Chapter Text
The city was loud tonight.
Not the kind of loud that came from honking taxis or the low, endless hum of Gotham’s nightlife — it was the loud that came when trouble was brewing, the hum of voices raised in tension, of shouts bouncing off brick alleys, of some kid yelling “Get him!” before the inevitable crash of a trash can being toppled. It was a soundtrack Jon Kent knew too well. It was also a soundtrack Damian Wayne was currently ignoring in favor of adjusting the straps on his utility belt with surgical precision.
“You’re overthinking it,” Jon muttered from the rooftop ledge, his cape flicking behind him in the cool night air.
“I’m preparing,” Damian corrected, not even glancing up. “You confuse discipline with overthinking, as usual.”
Jon grinned, leaning on his elbows to look down at the alley below. “Sure, ‘discipline.’ Is that what you call taking an extra five minutes to make sure your grappling line is rolled exactly the way you like it?”
“I’m not risking a tangle mid-pursuit because you can’t be bothered to respect proper equipment care,” Damian replied flatly. “Some of us have standards.”
“Some of us can also fly.”
“You hover,” Damian said, standing and finally meeting Jon’s eyes. “Like an indecisive hummingbird.”
Jon laughed
"And even if some of us can fly, there is some others who can't, I'm not risking because you can save your own skin using superpowers"
"Owww do you really think I'm gonna let you fall Dami?"
"Codenames Superboy... " Damian muttered "And I know you wouldn't... but I don't need saving, just 5 minutes to have this prepared"
"Ooookaaaaaay Roooobiiiin..." Jon teased— loud, unbothered, and completely without shame — and Damian, despite himself, felt a tiny curl of satisfaction in his chest. This was their rhythm now: the jabs, the bickering, the underlying trust that neither would admit outright. It had been months since Bruce and Clark had agreed — reluctantly, very reluctantly — to let them patrol as a duo under “minimal but constant” supervision.
After those five minutes
“Alright, alright, you ready Batman Junior? Let’s go.”
It wasn’t a huge case. Small gang. Mid-level fencing operation. Nothing they hadn’t handled in pieces before. But this time, no big brothers, no fathers, no Alfred monitoring their vitals from the cave. It was just them — exactly how Damian wanted it. Exactly how Jon wanted it, too, though for entirely different reasons. Jon liked the freedom. Damian liked the challenge.
They moved fast: Jon in the air, scouting from above; Damian on the ground, melting into the shadows, every step deliberate. They’d gotten frighteningly good at reading each other’s cues without words. A tilt of Jon’s head told Damian the number of armed men inside. A flick of Damian’s wrist told Jon which entry point they’d use.
It went perfectly.
Until it didn’t.
“—I told you to watch the left!” Damian hissed as they ducked behind a dumpster.
“I did! He just had friends!” Jon hissed back.
“That’s what watching the left is supposed to prevent!”
A bullet pinged off the metal beside them, and Jon instinctively shifted, placing himself between the gunman and Damian. Damian scowled but didn’t push him away. Not this time. They bolted, split for the flanking maneuver they’d practiced. Two minutes later, the gang was disarmed and zip-tied. Easy.
Too easy.
Which is why, when Jon glanced over with that reckless sparkle in his eyes and said, “We could… keep going,” Damian didn’t shut it down.
Back at the manor
"You are late kiddo..." said Jason as if it didn't matter to him.
"Yeah... didn't notice..." Replied Damien unbothered
Damian was never one for sentimentality, but even he had to admit the manor felt different these days. Not in its structure — the high ceilings still loomed, the marble still reflected the light in polished ripples — but in the way it sounded.
When he first came here, the silence had been oppressive. Even the faintest creak in the floorboards felt loud. After the incident in his childhood there were footsteps, conversations, clattering cups in the kitchen at odd hours. Someone humming down the hall. A burst of laughter from the training room.
His brothers had taken to “dropping by” more often. Dick’s easy voice carried from the den, Jason’s boots thudded across tile, and Tim was forever in and out of the library. They’d never call it surveillance, but Damian was not stupid. They were watching him.
And for reasons he refused to examine too closely, he didn’t mind.
From his study, Bruce took in the familiar sight of Alfred tidying the tea service.
“You’ve noticed,” Alfred remarked without looking up.
“That the manor’s… never empty anymore?”
Alfred gave him a knowing glance. “They’re staying longer. more now than ever...Master Jason, weeks at a time. Master Tim practically lives here again.”
Bruce’s eyes softened in the firelight. “Damian’s presence has done more to keep them together than I ever managed, he put them together when he arrived and I think they will be staying more frequently until his presentation to support him..."
Alfred smiled faintly. “Perhaps because he reminds them of what they wished they’d had.”
Bruce didn’t respond, but deep down, he knew it was true.
