Work Text:
It’s been raining consistently for three days, never once stopping. Though it isn’t entirely unusual for Gotham during autumn, it is entirely unwelcome. The city is somehow busier than usual in the rain with people trying in vain to move faster to avoid getting wet, only to get nowhere quickly; traffic intensified and the car horns honking every few seconds or so. Getting wet is something utterly unavoidable when the city is only a step down from a waterpark at this point in time. School kids run from Gotham Academy squeal loudly as they try to weave their way between cars to cross the street only to be soaked for their efforts and the other pedestrians shake their heads, wondering how people in Gotham can survive without having an umbrella on them at all times. It’s interesting to watch, funny even, but only now from the comfort of your own home, finally back from work and out of your uniform, humming quietly along to the classical music that is loudly playing through the speakers at opposing ends of your living-room.
Classical music isn’t your usual fair, usually preferring bouncy bubble-gum pop or fast-paced rock, and technically the playlist that’s playing isn’t even one of yours. It’s one of Damian’s, the sort that he plays on the rare days when he’s home at the same time that you are between his Opera playlists and soundtracks, but on days like today- days when you’re finally home from work after several days of overtime but still without Damian, who’s either working at Wayne Enterprises or in the Cape and Cowl- you need to listen to it, to pretend that he’s there with you. The penthouse is eerily empty today, seeming larger than usual. Even when all the inhabitants are present, there’s only two of you and a dog, but it still never seems as big as it does right now. The loud piano and violin reverberate off of the walls and you let out a soft sigh. You flop down onto the couch, dressed in an old shirt that used to be Damian’s and a pair of bat pattered shorts and find yourself tapping your fingers on the coffee coloured leather in time with the music, something that makes your tiny pug whine from his place just beside you. He climbs onto your lap and tries to hide his face in your stomach until you finally stop your tapping to gently pet his head before gently lifting him up and cradling him like a baby.
“Hello, Brutus…” You coo to the puppy, voice higher pitched and babyish, while his little tail begins wagging excitedly. Brutus was not your choice for a pug puppy. Not at all, and after Damian had brought him home there had been a several-hour-long debate about what the pup should be called. Damian hadn’t liked most of your name choices; shooting down as many of your suggestions as he could in as little time as humanly possible. Otis? Too obvious for a pug. Harry? Too Boring. Winston? Too Pretentious. Pugzilla had resulted in him rolling his eyes so hard that you half think they’ve rolled back into the back of his head. But the puppy had barked at Damian’s first suggestion. And so, Brutus it was, named after a character from Julius Caesar, and both Damian and the puppy were happy and so you were happy enough not to argue with it. Your thoughts, however, were a completely different matter. Of all the Shakespearian Characters, it had to be Brutus even when he was barely even three inches tall. “Hello, Brutus… Do you miss Dami too? Do you?” He barked at that, his wagging and wiggling more rapid and his blinking more excited. You tilt your head at that, not quite understanding the puppy’s response until a dark-tanned hand reaches out from behind you to pet Brutus’ head, causing you to let out a loud squeak of shock and turn to face your boyfriend: face handsome but tired, hair pushed away from his eyes, and his sleeves rolled up his arms. He looked half drenched, water dripping from his hair down the bridge of his nose and from his clothes to the floorboards down below. “Dami! You’re home!”
“Clearly.” Damian retorts, ducking down to gently press a kiss to the crook of your neck. He smirks as you shiver and let out a soft sigh. After a few seconds, he pulls away but only to walk over to the front of the couch, his smirk dissolving into a soft smile while he looks you up and down. “…Isn’t that my shirt, Beloved?“
"Might be.” You tease and pat the space beside you on the couch. Sighing, he sinks down beside you, loosening his tie before pulling his suit jacket off. “…You look tired. When did you get home? I… I didn’t hear you come in.” You admit sheepishly, but once you say it you realise that the squeal you let out at the sight of him probably made that very obvious.
“A few minutes ago. I doubt you can hear it over the Chopin. You know if you had told me you wanted to listen to this music so loudly I would have taken you to a performance rather than letting you play it this loudly at home. I think this is bordering on sound pollution.” He teases, something rare enough for you to treasure it. Damian’s playfulness is something you half think that he saves specifically for you and only you, and once you aren’t around he resumes his life with his usual mask of indifference.
“Oh yeah? Batman’s gonna come to teach me a lesson or two about not committing sound pollution in a city known for gunshots in the middle of the night?” You joke, a smirk on your face and arms crossed. He grimaces at the word Batman, but before he can chastise you for calling him it- he yawns. A few seconds later, he cracks his neck, eyes drooping slightly.
“Work has been troublesome, constant meetings and business talks. I do not understand how Father and Drake did it… There was a break out in Arkham. I’ve spent three days going from meeting to meeting, then from psychopath to sociopath…” He confesses, then gently leans his head onto your shoulder. Your fingers almost immediately dart up to cup his cheek and then slide up to run through his hair. It’s rare that Damian talks about patrol with you, preferring you not to know what it is he has to do while he’s in costume. It isn’t the first time you wonder whether Damian thinks that if you know then you’ll leave, but this moment of vulnerability means the world to you. It means he trusts you, and so you lean up to gently kiss him. The kiss is chaste, completely innocent, and Damian smiles against your lips, grateful just for the contact and not willing to take it any further just yet. “…I just wish to spend a night at home with my Beloved.” He whispers against your lips, and your heart swells slightly as it does every time he calls you that. It’s him who breaks the kiss after a few seconds, to stretch, letting out a quiet groan of pain as his shoulder cracks loudly enough for you to hear it and find it worrying.
