ｔｈｅ　ｗｏｒｌｄ　ｉｓ　ｑｕｉｅｔ　ｈｅｒｅ．

title: but that was in another country
summary: "I'm not going to hurt him any more than you ever hurt me." (Jason isn't looking for redemption, but it finds him anyway, and isn't that how things always go?)
fandom: dcu/comics
characters/pairings: jason todd/damian wayne, dick grayson.
rating: nc-17.
warnings: underage/pederasty, violence/blood.
crossposted to: laughs.
a/n: weeps tbh. this isn't finished wow ｗａｙ　ｔｏ　ｓｔａｔｅ　ｔｈｅ　ｏｂｖｉｏｕｓ　ｍａｙ i made a joke about this plot happening and now im writing it seriously and that basically sums up my life reently.

The first time Jason does it, it’s on a lark.

Damian’s looking at him with fire behind his eyes, lethal weapons unneeded ‘cause the kid’s one in his own right, but that’s all par for the course. And Jason’s just so bored by it all, it seems like every other day death threats are being hurled at him by the pint-sized nightmare swathed in that red, yellow and black, and at this point it’s just become background noise.

(At least he’s not Tim. Tim gets the death threats every day.)

He’s smarter than Tim though, which isn't breaking news. Tim gives Damian the time of day, getting into petty little squabbles with a kid for whom double digits has just become an exciting new reality.

Heh, double digits. Good one, Todd.

Oh, yeah, getting off track. It’s just–it's the first time he does it, and he guesses maybe he should have, but hindsight’s 20/20 and he’s never had especially good eyesight as it is. Dick had suggested getting his eyes checked once and, well, he’d never suggested it again.

So, the kid.

Too big for his black tights by a long shot, it’s like he doesn’t even know he has to tilt his chin up to meet Jason’s eyes.

The fucking kid.

Jason goes, “You’re cute when you’re angry, huh?”

Damian still goes for the jugular, of course, he’s unflappable to the last, snarl fitting on his face like the expression was made for him to use.

But just because he does that, it doesn’t mean Jason miss the way the very tips of his ears turn pink, the way they usually only do when Dick or Bruce gives him some passing praise.

And that’s how it all starts, with the kid threatening to slice his neck open and Jason thinking, like, Interesting...

.

What happens is Jason doesn’t see any of them for another month or two. It’s not a conscious effort, it’s just that he has better things to do than to bask in some false sense of camaraderie that’s only extended to him as long as he stays within boundaries he didn’t personally set himself.

He will always care about some of them (some being the operative word), but that doesn’t mean they don’t annoy the shit out of him most of the time.

He heads to Qurac, and leaves there just as quickly.

Sometimes he thinks he should make a list of the places he’s wanted in–but, no, it would probably be easier to make a list of places he is allowed.

It doesn't take long for him to make his way into Syraq, where he does a little work and manages to stay about as undercover as he can, leaving only when he hears a certain archer's hanging around. (He shows a tremendous amount of self-control by not spray painting Fuck off, Roy on every available surface).

After that he goes to Turkey and doesn’t do anything, really, except watch bad porn in his hotel room that leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He ends up in Kasnia only because he’s never been, and it becomes really obvious why he hasn’t when, two hours after arriving, he gets shot at by some rebel faction, or whatever the hell. It’s possible he kills some people there, too, but how’s he supposed to remember every little thing he did? It just isn’t realistic.

Really, though, going halfway around the world isn’t made any less tiring just because you’ve done it time and time again.

Of course he ends up in a hotel bathroom in Coast City, applying hair dye at midnight, foregoing gloves and regretting it because now his hands are black and that’s so, like, symbolic and he fucking hates symbolism these days, it’s so fucking–

He’s on a flight to Gotham the next night.

.

The Batcave is: a. a pretty stupid name for a place, like, seriously, how do any of them manage to talk about it with a straight face and, b. probably the only place you can stumble into at four in the morning and find perfectly inhabited that isn’t a bar or a strip club.

(Well, it’s not a bar or a strip club strictly speaking, anyway.)

Bruce doesn’t even look at him, just goes, “Back so soon, Jason?”

“I was gone for a month and a half,” Jason replies, explicitly not (not) watching as the man strips down. Damian is on the other side of the room, practically a world away, cape shed but still adorned in everything else. Nice to know the cape is pretty much universally hated.