"Well.. let's go with them before they start the movie without us..." Bruce said and Alfred followed
The first Friday movie night had been a fluke — Damian had just learned about Disney movies and was starting to watch them, Jason had been too lazy to head back to his safehouse, Dick was already visiting, and Tim wandered in because of “free food.” Now it was tradition.
The lounge was a mess of blankets and beanbags, popcorn bowls big enough to feed a small army.
The massive flat-screen glowed with the Disney+ logo.
“How is this our go-to?” Jason muttered as the opening strains of a Disney castle fanfare played.
“Because,” Dick said with mock solemnity, “Disney is a cornerstone of family bonding.”
Damian scoffed. “Hardly. It’s merely the first streaming service I watched with Jon. Nothing more.”
Jason smirked. “So it’s sentimental.”
“It is not,” Damian shot back — far too quickly.
Tim leaned over with a grin. “Sure, and that’s why you know all the words to ‘I’ll Make a Man Out of You.’”
Damian glared but didn’t deny it. The lights dimmed, the movie started, and for two hours, the only sounds were the film and the occasional sarcastic remark from Jason.
Days passed and one afternoon, Jason walked in on Damian and Jon cross-legged on the floor, textbooks piled to the side, the TV playing Boy Meets World.
“Hey, kiddos. What’s up?”
Jon grinned. “Kon said this was huge when he was a kid. There’s a sequel now, so we’re watching this first.”
Jason squinted at the screen. “Any good?”
“Yeah,” Jon said, “pretty entertaining.”
Jason noticed Damian’s frown. “What’s that face, Demon brat?”
“I don’t get it.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “The plot?”
“No. The way Cory pursues that girl, Topanga. His dynamic with Shawn would be far more suitable for a long-term partnership.”
Jason blinked at him, then at Jon, then at the TV. “…Yeah, that tracks.”
He didn’t comment further, but over the next few weeks, Jason seemed to “coincidentally” wander into the media room more often when they were watching something.
Since that day Jason had been watching them more closely
The training room had changed and hadn’t. New mats. Same creaks. The air still held the clean bite of oiled leather and the faint mineral scent of the Cave under the floor. Damian finished his cool-down in a neat line of breath and motion, blade returning to sheath with a sound like a period.
“You’re late,” he said without turning.
“I brought coffee.” Jon’s voice, a grin you could hear. “Bribery works on princes, right?”
Damian pivoted. Jon stood in the doorway in civilian clothes and flight hair, two paper cups in one hand, a bag dangling from the other. There were smudges of ink on his fingers. He looked exactly like trouble and exactly like home.
“Amīrī doesn’t accept bribes,” Damian said, but the corner of his mouth lifted as he took a cup. “Fuel, however, is permitted.”
“See,” Jon said, bumping their shoulders as if they’d always fit that way, “progress.”
From the mezzanine, a shadow leaned on the rail. Jason took in the small tells—Damian’s shoulders, always coiled, easing a notch; the way Jon’s chatter rolled over him like a warm tide instead of white noise; how Damian didn’t step away when Jon lingered too close to read the watch-face he was calibrating.
Jason sipped, pleased. Kid’s doomed. Doesn’t even know it yet.
“Bagel?” Jon said, tearing open the bag without waiting. “I got you the one with the weird seeds you pretend you don’t like.”
“I don’t pretend,” Damian said, accepting it. “I endure.”
“That’s love,” Jon said lightly.
Jason choked on his coffee. Neither of them looked up.
Jason found Dick and Tim in the kitchen later, arguing over whether Dick’s protein shake counted as a “real” meal. He didn’t even bother easing into it.
“I think the gremlin’s got a crush.”
Both froze.
“...On who?” Tim asked warily.
Jason tilted his head toward the cave. “Seriously? ... Farm boy junior.”
Dick’s face lit up like someone had told him Christmas was coming early. “Really?”
Tim’s brows shot up. “No way. Damian barely tolerates people, let alone—”
Jason cut in. “You didn’t see the sparring session. He was smiling, Tim. And not the ‘I’m about to stab you’ smile. The real thing.”
Dick practically bounced. “Oh my god, that’s adorable.”
Tim leaned on the counter, already calculating. “I thought it was just ... you know, hi was his first friend... and his only apparently ?"
Jason smirked "Yeah, but remember that show your boyfriend likes?"
Tim blinked with visible confusion "yes...?"
Jason "You should heard his opinion on the protagonist and he's relationship with his best friend..." Jason replied sipping a juice he found at the table
"OH... no, no, I get it...So who figures it out first? Jon or Damian?”
Jason grinned. “Now that’s the question.”
And that's how bets started
Night in Gotham was brisk, rooftops slick from earlier rain. Damian and Jon moved like they’d been patrolling together for years — silent signals, shared momentum.
