Damian wakes to a throbbing pain in his head and the blurry ‘s’ shield hovering over him. It takes him a moment to realise that the colours are all wrong to be superman. Black and red. Drake’s colours.
He tries to get his elbows under him, but before he can move an inch, he’s pinned down by an invisible force.
“Don’t move,” says a strained voice. “We don’t know how far away they are.”
Damian glances further up, spotting the glow of inhuman eyes in the darkness. It’s the clone, braced over Damian with a steel beam and mountain of debris precariously balanced on his shoulders. Tactile telekinesis, he recalls from the clone’s file. Damian had first seen the clone’s power in the manor’s kitchen. He remembers scowling into his breakfast tea at the sight of Drake laughing as he floated through the air, the clone’s hand on his ankle.
Damian shifts under the weight of TTK. “Let go,” he insists.
The clone considers him. “If you promise to stay still. Even if we’re alone, the building might still come down on top of us.”
Damian considers the wreckage above them again. Given his headache and the short-term memory loss, he must have a head injury. He vaguely remembers the start of the evening: Jon laughing with sauce smeared on one cheek, a Burger King hat propped on his curls–then the overwhelm of a too-close explosion. His memories go hazy around that point, but he recalls the sight of Drake’s face slack with terror, features illuminated by a sickly green glow.
Damian studies Kent. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but when Damian looks closely, he realises the clone’s arms are shaking. He’s lost his leather jacket and stupid glasses, and his curls are a mess, tangled and falling into his eyes. It’s too dark to spot any injured. Drake and Kent both prefer red and black, colours suited for stealth and concealing injuries. “Like a pair of nesting dolls,” Richard had once said when he’d brought up the pair’s matching colours. Damian tries to imagine matching with Jon, but the thought of Jon wearing the Robin yellow-green-red just makes him feel embarrassed.
“Release me. I will not move.” The invisible pressure fades. Damian squints up at the clone, resisting the urge to pat him down the way Batman frisks his more stubborn siblings for injuries. “Where are you injured?”
Kent huffs. “Who says I’m injured?”
“The strain in your arms. I know you are strong enough for this weight not to be a burden.”
Kent’s smile is crooked. “Thanks, dude.”
“I wasn’t complimenting you; I was just stating a fact. If you were not injured, you would also likely be fast enough to get the both of us out of here before any villains became a threat. The fact that you haven’t suggests that you can’t. Ergo, injured.”
Kent laughs, quiet and fond. He’s never looked at Damian with so much affection before. It’s disconcerting. “I should’ve known I couldn’t hide something from a Robin. Neither of you would ever admit it, but you and Tim are actually very similar.”
Damian scowls. “Shut up. Be useful and tell me about your injury.”
Kent shrugs, then freezes with a wince. The wreckage shifts with him—a rolling, groaning wave of metal and rubble that makes them stare at one another in quiet understanding.
“Right thigh,” Kent murmurs. “Tim stopped most of it from reaching me, but a small shard of kryptonite got lodged in my leg anyway. And when I say small, I mean tiny. Microscopic. I can barely feel it. So like, don’t even stress.”
Damian is not worrying, but Kent’s babbling and increasingly pallid face are not reassuring him.
“Besides,” Kent goes on, as Damian begins to scan the debris for an escape route, “I’m used to functioning after kryptonite exposure. Cadmus was like, the worst place ever, and they’d sometimes run these drills to make sure I could still—anyway, it’s in the past. I’m fine. And Tim will come back for us soon.”
“And Jon,” Damian adds.
Kent makes a face. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t love the idea of Jon coming back to any place that was recently full of kryptonite, but I know he’s too stubborn to stay away when we’re both here.”
“I think I can climb around you and out of the wreckage.”
It looks like the building was only partially destroyed. The fact that nothing else has collapsed or shifted in the few minutes that they’ve been pinned is a positive sign. It just needs to hold for a few more minutes so they can make their escape.
