing to do to me, right?”
Damian grumbles.
“And,” Jon props himself up on an elbow to look down at him, “you are not going to pull this sort of thing on me ever again. Am I clear?”
“Yes, dear.”
He gets a tug on his hair in retaliation. “Clear? Because I swear to god, Dames, if I get another call like that from someone who’s not you, I’ll kick you from here to Metropolis.”
Damian huffs. “Yes, Jonathan.”
“Good,” is all he needs to hear before he knocks Jon elbow out from under him and the younger boy lands back on the mattress with an oof. He wraps an arm over the other contentedly, swinging a leg over Jon’s.
Jon sniffs and curls closer into Damian’s warmth. “I hate you.”
Damian hums. “Happy to hear it.”