There never was a battle for the cape.

“A good vacation, then?” Bruce is asking, and they’re still both doing the thing where they don’t look at each other. Sometimes they have more in common than Jason would like to admit.

Jason considers the question and has to nod. “Yeah, in comparison to other attempts, this one went pretty well.”

“Good to know a low body count signifies relaxation for you, Todd,” Damian calls from where he’s kicking at air. “You should, however, consider getting better at covering your tracks. If someone wanted to follow you, and I’m sure there are people who do, they’d have an easy job of it.”

“If someone wanted to follow me, Damian,” Jason says, saying the kid’s name like a curseword, “they’d think twice because they’d know what I’m capable of, and who I am.”

Damian laughs at that, and his laugh has always grated on Jason’s nerves. It’s hardly genuine or borne of any real amusement. It’s a harsh sound, like a blade slicing through air.

“He likes you,” Bruce says, quietly, and Jason shrugs. So what. “You should probably consider being nice to people who like you.”

“Tell him that.”

“He’s a kid,” Bruce pauses and considers. “He has a lot to prove, he’s angry. And if you think it sounds like I’m describing you, then maybe that says something about yourself.”

“Gee, thanks, Dad.”

If things were different he imagines that Bruce might laugh at that, maybe even put a hand on his shoulder, but all he gets is a weak smile, and a reminder that salt on an open wound doesn’t hurt less just because you’ve felt it before.

Across the room Damian sneers at him.

It looks like a challenge.

.

(No one says anything about his hair.)

.

He goes to Blüdhaven and even he doesn’t know why. He’s pretty sure Dick only just manages to not kill him when he gets in at three AM and finds him lounging in the living room of his apartment, but it goes both ways.

“Funny how we’re all a little hellbent on getting each other killed,” Jason muses, tipping his head over the back of the couch.

Dick, leaned over and trying to find something edible in his freezer (there’s nothing, Jason ate the last frozen dinner before he got home), grins wryly.

“Well,” he says, “that’s family for you, isn’t it?”

Jason makes a face at that, but he makes faces at everything, and Dick just laughs, and reaches for the stack of take out menus he’s got shoved up against his toaster oven.

Leave it to Dick Grayson to have a toaster oven.

“How’s uh,” he waves around a hand, tracing a svelte silhouette in the air, “what’s her name?”

“Mm, what’s her name, that’s nice, that’s real good,” Dick nods at him over an open Chinese menu. “If you mean Barbara then she’s fine, and I know you know her name, so cut the I’m-so-distant act. As if we haven’t all noticed you spending more time in Gotham than out of it.”

“Can’t a guy try to make amends?” Jason asks, and he doesn’t have to look at Dick to know what expression he’s making.

Grayson du jour–it’s all about the heavy bouts of judgment, and Jason can’t even pretend like he doesn’t deserve it a little.

“Look, I’ll be on my way soon enough,” he says, hands on his knees and standing up, “I just thought I’d let the golden child know that I approve of what he's done with the demonspawn.”

“You came all the way out here to tell me that you think I trained Damian well?” Dick asks, sounding disbelieving. Turning, Jason sees he looks the same way, eyebrows furrowed. Not a good look for him. “Not buying it.”

“Well you don’t have to, I got it for you as a gift.” Dick groans at that, collapsing bonelessly over the counter.

“Out,” he says. “Out, out, out, Todd. I’m going to count to five and if you’re not gone–”

Jason slams the door behind him, but, if he’s being honest, he’s smiling just a little bit.

.

The next time he talks to Damian alone, he almost gets himself killed.

Nothing new under the sun and all that.

He's got himself halfway into the Batmobile, because, damn, it's changed since last saw the interior. All sleek and new and up-to-date. He'd expect nothing less, but it's interesting to actually see it, to put his hands on it and maybe press a few buttons.

It's muscle memory, when he feels a blade pressed between his shoulder blades, to kick backwards with bruising strength. He doesn't even look back to see who it was.

"You know, some people are going to start questioning your claim to being the spawn of Satan if you half-ass trying to attack someone like that." Jason runs his fingers over the dash, no dust. Nice to know not everything's changed. "If you really wanted to kill me you could have at least tried to go for a major artery."

"You're too tall," Damian spits at him.

Jason turns, shrugs a little. "Yeah, well, even Batgirl's got a good inch on you, and that's without heels, so it looks like that's just something you're going to have to get used to, kid."