Kent frowns nervously at him. “Are you sure? If anything happens to you, the entire Bat family will come down on me harder than when they found out Tim and I were dating.”
Damian remembers that time with fondness. The initial discovery had repulsed him—finding out that his brother not only had the capacity to be romantically interested in others (ew), but that Jon’s big brother was the person he’d chosen to be intimate with (ewwww)—but watching Kent receive half-a-dozen shovel talks from the Bats had been very entertaining. Kent had taken the interrogations with surprising grace. Tim, on the other hand, had been furious at all of them for weeks.
“I will be fine,” Damian insists. “Once I’m free from the wreckage, you can free yourself.”
“Right. Okay, sure. Yeah.” Damian eyes him skeptically. Kent tries to reassure him with a smile, and the expression is so Jon that it actually works.
Damian flips onto his front and pushes up onto his hands and knees. He loops his cape around his shoulders and ties it in a loose knot to prevent it from getting snagged on anything sharp as he moves. Then, with a deep breath, he shoves up through the little hole between Kent’s shoulder and the skyline. The debris is sharp and uneven, and glass shards cut into him as he moves. His body armour protects him from the worst of it, but he feels blood bed and begin to drip down his chin and jaw.
He wiggles under a steel beam and emerges from the wreckage with a gasp, like he’s breached the ocean surface after a long dive. He looks around. Most of the building is gone, collapsed into a dome of wreckage with Kent still at the centre, but a skeleton outline of walls and blown-out windows still, somehow, remain.
Damian pulls away from the debris and braces himself against a far wall, suddenly dizzy, and whistles a bird-call. Kent won’t understand the specific meaning behind this call—only another Bat could—but he’s been around them long enough to read it as the signal it is.
The wreckage shifts with a scraping groan. Then Kent is barrelling out of the debris, so fast he’s almost a blur. The debris crashes over where he once was with a booming thud. Kent smashes into the wall next to Damian so hard he leaves spiderweb cracks in the brick.
“Success,” Kent moans, slumping around his injured thigh.
Damian eyes him. Under the moonlight, Kent is even paler, his normally tan skin turned ashy. Sweat dampens his curls. A thin gash extends down his back, bleeding sluggishly.
Damian vaguely remembers a sizable pile of kryptonite in this very warehouse, several hours previous. But how? The Bats and Luthor have had a monopoly on Kryptonite for years. It’s rare for anyone else to have that much. And for them to hurt the clone like this…
Damian’s stomach sinks. Is Jon okay? Is he somewhere in Gotham, sick with Kryptonite exposure and all alone?
No, Damian tells himself. Drake must be with him. He wouldn’t abandon any Kent, especially knowing that there was untracked Kryptonite somewhere in the city.
Damian tries to think back to the villains they’d encountered earlier that night, but his mind only conjures up faceless figures, the flash-bang of Tim’s smoke pellets… His head wound throbs.
“You said that the villains may still be close,” Damian says, crouching beside Kent. “Do you remember who attacked us?”
Kent grimaces, clearly realising that Damian mustn’t remember. “Scarecrow.”
sh*t. The last thing either of them need right now is a dose of fear toxin.
“We need to move,” Damian says.
Kent tries to stand, but his knees give out under him and he crashes back down again. He’s shivering faintly and his gaze is unfocused—not like he’s using x-ray vision to look through him, but like he’s not seeing much of anything at all.
Damian has come to the conclusion—somewhat reluctantly and with a lot of coaching from Richard—that Drake… may not be the worst person to have as a brother. As an ally, he can even be useful on occasion. It makes sense, therefore, for Damian to want to keep the clone in one piece, both physically and mentally.
Drake’s physical and mental health can be fraught at the best of times. He hasn’t heard the full details of Drake’s frenzied mission to find Father when he was lost to time, but he has observed the worried looks and whispers that pass between his older siblings. Brown sometimes calls that time Tim’s “unhinged era.” Whatever that means.
