Just something small to add, because we didn't really get the ending we all (w'all?) wanted:

_

"Shit," you said softly.

Titus was a good dog, like any dog. Well, Titus wasn't just any dog, as he probably had better training than the average policeman, but he shared a trait which seemed to be universal among his brethren; he was cute. Utterly precious. He turned Damian into a puddle of affectionate goop and rendered you speechless, but for the baby-babble you seemed to coo to him on repeat. Though on any other morning you would be treating him to lots of pets for such cuteness, he was currently panting over your totally shredded day-clothes, wagging his tail and acting absolutely innocent of his crime.

"C'mon, Titus, what the heck?" You scooped up your torn clothing and tossed it into Damian's trash. There was no point in searching your overnight bag, as you knew you only brought your pajamas. Worse, you couldn't wear your pajamas either—though they were okay to wear around Damian, they were certainly not decent enough for the Kents, who would be arriving later that day.

With a sigh, you dedicated yourself to scavenging Damian's room. The bed you had shared that night was laden only with sheets and blankets. His closet consisted of rows and rows of black turtlenecks, designer jeans and slacks, and he was much too observant to let you forget anything at his house. The floor was too immaculate for Damian or yourself to randomly toss aside spare shirts or pants, either—well, except for...

You balled the discarded items in your hand and gave another deep sigh. As you began to change with an air of reluctant annoyance, you knew exactly why Titus did what he did. He was much too smart and much too behaved to ravage your clothes like that. It could only mean one thing; he had been put up to it.

___

"You're a little shit, you know that?"

Damian didn't turn around. Unlike you, he had already made his impression on the Kents and was allowed to look like a mess. He lounged upon his back over one of the leather couches in the sitting room, most of his body curled over the arm, where he read, upside-down, The Art of War by Sun Tzu. He didn't look at you when he spoke. But there was no way you didn't recognize the sly, smirking tone in his voice—you'd heard it a thousand times, to the point where it almost felt his normal tone to you. You would also recognize his naked chest wherever you went, especially if you had been wrapped against it the night before.

"So I've been told. What have I done this time, beloved?" He flipped the page.

Even if the others walked the Manor, you were alone in the sitting room. The doors were even closed. There was no need to call you by the nickname, especially if it lacked the mocking note he would usually put in it when others were gone. It was funny to him, an exaggeration, a name you would hear in an overly-cheesy romance novel. And yet he uses it now, as easily and simply as if he'd called you by your own name.

Instead of voicing your frustrations, you stuck out your leg with a shock of irritation, pinned your hand to your hip, and sharply gestured up the length of your body at your attire.

Damian peered at you over the edge of his book. He examined you once, bottom-to-top (or top-to-bottom, from his point of view), then returned to reading. "You learned how to put on clothes by yourself. If you wanted a congratulations, I'm not going to give it. Though if you want me to teach you how to take it off..."

"Don't bullshit me, Damian Wayne!" You laughed. He watched the blush paint your expression with a devilish grin. Suddenly determined to wipe it off his stupidly handsome face, you spun around, picked up the nearest throw pillow and acted upon its name. Damian caught it neatly. When your toss missed its target you flushed even further, still in disbelief. Deciding that this was now something that interested him, he closed his book and sat up, then followed your command of, "Look at me!"

"Well, what do you want me to say?" Damian asked.

The frustrating smile remained on his face, and you considered smacking him with the pillow again. He wasn't usually so flirtatious outside of your little act. Was it because of all the suspicions that had been arising lately? Or... did he... did he hear you? This thought only made your fingers fist tighter around the couch pillow. Oh, no, you were going to be the one in charge here. He said that he was falling in love with you. And you knew it. That gave you something over him. Before you could act upon these thoughts, Damian's hands combed down your arms and gently pulled the pillow from your grip.

"That you're beautiful? That you look lovely in whatever you wear?"

He tilted his head to the side, making his eyes catch the light in a single off flash of gold over jade. Then suddenly he was close. His hands remained on your arms, silently pulling your chests closer, body language leading you into him in one great come-hither gesture. You froze when his nose grazed your cheek, knowing that he could hear how loud your heartbeat was in your ears, knowing that he was the cause.

He whispered, "Because you don't need me to tell you such a thing for it to be true."

"Quit avoiding the subject," you said, internally high-fiving yourself for not stuttering, "C'mon, Damian. You know what I'm talking about."