Damian, from where's pushing himself up off the ground, makes a noise vaguely reminiscent of a feral animal.

"Sorry, I can tell that's a sore spot for you, it's just hard when everything's a sore spot for someone."

"You're one to talk," Damian says, words biting but more than a little refreshing. It's nice to have someone else around who insults without trepidation, words clear rather than under his breath.

(That's probably when he decides that he likes the kid, too.)

"Maybe I am," Jason admits, taking a few steps forward. Damian takes a few steps back, eyeing him suspiciously. Not a stupid move, altogether. "So what is the Boy Wonder doing down here out of uniform, on a school night, no less?"

"I don't go to school." Damian makes a face at the suggestion. "Not normal school anyway, I never have. Father thought it would be too big of an adjustment, too late in life."

"More like he was worried you'd slit someone's throat if they made fun of your haircut," Jason muses, watching Damian unconsciously run a hand from his temple to the back of his head. "It's probably for the best, though. He's right, as much as I don't like to admit it. You've got enough friends as it is, don't you, Damian?"

Damian crosses his arms over his chest, turns his nose up, and looks every inch the brat everyone says he is. "Certainly more than you ever had, Todd."

And Jason just smiles and walks toward him again, Damian backing up right into a wall.

"Considering the long list of mentors you've had, you aren't very good at minding your surroundings, are you?" Jason says, leaning over him, one hand flat on the wall behind him, and the kid looks so goddamn small like this.

"There are at least nineteen ways I could cause you intense bodily harm right here and now," Damian threatens, voice resolute as ever, "if I wanted to."

"So, you don't want to?" Jason asks and he's wondering, like, what if he touched Damian's face, right now. Not gently, but roughly, left a mark. He doesn't think Bruce would appreciate it very much. He'd have hell to pay if Dick found out. He might get a high five from Tim.

It's all very tempting.

"You're not worth the energy I'd have to exert," Damian says, after a moment. "And it's not like I'd even have to exert that much energy."

Jason laughs a little in disbelief, standing up straight again. The kid has balls, he'll give him that. He'd be remiss if he didn't.

"Fair enough," he shrugs, walking away.

"What did you even come here for?" Damian yells at his back.

And isn't that the question?

.

Bruce calls him, and Jason doesn't even bother to wonder how he got his (untraceable) cell number because, with Bruce, it's not so much a question of how as it is how much.

"There is surveillance in the Batcave, you know," Bruce says and Jason groans as he turns over in bed and looks at the clock.

10 AM.

What self-respecting human being is up at this ungodly hour?

"Yeah?" he replies, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. "So?"

"So either you got stupid while you were gone or you wanted me to see you tormenting Damian." There's a pause during which Jason holds his breath. Old habits die hard. "And since I'm not betting on the former, and not entirely fond of what the latter implies, I'm going to want your explanation of what the third option is here."

"You said he likes me, so I'm being nice to him the only way I know how." Maybe he should start a pot of coffee. Does he even have a coffee maker? "He's the one who tried to kill me and offered to maim me, but I'm not holding that against him. He's a kid. How'd that go? He has a lot to prove and he's angry, right?"

He can feel Bruce's disapproving stare from all the way across the city lines. God, he's fucking sick of it.

Bruce says, "Jason," in that way of his, the way that makes Jason feel like the scum of the earth and, hey, maybe he ought to, but–

"No, you know what, you've all had your turn." He's up and pacing now. "The kid's still a venom-spitting brat. He isn't going to let Tim near him, he considers Dick his friend for fuck's sake, and he's too busy holding you on some weird skewed pedestal to really listen to what you're saying. So it's my turn."

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," Bruce says, flatly.

"Understatement of the goddamn century. It's going to be a debacle."

There's a long-suffering sighs on the other end of the line, then, "Jason, if you hurt him there's no going back."

The You've done a lot worse and I shouldn't even be letting this happen goes unsaid. But the implication that where he is right now is somewhere worth coming back to might just be the best thing he's heard in years.

It's a little sad.

But only a little.

Jason says, "I'm not going to hurt him any more than you ever hurt me," and hangs up.

He might pay for it later, but at this point he figures it makes them even.

.

Damian sizes him up good when he shows up that first night, rattles off his weapons like a laundry list, like the show off he is, with Bruce in the background all dressed but for his mask.