Damian has also seen enough to know Tim is unhealthily attached to the clone. If anything were to happen to him, it would have a detrimental effect on Drake’s physical and mental health and, by extension, the rest of the family.
He crouches beside Kent, one hand on his shoulder to keep him from trying to stand again. “We need to find a way to contact the others.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a very small Bat-Signal on you by any chance?”
Damian frowns at him. “And advertise our position to every Rogue in Gotham?”
Kent shrugs. “I don’t know, man. I always thought the Bat Signal was kind of dumb anyway.”
Damian resists the urge to drop him. The Kents don’t understand what being a non-powered superhero is like, he tells himself. Especially not in a place like Gotham.
“I would call Jon’s name until he heard me,” Kent says, “but I don’t really want him to come barrelling this way if Scarecrow is still running around with kryptonite. Jon can be… kind of impulsive when his friends and family are in danger.” At Damian’s side-eyed glance, Kent laughs. “Yeah, no idea where he got that from.”
“At least you’re aware of your own flaws and can plan accordingly.”
“Uh… thank you?”
“I agree that it would be best for Jon to stay away from this area. We’ll leave calling him as a last resort.” He feels nauseous at the thought of Jon dosed with kryptonite and fear toxin.
“Hey,” Kon says after a moment, voice pitched low. “I bet Jon is fine. I trust Tim to look out for him.”
Strangely, Damian also feels better knowing that Drake is with Jon. Drake wouldn’t allow an ally to be injured. More importantly, Drake would probably tear the world apart to protect a Kent.
“We will try to meet up with them when we are a safe distance away,” Damian decides. He hauls Kon’s arm over his shoulder and braces himself. “On my mark. One. Two. Three–”
They lumber upright. Kent almost lists to one side but Damian jerks him back up. They manage a slow but steady pace out of the building, with Kent shakingly able to keep most of his weight on his good leg. Damian keeps a guiding arm around his waist. It is not the first time he’s hauled an injured older hero to safety.
Damian quickens their pace, pulling Kent into the side alleyway and further away from the destroyed building. He keeps half an eye on the rooftops above them, but sees no sign of danger or their brothers.
His thoughts turn back to Jon. He wonders if he trusts Damian to look after his brother, the same way Kon trusts Drake? And does Drake feel the same? Does he feel reassured by the knowledge that the clone is with Damian?
They push onward into the night. The further they go, the more Kent sags against him. Damian readjusts his hold, taking more of his weight with ease. He’s half-dragged Batman back to safety more times than he can count. Kent may be a Krypontian—as strong and dense as a dwarf star—but he is much smaller than father and without any of the heavy Kevlar weighing him down.
“Can you hear Jon or Drake?” Damian asks, voice kept low.
Kent shakes his head. His sweaty curls fall into his eyes. “The kryptonite is still in my system. I can only hear for about a block, and that’s if I concentrate.” They shuffle past an overfilled trash compactor, having to move closer together to avoid the spill of garbage. “What do you think Jon and Tim are doing?”
Damian considers this. “No doubt Drake has already concocted half a dozen hair-brained plans to find us.”
Kent snorts. “Only half a dozen?”
“And a dozen contingencies that are equally insane.”
Kent laughs, voice rough and too-quiet. “That’s our Tim. Y’know he’s probably worried that we’re alone together.”
A chill shoots through his stomach. “Surely he knows I am not foolish enough to try to attack you when–”
“No, dude.” Kent flaps a hand in the air. “He’d be more worried that we’d swap embarrassing stories about him. Hey, did you know he couldn't remember how many planets were in the solar system just last week?”
Damian stops in the middle of the alleyway. Kent is pulled to a stop beside him. “What?”
Kent droops by his side with a wheezing laugh. “Right?”
“Some say his intellect rivals my father's and yet he doesn't know elementary school science?”
