''You didn't have to stay awake,you know that right?''
''And you know I sleep better next to you''
feat. doctor!d.wayne x wife!reader (implied to be arab/know arabic)
wc: 1575
The Manor is quiet in that sacred way only past midnight can achieve.
Not the hollow silence of an empty place.
But the full, breathing quiet of a home at rest.
Damian stands under the hot spray of the shower longer than necessary.
The scent of antiseptic finally gives way to cedar soap.
Hospital beeps fade.
Bright surgical lights fade.
When he steps back into the bedroom, hair damp and combed back, sleeves of his sleep shirt pushed to his forearms, he expects darkness.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, wrapped in a soft robe, a small book resting open in your hands. The tray in front of you is familiar.
Teapot.
Two small Moroccan glasses.
A bundle of fresh mint.
Sugar cubes stacked like tiny marble bricks.
You look up, warmth blooming in your eyes.
His gaze narrows slightly.
“You worked twelve hours.”
His steps are slow. Curious.
When he sits at the edge of the bed, you shift closer, your knees brushing his thigh.
“…It is one in the morning.”
“You intend to introduce caffeine into my system now?”
You gasp softly. “It’s not about caffeine, Doctor Wayne. It’s about comfort.”
Green tea.
Fresh mint.
Sugar.
Prepared with deliberate care.
He recognizes it immediately.
Atay — mint tea.
Sweet. Strong. Comforting.
You learned from your grandmother. He remembers the first time you made it for him — during a week he had been recovering from a cracked rib and pretending he was not in pain.
He watches your hands as you begin.
Measured green tea into the pot.
Hot water poured in, swirled, discarded — the rinse.
Then fresh water again.
Mint crushed gently between your fingers before adding it in.
Sugar — too much, by his standards.
“You will claim this is excessive,” you say without looking at him.
“And you will drink it anyway.”
The scent hits him first.
You let it steep, then perform the ritual properly — pouring a small amount into one glass and returning it to the pot, mixing it to balance the sweetness.
He watches the height you lift the teapot to.
The stream of tea arcs cleanly into the glass without spilling.
“You are showing off,” he notes.
You hand him the first glass.
It’s too hot to hold for long, so he grips it carefully by the rim.
You take the second for yourself and tuck your legs beneath you, your fingers grazing lightly along his bicep as you settle. Goosebumps rise instantly along his skin.
Sweet.
Strong.
Mint blooming across his tongue.
It warms deeper than the food had.
“You didn’t have to stay up for this,” he says more softly now.
“You didn’t have to save three people tonight.”
“Taking care of you when you pretend you don’t need it.”
Not analyzing.
Not assessing.
Just… looking.
“You’re quieter than usual,” you say gently.
He considers dismissing it.
“There was a younger patient,” he admits. “Seventeen.”
Your posture shifts subtly. Attentive.
“Internal bleeding. We stabilized him, but…” He pauses. “It was avoidable.”
Your hand slides over his forearm.
“I dislike preventable suffering,” he finishes.
Your hair slightly messy from waiting up.
Sleep tugging faintly at your eyes.
And yet you are here. Steady. Certain.
“You cannot correct every failing in the system,” you say quietly. “Even if you want to.”
“I can attempt to reduce them.”
“And you do.” You squeeze his arm. “Relentlessly.”
He exhales through his nose.
“I should have caught one detail earlier.”
Your voice isn’t teasing now.
You reach up and smooth your thumb across the crease between his brows.
“It shows up when you carry things you don’t need to carry alone.”
His gaze shifts away briefly.
He takes another sip of tea.
“…You would have been an effective pediatrician,” he says after a moment.
“No, I would dramatically collapse and make it about me.”
Despite himself, he smiles faintly.
The tea glass empties slowly between his fingers.
You refill it without asking.
The small domestic gesture makes something in his chest ache in a way he doesn’t resent.
“You smell better,” you murmur.
“You smelled like stress before.”
You lean closer, inhaling softly near his collarbone.
“Now you smell like soap and mint.”
Your cheek brushes his shoulder as you settle there.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Warm glass in hand.
The Manor asleep around you.
“You know,” you say quietly, “you don’t have to be sharp all the time.”
“Being soft won’t make you less capable,” you continue.
“It is not softness I object to.”
You tilt your head to look at him.
“You think resting is complacency?”
His jaw tightens slightly.
Then you turn fully toward him and place your hand against his chest.
Right over his heartbeat.
“You are allowed to come home tired,” you say gently. “You are allowed to not fix something for five minutes.”
He looks down at your hand.
Your fingers spread slightly over the fabric of his shirt.
“You think I do not appreciate this,” he says quietly.
“Because you forget you deserve it.”
Silence stretches between you.
He is not used to being read so precisely.
He is even less used to being handled with care afterward.
He sets his empty glass aside.
Then, without warning, he pulls you into his lap.
You let out a soft, surprised sound but settle immediately, your knees bracketing his hips.
His arms wrap around your waist.
You rest your forehead against his.
The exhaustion in his bones finally begins to settle properly now.
Not sharp.
Not heavy.
Just… there.
Your fingers trace lightly along his jaw.
“You did good today,” you whisper.
He closes his eyes briefly.
“You did not witness it.”
He presses a kiss to your temple.
Then another to your hairline.
“You are excessively confident in me.”
His arms tighten slightly around you.
“You are the only person who waits up for me like this,” he murmurs.
“I sleep better next to you.”
He studies your face again.
Memorizing it the way he does before difficult surgeries.
Grounding image.
Anchor point.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
Your expression softens deeper at that.
He does not often speak like that.
You lean down and kiss him.
Not playful.
Not teasing.
Slow. Intentional.
Mint and warmth lingering between you.
When you pull back, you brush your nose lightly against his.
“You’re welcome, habibi.”
His hand slides up your back, settling between your shoulder blades.
“Next time,” he says, voice low, “you will not wait until one in the morning.”
“Is that an order, Doctor Wayne?”
“We both know I won’t listen.”
Instead, he exhales and rests his forehead against your shoulder.
After a moment, you shift off his lap and begin clearing the tray.
He stops your wrist gently.
You slide under the covers together.
This time you don’t wait for him to settle first.
You curl immediately against his side, leg draped over his, cheek against his chest.
He wraps an arm around you automatically.
The faint scent of mint lingers between you.
His breathing evens slowly.
“You’re still thinking,” you murmur sleepily.
You smile against his chest.
He presses a final kiss into your hair.
The hospital will call again tomorrow.
There will be more cases.
More impossible decisions.
More moments where precision is the only thing standing between life and loss.
In the dark.
With your breathing steady against him.
With mint still warming his chest—
He allows himself to soften.
And sleep comes easier than it has in days.
A/N: Chat i think i have a crush on him
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