"And if I'm not mistaken, which," Damian puffs out his chest and smiles smugly, "let's face it, I'm not, you've got another holster on your ankle with a .45."

"Wesson .357, but, hey, you tried," Jason wishes Damian could see his smile right now, because it's like a shark's, all teeth and terrifying.

"Father," and Damian says that word like it's holy, "what if he tries to shoot me?" He levels his gaze on Jason, eyes narrowed and suspicious. "Again."

"He's not going to shoot you, Damian," Bruce says, sounding almost bored. "Jason, tell Damian you aren't going to shoot him."

God, this is infuriating. If Jason wasn't so hellbent on proving he can do this, and better than anyone at that, he'd walk out right now.

Instead he sighs heavily and goes, "I'm not going to shoot you, Damian."

Thinks, Probably.

"He says he's not going to shoot me," Damian relays back to Bruce, like there's some chance he didn't hear. "I'm not sure if I believe him, but I guess I'll have to for now."

Across the room, Bruce meets Jason's eyes and shakes his head a little, like they're sharing some little secret.

Jason turns away, says, "Let's get going, it's late already," and feels Damian follow him more than he hears it.

He's never been a big fan of secrets.

.

A patrol night two weeks later and Jason's saying, "No," for about the thirtieth time. "No, Damian."

Because Damian's treating some low level robbers (seriously, ski masks are so silver age) like they're legitimate threats, and that, Jason has realized, is the bulk of Damian's problems right there. Even he has to wince a little as one of the guys gets his spine slammed into a dumpster.

"You're starting to sound like Grayson," Damian says, stepping back and surveying his work. Three guys, all laid out, one of them definitely not moving. "I wasn't aware that the deal was that you pretended to be a man better than yourself and strung me along for the ride."

Jason would probably have killed this kid by now if he hadn't dealt with much worse before him.

"Funny," he commends, which causes Damian's nose to wrinkle ever so slightly, "but there's no deal. I'm trying to help you. The guy over there, to the right, he's going to get up in a few minutes. You've already got him nearly incapacitated, so what's the next step?"

Damian narrows his eyes under his domino and curls his lip. "What a stupid question. I'll do whatever's necessary to take him down."

"Wrong, Damian." The guy across the alley, to the right, is groaning now, moving slowly but definitely getting up. "I know what that means for you, so wrong. Instead of doing what's necessary, do what's right."

"Hypocrite," Damian hurls over his shoulder, but he takes the guy down with a kick to the stomach, non-lethal but effective.

Sure, maybe Jason's the devil preaching piety to a congregation of sinners, but he thinks he just might be getting through.

.

This time it's Dick who shows up uninvited, in costume and everything, feet up on the coffee table like he owns the place.

"You know, the press is having a field day," Dick says, by way of greeting. "Field...two weeks? I can't imagine Bruce is happy about that, but then he had to of known this was going to happen. Red Hood and Robin, it sounds like a fairy tale, really."

Jason makes a mildly annoyed noise and goes to make some coffee.

"Not sure who the big bad wolf is, but I do seem to remember that for a while there he pretended to be nice," Dick continues, "and it didn't take that long for everyone to see through the act."

"I don't know if this is a metaphor or a simile, but I know I don't like either of them," Jason says, and, goddammit, he remembered to get a coffee maker but he forget to get coffee. "So how about instead of trying to imply shit you just spit it out."

He can hear Dick shifting all the way in the other room, that stupid flashy outfit of his creaking. You couldn't pay Jason to go back to all that leather. Or is it spandex? You never know with these people.

"If you fuck with this kid," Dick starts off, voice hard, "I will find out. And if I find out you're fucking with him, I mean if you do anything to mess him up–"

Jason tchs at that, and Dick groans, frustrated.

"I'm serious, Jason, I'm all for you trying to help–"

"Then let me help!" Jason yells, slamming the refrigerator shut. Dick's somehow contorted himself to be hanging off the edge of the couch, and it'd almost be funny if Jason wasn't so pissed off. "I know I've fucked up, Dick, but my god. Give me some time. Even Daddy dearest has backed off, he was following us the first few nights I was doing this, and I'm not saying I'm back in his good graces, but at least he's giving me the benefit of the doubt."

"Okay, okay," Dick says, putting his hands up (or...down...Jason wishes he'd sit like a normal human). "I get it, I just worry about him. And you."