“To be safe, he was running on hour 30 of no sleep. But then again, I've seen him pull off miracles while even more sleep deprived, so it's really no excuse.”
Damian takes a moment to appreciate that (and consider how his siblings will also appreciate learning of this, next time Drake infuriates him). Then he draws them both back up and continues into a small side street hidden in shadows.
“Last year,” Damian says, “Drake went to a charity gala while trying to pretend he wasn’t sick and thought the best way to avoid speaking to anyone there was to hide by the buffet table, eating far too many shrimp co*cktails.”
“Oh no.”
“He threw up on Father just as he was about to give his thank you speech.”
”Oh no.” Kent looks torn between horror and laughter. “How did I not hear about this?”
“It’s possible he tried to bury the news coverage. Or else he hacked into your personal devices and blocked the story from you specifically.”
A normal person—or whatever passes for normal in their circles—might at least pause at the thought of their personal devices being hacked. Kent just snorts, looking almost fond. “What a f*cking dork. Are there pictures of it?”
“Yes, as well as videos. I think Hood may have the photo of Father covered in barely digested shrimp vomit taped up on his fridge.”
Kent grimaces. “I doubt Hood would ever willingly let me into his place, but I’ll see if I can find the photos on google.”
“No need. I will forward them to you when we return to the manor.”
“I knew I could trust you.”
They share a knowing glance, aware of Tim’s impending rage and silently thrilled about it. Damian wonders if Jon has seen the video, and decides he’d probably enjoy seeing it again regardless.
They swerve out of the alley and into a narrow lane with three blown street lights. The night is noisy with far-off sirens and traffic, though this area is strangely quiet. Damian is so distracted by Kent starting up a new story (something about Tim falling asleep during their third official date and face-planting in his bowl of spaghetti) that he almost misses the shadow passing above them.
Damian spins them around and darts into a side street that’s better lit. It gives them less visibility, but if they can get some distance between them and their pursuer, and then duck into another alley and slip away–
Kent wobbles by his side. Damian tugs him along faster, half-carrying him. His well-trained ear picks up the sound of multiple footsteps above and somewhere to the left.
“Robin–”
“Be quiet,” he hisses.
Kent is squinting over his shoulder, eyes shining inhumanely blue. “They’ve got kryptonite. And something else. It’s hard to see but–what does fear gas look like?”
Damian’s stomach sinks. He fumbles for his grappling hook and shoots it up and over the building to their right, abandoning any sense of stealth. The line pulls taut and they’re jerked up into the air. They land awkwardly on the rooftop, Damian’s knee squashed up against Kent’s bad thigh. Kent muffles a quiet scream into his palm.
No time to apologise. “Up,” Damian demands, hauling Kent off the ground. He struggles to get his feet under him when Damian shoves him forward.
They’re in an older and poorer area. The narrow buildings are crammed together with ritchetty fire escapes that seem to spill into each other. It makes it easier to sprint clumsy and four-legged across the rooftops.
They stumble down and over a shorter building sandwiched between two larger skyscrapers. Not even halfway across the rooftop, Damian realises exactly what trap he’s just led them into and curses himself for his stupidity. Pincer maneuvers can be pulled off by even the most brainless henchmen. A Robin shouldn’t fall for such tricks.
He speeds up, half-dragging Kon along, but he isn’t fast enough. A henchmen lands at the end of the rooftop, blocking their escape. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that there’s more than one person blocking their exit too.
“f*ck,” Kon mumbles into Damian’s shoulder.
Damian side-steps so his back is to one of the taller buildings, keeping both groups of henchmen in sight. He shoves Kon down and fumbles for the bataraangs at his belt.
Kon lurches upright, only to tumble back down again when his legs give out. “Hey, where you are going--”
“Stay down.” Damian readjusts his stance so that he’s between Kon and their enemies. He’s not as tall or broad as his father, who is able to fully hide people behind his sweeping cape. Robin has never been about being big.