“…Dami-"
"I’m fine Habibi.” He insists, drawing back and then leaning his head onto the couch cushion which causes you to pout childishly. Once Damian sees your pout he lets out a groan and covers his eyes to avoid seeing your sad eyes and quivering bottom lip; if there was one thing that would get you what you want from Damian it would be the pout.
“…I can draw you a bath.” You offer softly, voice barely more than a whisper as you cup his cheek and tilting his head towards you to pepper kisses across his cold, wet cheek, grinning as he lets out a defeated sigh.
“…Fine.”
You sit on the corner of the bathtub and lean over to turn the hot water tap, smiling as the steam begins to fill the bathroom in tandem with the water filling the bath. The bath’s large, something that you would have considered a small pool before moving in with Damian, covered in deep blue tiles that makes the water resemble a clear, blue ocean. It’s the sort of thing you would have considered decadence before Damian, but he seemed to consider it only just acceptable (something that made you wonder what sort Luxury he must have had in Wayne Manor as a child, or during the time he spent with his mother that he seemed much more tight-lipped about). If you’re honest, everything about the penthouse is large; from the windows to the high ceilings, the kitchen to the bed, and when you were younger you would have happily admitted that you never thought in a million years you would ever live anywhere like this but here you are, hunched over the bathtub feeling more like an intruder in your own home. Damian leans against the door, clad only in a bathrobe as he waits, spending his time watching you dip your fingers into the water and swirl it around, trying to test the water temperature.
“I’m surprised you haven’t put one of those ‘bombs’ you like so much into the bath.” He teases, but your face lights up with a bright grin and you rummage around through the many paper bags in the cupboard above the sink. There are so many bath bombs, and you try to think which of them he would prefer. Though he thinks that they’re little more than a waste of time, he knows that you love them- and he’s happy enough to buy them for you know that the company doesn’t test their products on animals. After a few seconds of you sniffing each bag and looking at the shape and colour of each individually, debating between mint and rose, Lavender and Lemon Grass, whether he would prefer his water to look like an intergalactic sky or the same green-blue of the sea. Somewhere in this train of thought, you open a bag and let out a triumphant giggle, and sniff the bag timidly before nodding at him. He sighs sarcastically at the sighs, making you brandish it in Damian’s face. He rolls his eyes, but it’s affectionate and he smiles softly as you shake the bath bomb’s black and white packaging in front of his nose.
“Thanks for reminding me, Love~” You trill almost childishly once he manages to move the bath bomb away from his face and press a kiss to your forehead. and then lean over to drop it in the water. It fizzes almost immediately, sending bright red tendrils of dye swarming from the fizzing mass into the expanses of the water, and then further wisps of glittering gold. All the while, the scent of strawberries began to fill the room, carried on the steam to diffuse through the air. As if in a trance, you watch the foaming ball, and then after a few seconds you grin as the two colours begin to merge, leaving the water a deep, glittering crimson like blood speckled with gold; and in this state, you hadn’t heard the sound of approaching footsteps. You didn’t realise that anything had changed until an unclothed, muscular arm winds around your waist causing you to stiffen slightly before realising who it is who’s touching you and then let out a quiet giggle.
“…Are you joining me?” Damian whispers softly into your ear and then nips at the shell of your ear, his deft and calloused fingers tugging your shirt upwards and then tickling at the plane of your stomach to make you laugh loudly. He grins, and then nips at the crook of your neck, causing any further laughter to die in your throat. His fingers trace patterns across your skin before pulling away, head tilted to the side. You nod and begin to strip quickly as Damian climbs into the bathtub and sinks down into the deep red water, but even while you’re caught up in your need to get into the water, you can feel Damian’s eyes raking up and down your body. It feels less lustful and more appreciative, and somehow it makes you more embarrassed than you would have been otherwise; you can claim your body as something Damian could lust after- something that he does, and regularly- but something worth admiring and staring at the same way people do art? No. Not at all.
“…You’re staring.” You mutter in embarrassment, but don’t stop removing articles of clothing until you stand there completely bare in front of him, cheeks flushed bright red while Damian looks completely unphased other than his smile. You step closer, arms covering your chest while you gnaw on your bottom lip. Damian’s gaze is held, while the blood-red water covers his body, reaching halfway up his scarred, but muscular chest; when he leans forward the soft light of the bathroom bounces off of the gold glitter on his dark skin.
“You’re beautiful.” He replies easily, so easily in fact that you find yourself believing him. He smiles up at you and offers you a hand to help you into the water, which you take and climb into the water, settling yourself in the space he’s made for you between his legs. The water is hot, almost too hot, but with your back resting against his cold chest, you find yourself at almost the perfect temperature, his arms finding their place around your waist while you turn your head. You listen to the rhythmic beating of his heart, and smile softly as he hums an old song you don’t quite recognise, and think- not for the first time- that you could happily spend the rest of your life like this.