Damian clicked his tongue at your refusal of the moment he was creating, and that you had realized he was avoiding the subject. His eyes flicked down to the clothes that you were wearing. His clothes; a long-sleeve that was much too large on you, clearly inlaid with his cologne; a pair of sweatpants that were definitely his, as no one was capable of filling the ass of those pants quite like he could; and one of his sweaters, which you zipped up all the way over your nose and glared at him over.

"You're wearing my clothing," Damian said. He spoke blandly and obviously like he was telling you something boring. Regardless, he clasped the zipper of the sweatshirt and began to pull it down, exposing your lips and chin to him. He was impossibly transparent—this action gave him far too much joy.

"Wow, how'd you come to that conclusion, detective?" You sassed.

Damian smirked, "I have an eye for beautiful things. For the same reason, I know that something happened to your clothes so that you can't wear them anymore, and that you can't wear your pajamas because they're much too revealing..."

"Yes. And that something was you, giving Titus my clothes as a chew-toy!" You huffed.

"You have no evidence to suggest that, detective," Damian shot back, still taking his time undoing the jacket.

"Yes," you said, and with a huff through your nose, brushed away the hand that was now caressing up your waist and around your ribs, "I do."

Damian scoffed, but humored you, "And what is that?"

Moving out of his reach, you pulled off the jacket and dropped it to the floor at your heels. Now it was your turn to smirk; Damian watched it fall with slowly widening eyes, and his lips parted just far enough to accept your mouth when you pushed him onto the couch. It was funny, really; you barely filled in the long sleeves and even longer pantlegs, wrapping your sweater-paws around his neck and pulling him close. His hands jumped to wrap around you. Before he could gain any traction in the kiss you pulled off of him, staring down at him with a smug smile.

"You like it when I wear your clothes," you said. When Damian gave no argument, you glided until you were chest-to-chest and whispered in his ear, "Or is that just because you're falling in love with me?"

Though Damian's face immediately fixed with disgruntled shock, drawing his eyebrows together and letting his lips fix into a scowl—he never liked being found out—it changed much faster than you expected it to. He mimicked the satisfied grin on your face as it was falling, "I thought I was too prideful for you?"

You stared at each other, at a standoff. You both sat in the company of actors, and in part, liars. Even if that was something you already knew, the words suddenly gained more meaning. You had been lying to everyone about being in a relationship in the beginning. But that lie had soon transformed into the reverse; you were lying to each other about not being in a relationship at all.

"So..." Damian said.

You hummed, "So..."

"You faked sleeping?" Damian questioned, tilting his head to one side.

"Yeah," you said, "Only because I knew you'd say something sappy if I did. You?"

Damian turned his head away, growling out a mumble, "Couldn't sleep. Though I'd protect you after the mission."

Now looking at him under a much more serious light, your fingers ghosted over to prop up his neck. His eyes flashed again, and then he moved into the touch, relaxing there even if he was avoiding looking at you. You breathed in and Damian's smell came with it, something earthy and natural that you had grown so accustomed to that you almost forgot it was there. To think that you were so used to being with him this way, to being so intimate with him even if you weren't trying to, feeling that passion curl in your bellies when you exchanged a glance was a very welcomed slap to the face.

"I don't need you to protect me, Damian. I'd want you to sleep." You said.

"I know," Damian said. The corner of his mouth quirked, "Though that's not going to stop me. But... if so... what do you need?"

You looked at each other like you were going to kiss. Then you did.

Damian trailed it as you left it, leaning in as you pulled away to speak, not wanting to let the moment walk by him. This is the most you'd ever kissed him before. You'd kissed him once, but that was for a reason. This carried no reason. It was just a kiss, and if it needed a reason than it was only to reconfirm what had already been said. Or whispered, rather, when neither thought the other was listening.

"I only need you," you promised him.

Your hand had moved to cup his face. Damian sunk into the feeling, eyes falling shut with the bliss of your touch, of your fingers holding him. A great sense of love filled him like a complete breath of air. But it wasn't from him; it was from you, boiling over at the edges and spilling onto him in a bath of warmth.

Your touch was light. Too light for his taste, even if the soft strokes of your thumb were melodious and your palm was a heaven. Taking hold of your fingers, he pressed them deeper, drained every part of this infinite fountain that he could.

Damian's smile was so near that you could feel the curve of his lips move, "That can be arranged..."