Damian hurls a bataraang at the larger group to his right, taking down two people at once. The group rushes him, and Damian plants his feet and tries to dispatch them as quickly as he can without moving and leaving Kent open to attack. He has no idea where his sword is. He must have lost it earlier in the night during the chaos.
He’s vaguely aware of Kent trying to get back up, no doubt to try and help him. “Stay down,” he snaps.
“I can still fight. Cadmus taught me–”
Damian would throttle him if he wasn’t busy dodging a clumsy punch from a henchman twice his size and weight. He dodges and sweeps the man’s feet out from under him. “I don’t care. Stay down. Red Robin would kill me if something happened to you.”
Kent hobbles to his feet. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“You’ll see dramatic when Red Robin goes full supervillain after you get yourself killed again.”
“Red would make a smoking hot villain, but–”
Damian whirls around. “Shut up! Sit back down and let me protect you–”
Kent’s eyes widen. He tackles Damian hard enough that they roll to they crash to the other side of the rooftop, Kent turning them so Damian is kept pinned beneath him his body weight. TTK presses him down, down, and then the world goes red-hot, light blinding even with his eyes closed. The ground shakes. Kent curls up tighter over him.
When Damian opens his eyes, he almost expects to see a dark cape falling over him. But there’s only Kent, blurry-eyed and shaking with the effort of remaining upright, costume even more scorched and bloodied than before.
Damian fumbles for his utility belt. He hurls a smoke bomb over Kent’s shoulder, then snags the grappling hook. Hidden by the sudden plumes of smoke, he drags Kent up and away from the rooftop.
“Hey MOTHERf*ckER,” Damian hears somewhere behind him, and almost goes boneless with relief. He’s never been so grateful to hear Todd swearing. A moment later, Brown’s angry voice joins him, too low to be heard over the spray of gunfire but.
Damian carries Kent across another rooftop, before he loosens his hold and they both drop to the ground behind a rusted A/C unit.
Kent slumps against the A/C unit, eyes fluttering closed and mouth slack. “Kent?” He doesn’t flinch when Damian shakes him. “Kent, wake up. Kent. Kon.”
Kent groans, eyes opening a sliver. “Five more minutes, sweetheart,” he slurs.
Sweetheart?
Kent rolls onto his side and curls up like a pillbug. His suit is scorched, and the skin exposed by his stupid little side panels is deeply bruised. His ribs might be broken.
It’s the second time today that the clone has acted like a shield for Damian. Maybe it’s instinct. The Kents are used to throwing themselves in front of teammates and civilians alike. Damian has dived behind Jon to avoid a sudden hail of bullets more than once.
But Kent has a shard of kryptonite in his thigh. That sort of pain doesn’t lend itself to being forgotten. Kent might not be trying to show it, but Damian has seen each half-hidden grimace when he puts too much weight on his bad leg.
Kent peaks up at him, eyes too-blue. “You okay?”
Damian resists the urge to throttle him. “How could you ask such an idiotic question?”
Kon squints at him. “Yeah, you’re okay.”
“You are an imbecile,” Damian declares between gritted teeth. “Why did you–”
“Tim trusts me to look after his brother. Even if you are a little sh*t, I can’t let anything happen to you.”
Damian frowns down at him. Is Kent the one with the head injury? “You’re mistaken. Drake trusts me to look after you, because he respects my talents in the field and knows I wouldn’t let something happen to an ally–” A Kent. “--no matter how irritating I found them. It’s not…” He shakes his head, trying to find the words. “I don’t need your protection.”
Kent flops onto his back, wincing as his injuries are jostled. “I’m sorry, which one of us is invulnerable?” Damian uses his boot to nudge him in the side. Kent hisses. “f*ck. Point taken. Okay fine, look at it this way: no matter how invulnerable someone looks, no matter how much it looks like they don’t need protection, no one is an island. Even you, kid.”
