Chapter Text
It started with a grunt.
Jason had about six cracked ribs, a stitched-up thigh, and a sprained wrist—basically, he was benched. Against his will. So naturally, Bruce decided, “You’re home anyway. You can watch Damian.”
Like that made any damn sense.
Jason was sprawled on the couch, blanket over his legs, ice pack on his ribs, and a truly pitiful bowl of lukewarm soup on the coffee table beside him. He was flipping through movies with his good hand, grumbling under his breath. Damian was sitting in the armchair across the room, curled up with his red dragon plush, silent and watching him carefully.
Jason exhaled and muttered, “Alright, kid. You wanna watch something or just keep looking at me like I’ve committed a war crime?”
No response, but Damian blinked at him.
Jason groaned and clicked How to Train Your Dragon. “Alright. Dragons. You like dragons, right? That plush is practically your emotional support animal.”
He didn’t expect a reaction.
But Damian shuffled forward. Quietly. Slowly. Still holding his plush close to his chest like it was stitched to his ribs. And when Jason glanced up, he caught the tiniest flicker of something on the kid’s face. Not quite a smile. But softer.
Jason tilted his head toward the other side of the couch. “C’mere, gremlin. I don’t bite.”
There was hesitation. Then, with cautious steps, Damian approached the couch and sat—not touching Jason, but close enough that his warmth lingered in the air between them. The dragon plush sat on his lap. His knees were pulled to his chest. He said nothing. But Jason saw him watching the screen with wide, childlike eyes.
It broke something in Jason’s chest.
For the next twenty minutes, Jason pretended not to glance at him every few seconds. Damian was enraptured—his brows creased in focus, his head tilting slightly with each emotional beat. When Toothless first got hurt, Jason saw it—the way Damian tensed, hugging his plush tighter, eyes flickering with memory.
Jason adjusted the blanket around his legs and nudged it toward the kid. “Hey,” he said softly. “You cold?”
Damian looked at him. Then, slowly, nodded. Jason gently opened the blanket wider.
Damian leaned in. Just a little. Not quite touching him, but Jason didn’t push. He let him move at his own pace.
Half an hour later, Damian was curled under the blanket, his head leaned slightly against Jason’s uninjured arm. Jason pretended not to notice. He couldn’t afford to break the spell.
By the time the movie ended, Jason looked down and saw Damian dozing off—thumb brushing absently against the dragon’s horn, face soft with sleep.
Jason didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at him with something like awe.
“…You’re gonna be the death of me, kid,” he whispered, voice cracked and fond.
And he meant it.
-
Jason wasn’t sure how he ended up in the kitchen.
He’d woken up stiff and sore on the manor couch with a small, warm weight still tucked under his arm and a red dragon plush half-tangled in the blanket between them. Damian had curled into him sometime during the movie and never moved. Not once.
Jason hadn't dared either.
It was... quiet, still. That kind of sacred silence that made your chest ache. Jason had stared at the kid for maybe a minute too long, then brushed his hair back gently, untangled himself, and shuffled to the kitchen with a whispered promise:
"Be right back, gremlin. Gonna find us something sweet."
Now he was standing in front of the baking shelf with his ribs screaming and his wrist barely holding the flour bag.
And then—like a tiny shadow—he heard soft, socked feet padding behind him. He turned.
There Damian was. Clutching his dragon with one hand and rubbing sleep from his eye with the other. His hair was a mess. His hoodie was half slipping off one shoulder. Jason blinked.
“…You followed me?”
Damian stared at him blankly, dragon tucked close. Then he looked at the counter. At the flour. At the eggs. At the mixing bowl. Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward.
Jason’s heart thumped stupidly in his chest.
“You wanna help me bake?” he asked, voice gentler than he ever remembered it being.
Damian gave the tiniest nod.
So Jason set a stool down by the counter and guided him over. He didn’t touch him—he remembered what Bruce and Dick said, about how Damian flinched at sudden hands—but he nudged the flour over and pointed.
“Alright, Baby Bat. We’re making cookies. No nuts. Alfred said you hate nuts.”
Damian gave the faintest nod again, eyes focused on the bowl like it was a mission briefing. Jason smiled softly.
He showed him how to scoop the flour—carefully. Damian was so serious about it, pouring it in with precision like it was gunpowder. When some got on his sweater, he froze, unsure, until Jason grinned.
“Now you’re officially a baker,” he teased, flicking a little flour toward him.
Damian’s mouth twitched. Barely. Almost nothing. But it was there.
Jason felt it like a punch to the chest.
They mixed in silence—well, Jason hummed faintly under his breath. Damian watched his every move. When Jason cracked an egg with one hand, Damian’s eyes widened like he’d just seen magic.
“You wanna try?”
A pause. Then, very slowly, Damian reached out and gently cracked an egg into the bowl. A little shell slipped in. He froze.
