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The problem with Damian Wayne was that he planned for everything.
Except, apparently, for the fact that his eldest brother had no concept of privacy.
"Tt," Damian muttered, shoving Jon's face away from his neck. "Stop. You're going to leave a mark."
Jon grinned, fangs—no, just very sharp canines, because he was half-alien and insufferable, still grazing Damian's pulse point. "That's never stopped you before. You wore a turtleneck for a week after the cornfield incident."
"That was your fault. You bit me like a feral animal."
"You liked it."
Damian's glare could have curdled milk. Jon's grin only widened.
They were sprawled on Damian's bed—an actual bed, with pillows and sheets and everything, because for once they weren't pressed against a tree trunk or hovering a hundred feet above a forest canopy. It was almost disgustingly comfortable. Damian had insisted on operational security: doors locked, windows sealed, comms off, Alfred the Cat banished to the hallway.
For the first hour, it had worked beautifully.
Damian had discovered, much to his private dismay, that he liked the domesticity. Jon's weight on top of him, warm and solid. The way Jon's hands mapped his ribs like they were memorizing a battlefield. The quiet sounds Jon made when Damian pulled his hair, just hard enough to make him gasp.
They'd already finished once. Maybe twice. Damian had lost count, which was embarrassing. He was supposed to be the one with perfect recall.
Now they were in the lazy aftermath, making out like teenagers—which they were, but Damian refused to acknowledge the cliché. Jon's lips were swollen and ridiculous. Damian's shirt was somewhere on the floor. Jon's was tangled around his elbows, half-off, half-on, the Kryptonian symbol peeking out like a banner of surrender.
"We should do this more often," Jon murmured against his mouth. "Your room. It's nice. Private."
"Private is a relative term in this house," Damian said, but he was distracted by the way Jon's thigh pressed between his legs, and his voice came out less dismissive and more breathless than intended.
Jon noticed. Of course he noticed. "You're soft today," he said, almost wonderingly. "You only get like this after—"
"Finish that sentence and I will castrate you with a batarang."
"—after I make you feel good," Jon finished, undeterred, and kissed him again.
Damian let him. For exactly three more blissful seconds.
Then the door opened.
Not knocked. Not announced. Opened.
Because Damian had locked it. He remembered locking it. He had checked the lock twice, which was standard protocol. The lock was digital. Tamper-proof. Batman approved.
The lock, apparently, was no match for a former Boy Wonder with a skeleton key and the world's worst timing.
"Hey, Dami, have you seen the—" Nightwing stopped.
The room went very, very quiet.
Damian processed the situation in 0.3 seconds: Jon was on top of him. Jon's shirt was around his elbows. Damian's shirt was on the floor. Damian's hand was in Jon's hair. Jon's hand was down the back of Damian's sweats. Damian's mouth was very, very red.
And Nightwing's face was experiencing what could only be described as the five stages of grief in real time.
"Oh," Dick said, high-pitched. "Oh."
"Get out," Damian said, flat and deadly.
Jon, the traitor, had frozen like a deer in headlights. His face was the color of a ripe tomato. "Mr. Grayson—I mean, Nightwing—I mean—"
"Out," Damian repeated, reaching for the nearest projectile (a hardcover copy of Sun Tzu's The Art of War).
Dick raised both hands, palms out, already backing away. "I didn't see anything. I saw nothing. This room is empty. You are both fully clothed and discussing—taxes. You're discussing taxes."
"THAT MAKES IT WORSE," Jon squeaked.
The door slammed shut.
Footsteps fled down the hallway, fast enough that Dick had to be using his acrobat training.
Silence.
Damian lowered the book. Slowly, he turned to look at Jon.
Jon looked back, mortified. "Is he going to be okay?"
"Richard Grayson has survived the Joker, two separate apocalypses, and Tim's conspiracy boards," Damian said icily. "He will survive this. However, I will not survive the hour of tedious emotional conversation he will inevitably inflict upon me tomorrow."
Jon winced. "Sorry."
"You should be." Damian sat up, running a hand through his thoroughly ruined hair. His mind was already recalculating. The Manor was compromised. His room was a liability. Alfred the Cat had been banished for nothing, which meant the cat would be vengeful, which meant shoes would be urinated upon.
"This is why I preferred the woods," Damian muttered.
"You mean the time we almost got caught by that hiker?"
"At least a stranger would have simply screamed and run away. My brother will now attempt to give me the talk. Again." Damian shuddered. "The first time was bad enough. He used diagrams, Jon. Diagrams."
Jon crawled over and wrapped his arms around Damian's waist from behind, chin hooking over his shoulder. "Okay. New rule. No more Manor. Your room's out."
"My room is ash. Burnt earth. Scorched ground."
"Your mom's room?"
"Jon."
"Kidding! Kidding." Jon pressed a kiss to the side of Damian's neck, softer this time. "Your place or mine? Woods? Mid-air? I vote mid-air. You did that thing with your legs last time that made me almost drop you, which was hot."
Damian leaned back into him, despite his better judgment. "Your room. Your parents are rarely home, and your mother likes me."
"Conner almost walked in on us twice."
"Your mother likes me and your father is terrified of me. That's a ninety percent success rate."
Jon laughed, warm and genuine, and Damian felt something in his chest do a stupid little flip. He ignored it with the same discipline he applied to ignoring fear gas.
"Fine," Jon said. "My room. Tomorrow. Seven sharp."
"Be on time," Damian said. "And bring snacks. Post-activity nutrition is non-negotiable."
"Yes, sir." Jon gave him a mock salute, then floated up off the bed, finally tugging his shirt all the way back on. "Hey, Dami?"
"What?"
Jon grinned, hovering near the window. "Worth it."
He was gone before Damian could throw the book at him.
Damiani sat in the wreckage of his ruined privacy, listening to the distant sound of Dick making increasingly unhinged sounds in the hallway—something about "therapy" and "bleach for my brain."
He pulled out his phone.
Damian: New operational protocol. No Manor. Any of them.
Jon: lol agreed
Jon: your room is cursed now
Jon: like actually cursed. i felt a chill.
Damian: That was your shirtlessness.
Jon: oh so you admit i'm hot
Damian: I admit nothing.
Jon: you literally just—
Damian: Goodnight, Kent.
He put the phone down.
Then, after a pause, he picked it back up.
Damian: Seven o'clock. Tomorrow. Your room.
Damian: Don't be late.
Jon: 🦸♂️💚
Damian deleted the heart emoji from his memory with extreme prejudice.
Then he went to find Alfred the Cat and apologize. Some battles weren't worth fighting.