“Do not call me kid. Technically, I’m older than you.”
Kent rolls his eyes and props himself up on his elbows. “Whatever, we need to get back to Tim and Jon in one piece. They’d both lose their sh*t if something happened to you.”
“Or you,” Damian says.
Kent peeks up at him, appearing oddly shy all of a sudden. “Yeah. Or me.”
As if called by his name, Jon crashes into the A/C unit by Kon’s right, leaving a teenager-sized dent in the plating. He topples half into Kon’s lap, scanning him with wide eyes. “Kon.”
Kon grabs a handful of Jon’s jacket and shakes him like he’d shake Krypto. Jon barely moves. “What are you doing here? It’s dangerous--”
Jon pushes his hands away. “Are you kidding me? I had to help Tim rescue my idiot brother obviously.”
“Who are you calling--”
“Are you bleeding?”
“I’m totally fine and totally handling it,” Kent insists.
Jon waves a hand at him. “ This is not handling it! This is the opposite of handling it.” Jon turns suspicious eyes on Damian. His eyes flash too-bright and too-blue for a half-second as he examines Damian with x-ray vision. “What about you, Dames?”
“Uninjured, aside from a minor head wound. Your brother got the brunt of the damage.” Because of me, Damian doesn’t say. He feels like a coward. “And you?”
Jon shakes his head, curls bouncing with the motion. “I’m fine. Tim looked after me. When we got separated, I wanted to come right back and find you guys but Scarecrow was right on our tail and Tim said we needed to prioritise getting away from the kryptonite.” Jon swallows. “I’m sorry, Kon.”
“Hey, none of that. You did the right thing. I would’ve been out of my mind panicking if I knew I had to look after you and Damian with Scarecrow on the loose.” Damian scoffs. Before he can call Kent out, he amends, “Okay, yeah, Damian was the one looking after me. But it would’ve been a lot harder for him to look after the both of us.”
“I guess.” Jon curls into Kon’s arms, pressing his forehead into Kon’s shoulder. Kon wraps his arms around him. Jon lingers in his hold for a long moment, savouring the warmth of his older brother. It reminds Damian of reuniting with Richard after long missions. Then Jon visibly steels himself and pulls away. “You’re injured and we’re still in the middle of Gotham.”
“We must get back to the cave,” Damian agrees. “Is it safe to move?”
Jon’s eyes flash again, using x-ray vision to check the state of the battle waging behind them. He chews on his lip, watching silently for a long minute. “Yeah,” he says at last, “Spoiler and Hood are leading most of them away, I think. There are still a few henchmen hovering around, but we can take them for sure.”
“Scarecrow?”
“Nightwing and Red Robin are handling him on the other side of town.” Jon laughs, tired and a little manic. “Actually when I left, Red Robin was the one handling Scarecrow. Nightwing was handling Red.”
Damian grimaces. Looks like he was right to worry about Drake going off the deep end if something happened to the clone.
“That’s my Red,” Kent says, a more pronounced slur to his words now that the adrenaline is wearing off.
Jon meets his gaze over his brother’s head, eyebrows furrowed. “We need to get him back to the cave.”
“Take your brother to the Batmobile,” Damian tells him. “It’s unlikely that Scarecrow would waste such a valuable weapon by giving Kryptonite to a henchman, but you should keep your distance just in case. I’ll take care of them.”
Jon nods. He scoops the clone up, ignoring the way he protests and squirms in his arms. “Thank you, Damian.”
Damian pushes to his feet. He doesn’t stop to think about how Jon is letting Damian protect him and his brother, especially after Damian did such a terrible job of protecting the elder Kent in the first place.
“I won’t let anyone touch you,” Damian promises. Either of you, he doesn’t say.
Jon smiles up at him, those familiar Kent curls falling into his eyes. “I know.”
They make it to the Batmobile without fanfare. They encounter three henchmen on their journey, but Damian dispatches them easily.