"And everyone else on god's green earth, I know," Jason sighs out, exasperated. He feels like a teenager around Dick sometimes. He forgot what it was like, having two dads.

Dick pouts a little, and Jason almost gags. That's where Damian gets that expression from, then.

"We've all made mistakes," Dick admits, voice quiet. "All of us. Some worse than others, but it's no use quantifying and qualifying and comparing all of us against each other. I think we've all learned that to some extent. The past is the past, we can't change it as much we all might want to."

"And thank god for that, you'd still be running around in your underwear if it was up to you," Jason mutters, and that gets a smile even if it's not a bright one.

"Look, we're giving you a second chance," Dick points out, far too earnest for Jason's liking, but hasn't he always been? "So maybe it's about time you gave us one, too."

Jason makes a face at that and turns back around to the fridge. "I'm not making any promises I can't keep, but I guess you have a point. A stupid one, but a point."

Dick actually laughs at that, and it's an annoying sound, but a fond one.

"I'll keep it in mind," Jason says, and, who knows, maybe he will, maybe he won't. "I think I have some leftover Chinese, if you want some."

There's no answer. When he looks back to the couch there's no one there, and his eyes catch on the window curtains fluttering in the breeze of a window that wasn't open a minute ago.

"Whatever. More for me."

.

"I think Nightwing got me window curtains."

Roy does an honest to god spit take. "You think?"

"Well, I mean, does anyone else we know even know what window curtains are?" Jason asks, glaring. Would it kill Roy to not be an obnoxious fuck? (Actually, if it would that explains a lot.) Jason's uncomfortable enough being out in daylight, in a coffee place no less.

It feels so normal.

He's afraid he's becoming one of those people, one of those coffee shop people.

"Point," Roy says, tilting his head to the side. "I'm just–don't you hate him a little bit? A lotta bit? Is this one of those weird bat things where I don't get it because I wasn't raised from perdition while an orchestra played ominous music?"

Jason sighs. "No, Roy, it is not one of those things."

He has to remind himself often that the pool of people willing to converse with him these days is admittedly small. It would also help if he remembered that Roy has actually been good to him, all things considered. Maybe he's tried to kill him once or twice? Jason honestly can't remember, the people who have tried to murder him in cold blood all kind of blur together at this point.

"Oh." Roy takes a sip of his drink. "Good. In that case, maybe he's trying to be friends. Like a housewarming gift type of thing."

"Window curtains, though, it's a little..."

"He's always been a little, uh," Roy waves one hand in front of him, "well, you know."

Jason makes a face.

Does he ever.

.

There's a noise in Jason's kitchen at 2 AM one morning and he's up without hesitation, because he can't afford to think nothing of it.

He's got more than one sidearm under his pillow and he grabs the .45 because it fits nicely in ungloved hands, is most familiar to him and, therefore, most useful when he's groggy with sleep and moving through an apartment that's still unfamiliar to him.

The kitchen light is on, and that means whoever is here is either stupid or arrogant, but either way he's not taking any chances.

How it ends up is he's got the barrel of his gun pointed a good half foot over the back of Damian's head. The kid is rummaging through his fridge.

He drops his arms and clears his throat.

Not turning around, Damian goes, "You don't have any milk."

"What?" Jason asks, not because he didn't hear him, but because what?

"I want cereal," Damian says, looking over his shoulder, "and you don't have any milk."

"I don't have any cereal, either," Jason replies, feeling a bit numb. This is confusing. This is more than confusing. For a solid month now he's been teaming up with Damian just about every other night. The press has even shut up about it for the most part, because they've made no major mistakes.

But it's always been: Jason goes to the Batcave, meets up with Damian, and they go from there.

It's never been: Damian shows up in his kitchen in civilian clothes, eyes wide and exhausted, the way Jason's never seen them 'cause he's never seen Damian without his domino on.

And that's how it ends up with Jason walking the kid down to the local convenience store a few blocks away, letting him pick out whatever he wants, which turns out to be nearly his weight in candy.

The only sweet thing in his body is his tooth, who knew.

Dick's gonna go wild when he finds out, and he's loathe to think of what Bruce will say, but whatever.

He remembers long nights and being a kid, but not being one at all, and it was awful, and he gets it. He gets that maybe sometimes Damian just wants to eat junk food and sit on the couch and watch shows he's not supposed to watch. Stay up past his bedtime for a reason other than to protect the city.

