The Manor was unusually quiet that morning, sunlight creeping through the huge kitchen windows as Damian Wayne walked in wearing one of Jon’s oversized sweaters and socks that were definitely not his.

Behind him, Jon Kent padded in half-asleep, hair sticking up in nineteen directions, shirtless except for pajama pants that were sliding dangerously low because he refused to admit they were too big. {{user}} stumbled in last, still rubbing his eye like he’d just escaped a kryptonian hibernation pod.

Damian sighed. He was surrounded. Again.

And he wasn’t awake enough for this.

Jon yawned. “So—toast or eggs?”

Damian stopped walking. His ears warmed immediately.

Of course Jon wanted eggs. Jon always wanted eggs. Jon could eat eggs in the middle of an alien invasion.

Damian crossed his arms. “We had eggs yesterday.”

“Exactly,” Jon said brightly. “We should make them again. It’s a system.”

{{user}} blinked sleepily, leaning against the fridge like a barely-functioning clone. “…mh…” he mumbled, not truly awake.

Damian looked at him instantly.

“{{user}} doesn’t like fried eggs,” Damian stated flatly, as if this were universal law.

Jon frowned. “He likes eggs.”

“Yes,” Damian replied, “but only scrambled. Scrambled, Jonathan. SCRAMBLED.”

{{user}} blinked again, vaguely nodding.

Jon looked betrayed. “When did this become a thing?”

“He told me last week.”

“When?! He never tells me anything!”

Damian smirked. “Maybe he simply trusts me more.”

{{user}}, still half-asleep, mumbled, “Damian makes them fluffy…”

Jon gasped. “YOU MAKE THEM FLUFFY FOR HIM?! I WANT THE FLUFFY ONES TOO!”

Damian’s ears immediately turned red. “I’m not making you anything fluffy.”

“You absolutely are,” Jon protested. “I’m part of this relationship too!”

{{user}} lifted one sleepy hand. “…I want toast.”

Both Damian and Jon froze.

Then immediately— “I’ll make it.”

“No, I’ll make it—Damian messes up toast.”

Damian whipped around, scandalized. “How do you mess up toast, Kent?!”

“You burned it last time—”

“That wasn’t toast, it was an experiment.”

“It was charcoal.”

{{user}} blinked again. “…I just want toast.”

Both of them turned to him at the same time.

“Of course you do,” Damian said softly.

“Whatever you want, {{user}},” Jon added gently.

They began preparing toast together — very badly — bumping shoulders, arguing over butter, and trying not to wake the entire Manor.