He slides into the driver’s seat to find the Kents sprawled in the back. The elder Kent is clutching the spare comm that had been hidden in the glove box, smiling goofily down at it.
“I’m thinking of adding stars to my new suit,” Kon is saying. “Really lean into the space theme.”
Drake’s voice comes through the comm, sardonic and slightly out of breath. “Is this where I’m supposed to say you’re already a star?”
“No, this is where you’re supposed to tell me how hot I’m going to look.”
“As if you could ever not look hot."
Damian meets Jon’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. Jon bites his lip to keep himself from laughing. Damian rolls his eyes. He’s rather impressed that no one has been making retching or kissy noises down the comms at them—but then again, it’s obvious how tense Tim is right now, and that’s just from hearing him over the comms. Damian can only imagine how manic he looks in person. He feels a vicious surge of gratitude knowing that Scarecrow will be one facing a vengeful Drake this evening.
Kon tips his head back, looking very pleased with himself. “I’m going to add more cut outs too. I’m thinking halter top with an open back”
Drake’s voice sounds increasingly strained. "Wouldn’t the jacket hide it though?”
“You’re right… Maybe I should go full Power Girl and get a boob window.”
“Hnng.”
Tinny laughter echoes through the comm, then Brown’s voice chimes in. “Red Robin is already kind of fragile right now. Are you trying to kill him, Nova?”
“Hey, I’m trying to cheer him up by putting good images in his head.” Kent’s voice drops an octave, becoming low and a little gravely. “I’m sorry, baby. I know how jealous you get. I’ll give you a private show when you get back.”
Kent looks like he’s going to continue, but Jon lunges across the backseat and snags the comm out of his hand. “Sorry about that, everyone. Supanova is currently hopped up on Kryptonite. I’m confiscating the comm now.”
“Thank f*ck,” Todd says.
“Aw, I was kind of enjoying the mental images too. Can’t I get a ticket to that show?” Brown asks. Drake makes a wordless noise on the comm that reminds Damian of when Batman interrogates villains. Brown laughs nervously. “Kidding, totally kidding!”
“Get back to the cave safely,” Richard says.
”Will do,” Jon says, then switches the comm to the emergency-only setting and tossing to the side.
Damian drags one glove off and shoves his bare finger up against the dashboard. The Batmobile recognises his fingerprint and the engine turns on with a near-silent rumble.
“Are you good to drive?” Kent asks from the backseat.
Damian scowls at him over his shoulder. “I may not be sixteen yet, but I am perfectly capable of--”
“Nah, I get that. Tim was driving well before sixteen too. But are you good? You got a nasty head injury earlier--”
“What?” Jon demands.
Damian huffs, turning back around to put the car into drive and ease them onto the road. “I told you, it was a minor injury. I’m well enough to drive the short distance to the manor.”
“Just checking,” the clone says, ignoring Jon pouting beside him. “It’s a big brother thing.”
After only a few minutes, Jon wriggles over the console and settles into the passenger seat. He buckles his seatbelt, even though, if they were in an accident, he’d probably just do more damage to the car than the car would do to him.
Jon’s Kent manners don’t stop him from kicking his feet up on the dash, though. “I can’t believe Scarecrow ruined our night. I didn’t even get to finish my milkshake.”
Damian doesn’t remember if he had the chance to finish his own milkshake. Or if he even ordered a milkshake in the first place.
“Next time,” Jon continues, “we gotta hang out somewhere that’s not Gotham. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in Metropolis.”
“No,” Damian agrees, “but we’d have a much higher chance of being spied on by Luthor or attacked by giant robots.”
“I would rather punch giant robots than deal with Scarecrow. And the risk of being spied on by your dad is way higher here.”
“Better than Luthor. Statistically, the chance of being attacked by Kryptonite is much higher in Metropolis. After the Justice League, Luthor possesses the largest supply of Kryptonite in the world—and has the most motivation to use it.”
