Just another evening in Wayne Manor.

Jason didn't really want to be here. "Here" being the hallway. Well, the hallway was fine, it was the rooms it was attached to. Not all of the rooms. Dick's room was fine. Lots of... feelings attached to it though. Mostly "holy crap Dick, did you really think you could fool me like that, I mean really" feelings. The guy could at least fake his death better. Tim's room was fine too. It smelled like caffeine though, even though Tim hadn't been home in over a month. Seriously, he could smell it from down the hall.

He had some issues with Bruce's room. The guy tried, he really did, but they didn't really have a relationship anymore. Too many words said and actions done. But that was fine. They were in the same house and they weren't trying to kill/arrest one another. Compared to before, everything was sunshine and daisies between them.

He had some issues with his own room too. Seriously, Bruce hadn't done anything with it? It was exactly as he had left it, with math homework on the desk and a pencil balanced precariously on the headboard of the bed. Nothing had changed and it was kind of... creepy. He didn't like to go in there. When he stayed here, he normally crashed on the couch downstairs. Mostly because of the room, but partly because waking up to Alfred looking down on him in disapproval for something so innocent was really refreshing compared to the disapproving looks he got from Bruce for shooting fourteen thugs in the skulls for dealing to kids. Which had been four months ago. But clearly, Bruce had issues letting go. His room was a prime example.

Of course, neither of those rooms were why he was here.

That honor went to the room behind the wall he was sitting against. It was two hours after patrol. It had been a long patrol, one where they'd run into some of the League of Assassins, and then a hostage situation involving small children. But that was then. The kids had gotten out safely, the League's plot had been foiled. This was the now. He had a book, a mug of hot chocolate from Alfred, a slightly squished sandwich that he hadn't gotten around to eating on patrol, and all of his senses pricked for any changes.

Another hour passed. His hot chocolate got drank and mysteriously refilled. Ninja butlers. It was when he was half way through his book when he heard it. Clear as anything from the room behind him.

A whimper.

That was his cue. Carefully, he swept away any trace of him sitting there. The mug got placed inside the door to his room for Alfred to pick up later. The book got placed in an inside pocket in his jacket. Then, he went to the door he'd been sitting beside and shouldered it open.

And here he was. The only reason Jason even came to the Manor anymore. Little Damian Wayne, most recent addition to the Dead Robins Club. Deep in the throes of a post-resurrection nightmare. He was tossing and turning, crying out for Dick and Bruce, asking his mother why.

If Dick were here and not pretending to be dead, he would probably gently wake the kid, hug him, and talk gentle nothing reassurances until the kid calmed down. He was the only one who would get away with that. But he wasn't here. And Jason wasn't Dick.

Without missing a beat, Jason turned around and fell flat on his back across the little brat's legs.

Almost immediately, Damian was awake and holding a dagger to Jason's throat. The only reason he wasn't dead (again) was because he'd been through this before and had grabbed Damian's wrist, stopping the knife a good half inch from his jugular.

"So I have this problem." He stated. He didn't acknowledge the way Damian was panting, the wideness of his eyes or the way they darted left and right looking for threats, the sheen of sweat coating his skin. "Alfred's asleep, and I don't want to wake him. But I'm really hungry. And last time I went into the kitchen late at night, he showed up within five minutes and offered to make me some soup."

Damian took a deep breath. "Why should I care about your inane problems?" His voice had a quiver in it, despite the breath, but Jason didn't acknowledge that either.

"Because I want to go for burgers and you're coming with me. Get your coat." And he stood up, dragging the still-trapped wrist with him. With a deft twist, he disarmed the kid – without hurting him, a tricky task – and tossed the knife back under the pillow. That was where Damian kept it. Jason could sympathize. He normally slept with his knife and at least one gun. Even as Robin, he'd kept a batarang under his pillow.

"Tt." Damian tried to tug himself out of Jason's grip, but it was half-hearted at best. "Why should I go with you? Are you incapable of getting food by yourself? You have to bring a ten year old with you to protect you?"

"Not at all. But I want company and there's no way I'm taking Bruce." He dragged Damian over to the closet, dropping his wrist. "Get dressed and meet me in the Cave in five."

He left the room, heading down to get his motorcycle prepped. Damian would come down. For all his complaining and insulting, the one thing he wanted after a nightmare was company. Company and something harmless and normal and not at all related to anything he would have done in the League of Assassins. Like getting burgers at a greasy chain a twenty minute drive from here. Well, ten, with Jason's driving.

Really, he could relate. He'd gotten nightmares when he'd gotten tossed in the Pit, once he had enough of a mind to dream. They were horrible and debilitating and sometimes they carried over into his waking hours. He saw people opening up crowbars in rain and felt wood splintering his fingertips when he ran them across fine velvet and heard mad cackles in songs. But he hadn't had anyone to talk to. To be normal with. To be reminded that terrible things like crowbars and warehouses and coffins weren't in the here and now. Now was a crappy burger and a crappier older brother.