At one point, Jon landed beside him on a ledge, pulling a thermos from his jacket. “Brought cocoa. Kon said you probably don’t do sugar enough.”
Damian gave him the patented you’re ridiculous glare but accepted the cup anyway.
“It’s good,” Jon said around a grin. “Like, really good.”
Damian took a sip, nodded once. “Acceptable.”
They finished the loop without incident, and when they hit the manor’s back entrance, Jon hesitated.
“You wanna hang out? Or—”
Damian’s shrug was carefully neutral. “If you must.” but with a subtle smile that Jon didn't let slide
They barely made it into the living room before Jason’s voice floated over. “Well, well. Look who’s back. Guess it’s movie night.”
Dick was already on the couch, patting the spot beside him. “C’mon, you two. Blankets are warm, popcorn’s ready.”
Jon blinked. “Oh, uh—”
Alfred appeared with extra bowls like this had been planned all along. “I took the liberty of preparing additional snacks, Master Jon.”
Damian shot Jason a suspicious look. Jason just smiled innocently.
The lounge had been booby-trapped to look cozy. Jason blamed Alfred. Big couch dragged closer to the screen, two beanbags sinking into each other like sleepy seals, throw blankets that somehow smelled like dryer sheets and faint citrus. The pop of kernels in the kitchen stuttered into silence; the last batch was done. Damian and Jon stepped into the doorway in patrol hoodies and damp hair, a little wind-tangled from the flight back.
“Look who the city coughed up,” Jason announced, feet on the coffee table, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his shins like a frosted crown. “Congratulations, you’re just in time to be peer-pressured.”
Jon blinked. “Into?”
“Family culture,” Dick said solemnly from the floor, where he’d made a nest of two pillows and a blanket the color of a tropical bird. “It’s Friday. The ritual is inviolable. Disney or disownment.”
Tim was sprawled sideways on the end of the couch, a laptop open but clearly not in use. He peered over the lid. “You look cold, demonling. Sit. The couch won’t bite, unlike some people.”
“I do not bite people,” Damian said, arched like a cat at the edge of a bath. “Only those who deserve it.”
“Semantics,” Jason chirped.
Alfred flowed through with the efficiency of a man who’d hosted a thousand wars disguised as dinner parties. He delivered a tray: popcorn (salted, buttered, kettle), a stack of napkins, two large mugs of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. The whipped cream had miniature bat sprinkles. No one dared ask.
“For Master Jon,” he said, setting down a mug with a wink that suggested foreknowledge. “And for Master Damian.” He didn’t wink. He did, however, angle the mug next to a folded knit blanket already at Damian’s usual seat.
Jon lit up. “Thanks, Alfred.”
Damian took the mug without comment and sat. He made a point of not choosing the knit blanket.
Five minutes later, the knit blanket was stealth-tucked across both of their knees.
Jason didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He made a show of adjusting his bowl and then slid a look to Dick that said, you seeing this? Dick replied with a tiny, viciously delighted grin that said, obviously.
Tim’s fingers hovered over his keyboard, not typing, eyes flicking from screen to pair. He nudged the laptop shut with a soft click like he’d just decided the evening’s true entertainment was not the movie.
Disney+ booted up. The blue castle shimmered on screen; the fanfare rolled out. Jon, who had been claiming for months that he “didn’t know the words,” quietly hummed the opening bars. Damian heard it. He didn’t smile. His shoulders did loosen like a knot rethinking itself.
Jason found the remote and wagged it like a scepter. “All in favor of Aladdin say ‘dibs on the magic carpet.’”
“Mulan,” Tim countered immediately. “Peak training montage. Educational.”
“I will always vote for The Emperor’s New Groove,” Dick said. “It is the correct answer.”
“Democracy is a failure,” Damian said, because the room needed the line, and also because it gave him a reason to be cranky while he tucked the edge of the blanket closer to Jon’s leg.
“Aladdin it is,” Jason declared, magnanimous in victory he hadn’t won.
“Coup,” Tim muttered.
“Wrong movie,” Dick whispered back.
The lights dimmed. Alfred, who absolutely had dimmer control from his phone, faded the room to a warm dusk. Shadows softened, the screen bright at the edges. Jon shifted an inch closer. The blanket followed, like a tide.
“Jafar is camp,” Jason announced around a mouthful of kettle corn.
“He’s manipulative,” Damian corrected, skeptical. “Terrible recruiter. Reveals strategy via monologue. Unforgivable.”
“Wow,” Tim said, without looking away, “you’re going to be a menace at movie nights for the rest of your life.”
“Already am,” Jason said proudly. “Scoot, replacement,” he added, nudging Tim’s sock with his toe. “You’re hogging the armrest.”