He's never heard Damian laugh before.

It's a pretty nice sound.

.

Tim drops in from out of nowhere, like Tim always seems to do. He's not graceful, but he's something else, something Jason's never been able to put a name to, will mull over and just decide he's, well, Tim, enough said.

So Tim drops in one patrol night when Damian's halfway down the street and too self-absorbed to notice it.

Let it never be said the guy's not smart, and, hey, it never is said.

"Damn," is what Red Robin says, sucking in air through his teeth. "Quite a pair you two make, not sure why no one realized this would work earlier. You only get a reaction by putting two volatile substances together, after all."

"Dick said it's like a fairy tale," Jason tells him.

"Oh, you're talking to Dick now, before me?" Tim laughs at the look on Jason's face. "Right, he doesn't give you much choice, does he? Still, you coulda called a guy, I would've dropped in uninvited, but I didn't want to be rude."

"Is it an open secret, then, my address?" Jason asks, exasperated.

Tim shrugs, doing that thing where he looks like a much nicer guy than he is. "For me, everything's kind of an open secret. But the fact that Grayson found you, along with the snack sized sidekick himself, well. You're about as obvious as your dye job, truth be told. I like it, though, always liked the black on you."

"Anyone ever told you that you talk too much?"

"Just about every nutjob running around this city, and all my friends, too." Tim grins brightly.

"You're a fucking asshole," Jason says, but he says it mildly, and Tim doesn't argue with him.

"I mean it, though." Tim gestures towards where Damian's got a gang member by the shirt collar, some guy twice his size, and Jason's not even worried about it. "Like, wow. Who knew the job for you was babysitter for the child of Satan?"

"He's not all that bad." Jason knows he's called Damian worse to his face, but it feels wrong to hear it out of someone else's mouth.

"It's always been sort of funny to me," Tim remarks, and he's climbing up a fire escape now, doing it like any of them would: quietly, with ease. "You're able to see so much good in other people, but you refuse to see it in yourself."

Jason just rolls his eyes. Apparently he's not the only one who's been talking to Dick.

He calls Damian over and the kid is on his heels without hesitation.

"Where to next?" Damian asks, pulling on the ends of his gloves and flexing his fingers.

Jason likes the question, but he likes his answer better.

"Wherever we want."

.

Gotham is spiraling madness contained in a neatly planned cityscape.

Jason hates Gotham more than words can and ever will be able to express, and it's abundantly obvious on nights when he's sewing up one of Damian's wounds, both of them too stubborn to ask anyone else who might be around for help.

This night it's gash from a knife just above the knee, a cut that left the black fabric there stained darker than it has any right to be.

Damian doesn't even wince while he does it, just grits his teeth and keeps his hands tight around the arms of the chair he's sitting in. It's Bruce's chair. Jason would say he doesn't give a fuck, but it's Bruce's chair and that means something to him even if he wishes it didn't.

He almost says he's sorry to Damian, but he's not sure for what. He wasn't holding the knife, he trusts Damian to be able to avoid injuries like this–there's nothing to apologize for, or else he'd be apologizing left and right.

Still, when he goes to get up and walk away, Damian reaches out for him, catching the sleeve of his jacket. The look on the kid's face is the look on any kid's face when they want you to stay with them, but don't want to have to ask for it.

No one's ever looked at Jason that way before.

He stays, and he tells Damian every good story he can think of.

There aren't many, but there are enough.

.

It takes Jason three months and four days to realize that maybe, just maybe, Damian isn't the only one benefiting from their partnership.

.

Bruce doesn't do thank yous, but he does do $250,000 worth of anonymous deposits into separate bank accounts in your name, and for Jason that's more than sufficient.

He gets a new apartment. Not a penthouse or anything, but one that has, you know, locks on the door that actually function. He gets a new tv set-up, because Damian always complains that the screen is way too small, and some furniture that's never been used before.

He doesn't buy new window curtains, he's already got some of those.

He spends a good chunk on new guns, a few new knifes, and other various weapons–he may have decided to draw the line at leaving lifeless bodies, but scarred ones? He's playing by the one rule, but he's the first to admit that it's a flexible rule, and he'll bend it as far as he can without it breaking.