His nightmares had built upon themselves. And like hell Jason would let Damian's do the same.

And so it was, four minutes and twenty five seconds after leaving Damian's bedroom that the kid came tottering down the stairs, still a little disorientated from sleep. That in and of itself warmed Jason's heart a little. They'd both been in the League of Assassins. And in the League, unless he were sure he was completely safe, waking up was instant and complete. That Damian felt safe enough in Jason's presence to be showing weakness, to be rubbing at his eyes and yawning, was a little endearing.

Without a word, Jason tossed him a helmet and patted the passenger seat on his bike in invitation. Once the arms were wrapped as far as they could get around his waist, he took off, tearing out of the Cave at ludicrous speeds.

Jason's bike was a simple thing. Black. Red detailing. And an engine powerful enough to get a 747 into the air, but a passersby wouldn't be able to tell that from looking. But the important thing was, it didn't look like Red Hood's motorcycle. Well, not how people expected Red Hood's motorcycle to look anyways. They were expecting skulls and guns and his helmet painted on with flames surrounding it or something. Not even kidding. He'd overheard some crooks talking, and that was literally their entire conversation. His motorbike and how it probably looked like that.

But it didn't. It looked like any motorcycle in the city, which meant he got to take it out when Damian needed something normal.

Ching's Court was a terrible Chinese restaurant. The noodles were soggy, the vegetables were either overcooked or raw, and the meat had been thawed and refrozen so often, it might as well have come from a Talon. But strangely, it was a fantastic burger joint. The burgers were greasy, but the secret ingredient (probably oyster sauce) made up for it big time. And it was open late.

He parked and waited for Damian to follow him off the bike before activating the security. Marcy, a lumbering forty-seven year old who didn't realize or care that Marcy was a terrible nickname for Marcus, nodded at them when they came through the door, the little bell jingling at their entrance. As they took their tables, Marcy shouted at Yin that they would be needing their usuals.

Yes, they had come here before. Lots of times. And because no one came for crappy burgers at a terrible Chinese food restaurant at four in the morning, they were memorable. And liked. Ever since they had started showing up, the dealers who had taken up residence behind the shop had mysteriously vanished. Maybe a coincidence, but like most Gothamites, these people were a bit superstitious.

And so, within ten minutes, Jason had a bacon and cheddar double with a side of poutine in front of him and Damian had a tofu burger, curly fries and a milkshake.

They sat in silence, just eating, passing the occasional insult across the table about the other's eating habits or general posture. Once they were done, Damian shoved in his headphones and Jason pulled out his book.

They sat there until Damian's posture shifted from closed off and sullen to simply tired. Then Jason snapped his book closed. "Well, I'm beat. Time for bed brat. You've probably got school in the morning." He tossed a generous handful of cash on the table and nodded at Marcy as he walked out.

"Then maybe you shouldn't drag me to filthy, bug infested holes in the wall in the middle of the night. Moron." The last word was muttered under his breath.

Jason just smiled. He knew the kid didn't mean a word. "Maybe I shouldn't. But you're going to have to come up with a really good reason to make me stop." A good reason like no more nightmares.

Before the kid could come up with a scathing reply, or as scathing as it could be when he was mid yawn, Jason popped the helmet back onto his head. Grabbing the kid under his arms, he dropped him on the back of the bike, then swung his leg over. Once again, the kid held on to his waist, and they took off.

It was a quick and silent ride back to the Manor. Jason walked Damian right up stairs and to his door, said his goodbye in the form of a biting remark ("Well, it's been fun short stuff. Almost as fun as punting you off a building would be"), received a thank you for everything ("Why don't you just save us the trouble and jump off a skyscraper without your grapple?"), then headed back downstairs.

His bike had been left running. Not much point turning it off if he was just going to leave again anyways. He tucked the helmet away for when he would need it again. Probably in a few days.

He tore out of the Cave, faster now that he didn't have a passenger. He'd be at his apartment right before sunrise. Maybe catch a few hours of sleep, wake up mid afternoon, get ready for patrol.

Yeah. Maybe Dick didn't need to go on long trips to dives with bad food to help Damian get over his nightmares. But maybe Dick's way wouldn't work. Jason's was. In the two months since Damian had come back to life, he'd gone from two or three nightmares a night to one every few days.

Life didn't begin and end with a crowbar and a laugh. Life didn't begin and end with a cloaked clone and a sword. The stuff of nightmares ended when the dream did. Damian just needed to be reminded of that sometimes.

All it took was a simple crappy burger.

AN: Ah, fluff. Love that stuff. Another random one shot inspired by oh-mother-of-darkness's headcanons on tumblr. This one featuring Jason and Damian because those two need more interactions. Totally.

Read and enjoy!