“Stop calling me that,” Tim said automatically, while scooting exactly one centimeter.
On the couch, Jon whispered, “You like the songs, though.”
“I tolerate them,” Damian said, gaze forward, lashes catching light. “They are structurally sound.”
“That’s a ‘like,’ in Damian.” Jon took a careful sip of hot chocolate, then nudged the second mug toward Damian’s hand without looking down. The mugs touched, clinked softly. Damian’s fingers bumped Jon’s for a half second and stayed there like a mistake that neither corrected.
Jason raised a single eyebrow so high it threatened orbit. Evidence. He shot a glance to Dick; Dick, without moving his head, tapped his own knee twice, a silent yep.
Tim pulled his phone out under the blanket and typed into the “Wayne Book Club” group chat:
Tim: update: blanket share achieved
Jason: pay up, Grayson
Dick: the bet is about admission, not blankets. hold your horses
Jason: I have no horses. I have receipts
Tim: focus. we need a confession, not a textile
Kon chimed in from wherever he was (probably the roof, eavesdropping with gleeful shamelessness):
Kon: tell me when the forehead lean happens
Jason: oh my god get off the roof
Kon: never
Onscreen, Aladdin fumbled a wish. In the room, Jon whispered, “If you had one wish…”
“None,” Damian said instantly.
Jon snorted. “You can’t say none.”
“I can. Wishes are poor strategy. Uncontrolled variables.”
“Okay, nerd,” Jon said, smiling. “If you had to pick, hypothetically.”
Damian went quiet for the count of three breaths. “Certainty.”
Jon’s grin softened. “That’s not how wishes work.”
“Exactly.”
Jason felt the laugh catch in his chest and come out gentler than he expected. Oof, he thought, a little winded by how honest that had been. He caught Dick’s eye again; Dick’s expression had gone briefly unguarded, proud and aching. Tim pretended to check his phone so he could blink hard twice and not get caught acting like he had emotions.
From the kitchen, Alfred’s silhouette paused in the doorway (strictly to assess snack levels, not to eavesdrop), and then receded with a nod like a judge approving an argument that had not been spoken aloud.
Halfway through the movie, the popcorn war began.
It started because Jason could not physically restrain himself from flicking a single kernel at Tim’s temple. Tim, who had been a younger sibling long enough to know escalation rules, did not flick one back. He upended an entire handful.
“Traitor!” Jason gasped, wiping butter from his jaw with the back of his hand.
“You started it,” Tim said calmly, plucking a kernel out of his hair and flicking it across the room with sniper accuracy. It landed directly in Jason’s cup holder.
Dick held up both hands, mediator mode. “Hey, hey—”
Jason nailed him in the forehead before the sentence finished.
“Et tu, Jay?” Dick clutched his chest in mock betrayal, then scooped up three kernels and fired them back like tiny grenades.
Within seconds, it was chaos—kernels flying through the air like errant snow, the sound of muffled laughter breaking into full snickers, and Alfred’s distant ahem from the kitchen that was equal parts disapproval and resignation.
Damian sat perfectly still through the first exchange, sipping hot chocolate like nothing was happening. Jon, however, caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“You want in,” Jon said quietly.
“I don’t play with my food,” Damian replied primly.
Jon grinned. “Guess that means you’ll just have to improvise.”
Five seconds later, Jason yelped because a balled-up napkin had smacked him in the ear.
“Oh, it’s on now,” Jason said darkly, grabbing the nearest pillow.
The war escalated. Popcorn rained down like confetti. Dick dove over the couch for cover, Tim used his laptop as a shield, and Jon—laughing so hard he nearly spilled his drink—ended up curled sideways, using Damian as a human barricade.
“Get off me, Kent!” Damian barked, shoving at his shoulder.
“You’re the safest place in the room!” Jon shot back, still using him as cover while Jason tried to flank them from the beanbag side.
Jason lunged; Damian kicked the pillow out of his hands with perfect precision. Jason froze, blinked, and grinned like he’d just remembered exactly how freakishly trained his youngest brother was.
“Not bad, demon,” he said.
“I don’t waste movements,” Damian answered, straightening his hoodie.
Jon just laughed, still leaning into him as the truce was finally called when Alfred appeared, hands folded behind his back, and said in a tone that brokered no argument: “Gentlemen.”
Everyone froze.
“Kindly return the living room to a habitable state before the end credits roll.”
“Yes, Alfred,” they chorused like schoolchildren.
Jon got up first to gather the fallen kernels. Damian followed, muttering something about “juvenile displays of dominance,” but Jason caught the faintest upward curve at the edge of his mouth. Dick caught it too, and when their eyes met, Dick mouthed: We’re keeping that one.
Tim just smirked over the rim of his drink, thinking the same thing.