The rest of it sits, untouched, until he knows what to do with it. He isn't like Dick, who would've wanted to give the money back, he'll gladly take it all, but it still feels wasted on him, a guy who's never wanted much in the way of material possessions. Not since he was a kid, anyway.

It feels a little superfluous, making a key for Damian, but he does it anyway.

The fucking kid still comes in through a window, of course, but it's the thought that counts.

.

so alright porn

Jason wakes up to Damian straddling him, one hand over his mouth and his face set and serious and he thinks, well, okay, he's lived a pretty bad life, but sometimes that's just how things go. Not everything comes up roses for everybody, and if this is how it's going to end, with a preteen sitting on him and swearword on his lips, then maybe that's not so bad.

What Damian does, instead of choking the life out of him, is kiss him, and that's more surprising, somehow.

The kid knows what he's doing, but only insofar as he's seen in movies and tv shows, probably. Jason knows how to kiss, of course, how he could help him along. But he doesn't.

Damian leans back and in the shadows he's–not beautiful, not anything, just Damian with his eyes hard and his mouth harder, the same kid who Jason's watched laugh at stupid jokes in sitcoms when he thinks no one's watching, the same kid who's told him multiple times that he don't matter to him.

Just. Damian.

"Is there any particular reason you did, uh, that?" Jason's still blinking sleep out of his eyes, only just manages to push himself up with his elbows, so Damian's not hovering over him quite so ominously.

"No," Damian says, a fraction of a second too quickly. "No, I just thought, maybe–"

"Kid, if you want me to fuck you, I'm not going to." Damian doesn't turn red or pink, he goes pale, just the smallest bit. Like his hesitation or the raise in the pitch of his voice, Jason wouldn't notice it if he didn't know him half as well as he does now.

"Funny," and that's an ironic echo, one he remembers from back alleys with a smirk on his mouth, "but that's alright, I wasn't thinking you would."

"Fantastic, now that we've got that out of the way, can you get off me?" Jason asks, reaching out and pushing Damian's shoulder.

The kid topples to the side, but doesn't lose his train of thought, of course.

"It's just, I figured I should tell you, I was jerking off the other day." Jason wonders how mad Bruce would get if he smothered Damian with a pillow. "Surely that's not the technical term, 'jerking off'? It's so vulgar. Anyway, I thought of you, a little bit."

Bruce wouldn't be too mad if Jason smothered his only son by blood right, would he?

"I tried thinking of Supergirl first," Damian admits, rolling over to lay next to him. "Aesthetically, she's pleasing. She's also not too infuriatingly stupid. It wouldn't be a stretch to say I would be sad if she died in some horrible way or another. But, I don't know, nothing really happened."

Jason rolls over and buries his face in his pillow. Maybe he'll just suffocate himself. That's starting to feel like the best course of action.

"So then I thought, Grayson." Damian says that name excitedly. Jason starts counting to ten. "Makes sense, don't you think? A horrible father figure, but one nonetheless. Boring, vapid, but once again aesthetically pleasing. Tolerable when he's not trying to coddle me. Yet, once again, no results."

Jason hits ten and is somehow still breathing. It doesn't make any sense. This is probably (definitely) Hell. He should know.

"I realized, after that, that I'm honestly swimming in parental figures, literal or otherwise," Damian continues. "It wouldn't make that much sense to pick Grayson out of the ranks, not now, anyway."

Leave it to Damian Wayne to think this much while he masturbates. Good god.

"Which led me to the idea that maybe you–"

"Okay, time for bed," Jason says, loudly, almost falling to the floor as he goes to get up.

"But you're getting out of bed," Damian points out, sitting up and blinking owlishly.

"Yes, to escort you to the couch." Jason walks around his bed and gestures to the doorway. "Come on, get up, I'm serious."

Damian moves backwards and brings his knees up to his chest, looking all of eleven years old. It's good. It's how he should look. It's how he didn't look a minute ago when Jason was wondering exactly what–

"Fine," Jason says, "fine. I'll sleep on the couch, you stay in here."

He slams the door behind him and stands there for a minute, breathing. Then he opens it just a little bit, because Damian isn't scared of the dark, but he knows he ought to be, and likes to pretend like he is sometimes.

This kid is going to be the death of him.

.

He wakes up in the morning, still on the couch, with Damian on top of him, and he stares at the ceiling for a full five minutes before he pushes him off.

.

THAT WASNT PORN