Jason ruffled his own hair. “Happens to the best of us, buddy. We’ll fish it out. No biggie.”
Damian blinked at him, like that kindness alone was strange.
They finished mixing and rolled out the dough, using little bat-shaped cookie cutters Alfred had apparently hidden in the back of the drawer (“That butler has been planning this for years,” Jason muttered). Damian lined them up with quiet focus, and Jason couldn’t help but steal glances.
His face was so calm. So focused. But not the kind of sharp, hard focus from the first few weeks. No—this was different. Gentler. Softer. Like he was letting himself just be a kid.
Jason suddenly had to turn away for a second. He didn’t trust his voice.
They baked. Jason let him peek in the oven every few minutes, keeping a careful hand near him so he didn’t lean too close. Damian never said a word. But when the cookies were done, and Jason pulled the tray out with a dramatic flourish, he swore he saw something in Damian’s eyes.
Pride.
And when Jason handed him the first warm cookie, he swore Damian smiled. Barely. Just the edges of his lips. But it was there.
Jason didn’t comment. Just sat with him on the floor in front of the oven as they ate in silence. Damian leaned his head on his dragon. Then, after a long pause… he leaned a little bit closer.
Rested his shoulder against Jason’s good arm.
Jason didn’t breathe.
He just blinked down at the top of Damian’s head. Stared at the way this tiny, haunted kid—the one who wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t touch, wouldn’t trust—was quietly letting himself exist next to him.
And God, Jason’s chest hurt.
He didn’t know when it happened, or how. But he was gone. Completely. Fully. Gone for this kid.
“…You’re gonna kill me, kiddo,” he murmured softly. “Absolutely kill me.”
Damian didn’t respond. Just took another bite of his cookie, dragon plush tucked under his chin. Jason didn’t need an answer.
He’d stay right there. Forever if needed.
-
Jason had no idea when the kid got tired.
One minute they were sitting on the kitchen floor, splitting the last cookie—Damian broke it in half and offered the bigger piece to him, which almost made Jason cry on the spot—and the next, Damian was blinking slower and slower, cheek pressed against his dragon plush like a pillow.
Jason crouched, ignoring the ache in his ribs, and whispered, “Come on, little gremlin. Let’s get you to bed.”
Damian didn’t move right away. Just blinked sleepily, then looked at Jason. His lips parted a little, like maybe he wanted to say something—but no sound came. Jason didn’t expect one. He just offered a hand, slow and steady.
Damian took it.
They walked to his room together, Jason keeping pace with his tiny steps. The kid held his dragon the whole time, even bumping into the wall once because he was half-asleep. Jason snorted gently and guided him around the corner with a light touch to the shoulder.
In Damian’s room, Jason helped him climb onto the bed and pulled the blanket up. He turned to leave—
—but a small hand reached out and tugged at the edge of his sleeve.
Jason stopped.
“…You want me to stay a bit?” he asked, voice soft, low.
Damian nodded.
Jason bit his lip. Sat at the edge of the bed, turning sideways so his body didn’t block the nightlight’s soft blue glow. Damian scooted just a little closer. Not a lot. But enough.
Enough to wreck Jason’s entire heart all over again.
The red dragon was tucked under Damian’s chin. He blinked slowly, eyes fluttering shut and then open again. His face was flushed from the warmth, hair falling in messy waves over his forehead. Jason gently reached out and pushed them back.
“Sleep, baby bat,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
He meant it. God, did he mean it.
Damian yawned. A tiny, soft one. His hand curled under his cheek, dragon plush squished between his face and the pillow.
Jason reached into his pocket. Pulled out his phone. Snapped a picture.
The photo was perfect: Damian wrapped in blankets, holding his dragon, face peaceful. He looked younger. Safer. Like the world hadn’t hurt him.
Jason grinned. Opened the group chat.
[image attached]
jason: while y’all are out getting your asses kicked i made cookies with our brat and tucked him in. hope u cry ab it into ur pillows tonight mfs
tim: can u go back to ur coffin i dont like this
dick: HE LOOKS SO PEACEFUL I’M GONNA SOB INTO MY GRAPPLING HOOK.
steph: if u don’t send me one of those cookies I’m telling alfie you swore in front of him.
duke: I just saw someone get thrown through a car windshield and this still hurts more. why is he so SMALL.
Jason smirked and turned the phone on silent. Looked back at the bed.
Damian had shifted slightly. Inched just a little closer to the edge. Almost like he was making space.
Jason stood slowly, careful not to wake him, and leaned down. He kissed the top of Damian’s head—just once—before brushing a hand down the soft crown of his hair.
“Night, baby bat,” he whispered again.
He stepped out of the room and shut the door halfway behind him. Paused. Looked at the photo again on his phone.
His chest ached. Full. Raw. Gentle.
Yeah.
He was fucking gone.