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Damian slips into the third floor apartment and closes the door behind him, careful not to make a sound. He is not worried about being found out, not when he knows both of the apartment’s residents, but he does not want to wake them.
It’s late, after all, a little past three in the morning, and he knows the two anti-heroes – not villains, Damian decided that months ago, but they do not like being called heroes – need their rest.
All the lights in the apartment are off, but it’s no problem for him. Damian spent his formative years learning how to survive in the dark, and a mere six months with Father has not negated what he was taught. The furniture remains in the same place as his last visit, and the pair are neat enough that Damian doesn’t need to worry about tripping over something on the floor.
It’s not until he reaches the kitchen that Damian flicks on a light, and even then, he keeps the dimmers set to low. Phantom is not a fan of bright lights, Damian knows, and he will not disrespect him in his own home.
But Jason had told him that, if he ever needed a place to crash for the night, Damian was welcome to come here. He’d said he could help himself to the kitchen, too, and while he has no intention of cooking, Damian needs something to soothe his mind. To take the edge off of his growing anxiety and the frustration gnawing at his gut. He needs to prove himself to all of them, and that-
That can’t happen if Damian can barely keep his anger in check.
He kneels in front of a cabinet next to the stove and finds the kettle Jason keeps in there. The porcelain is smooth under his calloused hands, cold, and he spends more time than he’d like to admit kneeling there. Taking slow, steadying breaths as he cups it in his palms, before rising to his feet.
Damian fills it with water and sets it on the stove, turning on the burner and then settling in to wait. Jason, Damiean has learned, appreciates company while he cooks, so there’s island seating in the kitchen. It’s all too easy to quietly pull out a stool, hop up, and then start going through the meager belongings he’d brought with him.
A change of clothes, a burner phone, but right now, the most important is the little sketchbook and pencils. There is nothing special about them, and they are not high quality – though, Father has offered to buy him better ones – but they are his.
A gift from his mother, one kept secret from his grandfather. The kettle was a gift from her, too, Damian thinks, and he flips to an open page. He does not have anything to color the sketch with, but there’s still something soothing about tracing the lines, creating the shapes, and carefully detailing each flower painted on the surface.
For several long minutes, it is silent except for the kettle’s gentle bubbling and Damian’s pencil scratching against the paper.
When Jason stumbles into the kitchen, he doesn’t acknowledge Damian’s presence out loud. He nods at him, reaches up and pulls down three teacups – a part of Mother’s gift, based on the matching pattern – and sets them on the counter. From a different cabinet, he grabs a plastic container full of varying kinds of tea. If he squints, Damian thinks he even sees his favorite.
The kettle whistles, but Jason moves to take it off the heat before Damian even gets to his feet. “What kind do ya want,” Jason says, ignoring the half-hearted glare in his direction. “I do earl gray, usually. The ghostie likes chamomile.”
“Do you have pu-erh?” Damian asks, and the domesticity catches him off guard. “Is Phantom awake as well?”
Jason nods. Pours water into the teacups and then places a teabag into each one of them. “Nightmares,” he says, and there is a quiet kind of anger in his voice. “The damned lab fucked him up real good, baby bird.”
Coming from Jason, the nickname does not feel so demeaning. “Phantom should know that, if he desired it, we would kill each and every person who stepped foot in those labs, and I would not be merciful.”
Jason chuckles darkly. “If only it were that simple.” He sets one of the cups in front of Damian, and the others across the counter. A chair screeches as he drags it around to the other side. “Be back in a second, I’m gonna go grab my idiot.”
True to his word, Jason is only gone for a matter of seconds before he returns with Phantom. The ghost is intangible, arms draped around Jason’s neck as he floats behind the other, not fully visible. In times like this, Damian understands his brother’s anger, and his overprotective tendencies.
The ghost, while Damian may not know him well, had a purpose before the labs, a life he was stolen away from, only to be ruthlessly torn apart. Broken down by people who claimed to be doing the right thing. Wounded badly enough that, even now, Phantom can rarely walk on his own feet.
To Damian’s knowledge, Jason is the only one in Gotham who has ever heard him speak.
“Hi, Dami,” Phantom signs, the motions clumsy with sleep. “Staying here tonight? We have a guest room set up now.”
It was set up the last time Damian was here, but he does not mention that. He has heard that nightmares and trauma can mess with memory, and he doesn’t want to upset Phantom further. “I will stay here, if you’ll have me.”
He sips his tea, letting the warmth seep into his palms as he watches the pair. They are good together, though, he has heard members of Jason’s gang call them codependent. There’s some truth to the rumors, Damian thinks, but he doesn’t see why that has to be a bad thing. Jason makes Phantom feel safe, and Phantom calms Jason’s rage, and they have never made Damian feel like an outsider.
Phantom smiles at him. “Stay,” he signs, body fading in and out of reality as he drinks his tea. “Jason needs someone else to cook for.” After a moment of hesitation, Phantom leans forward, patting the top of Damian’s head. “Am going to see where we put blankets.”
With that, Phantom disappears from sight, taking with him a chill Damian had not noticed he’d brought. Jason stares after him, wearing a look Damian has never seen. Shoulders relaxed, hands twitching as though he wanted to reach for him, a hint of pink high on his cheeks, that fond, fond, smile-
“You love him,” Damian says softly. “Phantom.”
Jason doesn’t look at him. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re not denying it.”
Jason sighs, and this time, he does meet Damian’s eyes. He can’t read the emotions there, but Damian knows he’s right. It’s a long moment before either of them speak, but Damian will not be the first one to look away.
He won’t.
“Are we in love? I don’t know about him, but I sure as hell am,” Jason says, “but that’s a problem for us to deal with in the future. There’s still the Pit Rage in my head – even if Phantom makes it quieter, on the bad days – and my ghostie? Phantom deserves more than what I can give to him.”
Damian falls silent. His brother makes good points, but that does not change that they’re good for each other. “Would you wait for him?” He asks, eventually. “For the future you speak of?”
“In a heartbeat,” Jason says, and there is no hesitation in his voice. “For Da- for Phantom, I’d wait ‘til I’m on my damn death bed.”
“Good,” Damian says, before taking a long drink of his tea. It’s starting to go cold now, he notes, but it hardly matters. Then, “You are both good people. You deserve something like love.”
Jason snorts. “You’ve got a strange definition of good people, baby bird.”
As he speaks, the cold returns, and Phantom flickers back into view. It’s a strange sight, an antihero known for his uncanny nature using his ghostly tail to carry a pile of blankets, but it brings a smile to Damian’s face. A quick glance tells him that Jason is smiling, too.
“Found them!” Phantom signs excitedly, wearing a bashful grin. “Were under the bed, had accidentally phased a few into the floor.” He looks between the two of them. “Everything alright?”
Damian nods. Jason slides out of his seat, only to drape his arm across Damian’s shoulders, grinning widely. “Don’t worry about it, Boo,” Jason says, “everything’s fine out here.”
The two of them keep talking, and Damian opts to watch them. Yes, he thinks, everything is going to be okay.