“Yeah, I’ve never heard of a Gotham Rogue having Kryptonite before. That was really weird.”
Damian hums in agreement. Acquiring Kryptonite is expensive and risky, considering how closely the Bats try to monitor the black market for the substance. Villains usually only bother if they are planning a large-scale attack that will draw the attention of a Kent or even the Justice League as a whole. Or if they have a grudge against Superman and his family.
But Scarecrow doesn’t fall into either category. It seemed like he hadn’t even planned on leaving Gotham.
“Do you think…” Jon chews his lip, glancing at Damian. “Do you think it’s my fault? We haven’t exactly been keeping our hang-outs secret. Do you think someone knew I would be in Gotham tonight?”
“Perhaps. Drake and Kent haven’t been subtle either. Their relationship is public knowledge. It’s possible that Scarecrow was trying to hurt us by going after those closest to us.”
They begin to leave the city limits, skyscrapers and high rises giving way to housing and bushland. The city twinkles in the rearview mirror. Jon watches it quietly.
“It’s also possible,” Damian goes on, “that Scarecrow simply wanted to further his research and see the effect of fear toxin on an alien. He’s obsessive and sometimes unpredictable.”
Jon shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.”
“f*ck that guy,” Kent volunteers from the backseat. “f*ck all the Gotham Rogues. This city has always been crazy, Jonno. You can’t let that ruin what you and Damian have.”
“I know, but I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Kent waves a hand in the air. “What have we talked about? The Bats are mushy humans and it’s our job to step between bullets and them, but--”
“They’re stronger than anyone could possibly know.” It sounds like something rehearsed. Something Jon has said many times before. “I know that. It just sucks to think that I could be used as a hostage when I’m just trying to hang out with my best friend.”
“We can get burgers elsewhere, if you aren’t comfortable in Gotham,” Damian says. “Anywhere but Metropolis.”
“You’re just a hater,” Kent says.
Damian ignores him. The thought of Jon being used as a hostage against him or of Jon in Kon’s place—dazed and bleeding sluggishly from a shard of Kryponite, barely able to keep himself upright from the strain of it—made him feel sick. The threat of Kryponite is never more pronounced than in Metropolis and now, apparently, in Gotham.
“I don’t care,” Damian says again. “We can hang out on the moon if that’s what it takes.”
“Okay,” Jon says easily, that bright smile back in place. “You tell me when and I’ll fly us up there.”
Damian can see the concealed entrance to the Bat Cave up ahead. He laughs as he brings them home, trying to imagine how to drink milkshakes on the moon. “Deal.”
Drake careens into the Batcave less than an hour later. His bike has barely come to a stop before he’s killing the engine and tearing across the cave, cape whipping behind him.
“Medical,” Jon calls from his place by the railing, half-eaten sandwich in hand.
Propper on a chair beside him, Damian rolls his eyes. “Yes, obviously.”
“Hey, Tim is clearly operating on blind panic right now. I’m just trying to help him out.”
Drake ignores them. He flies up the stairs and bursts into medical, almost knocking over Pennyworth.
“Calm yourself, Master Timothy,” Pennyworth says, sidestepping him neatly. “Master Connor will be fine.”
Drake throws himself onto the bed by Kent’ side. He takes a moment to examine the long line of him–from the bandaged thigh, to bruised ribs healing rapidly under the giant sun lamp positioned over him.
Kent runs a hand through Drake’s sweaty hair. “Hey, baby. Miss me?”
“Mm,” Drake hums and then leans forward and kisses him. Kent leans into it with a sigh, curling a hand around the nape of Drake’s neck to keep him there. All the tension drains out of Drake as they kiss, like Kent is some sort of anxiety-stealing vampire.
Damian wrenches his gaze away. Jon is staring at the ceiling, face scrunched up “Yuck,” he mouths silently. Damian wholeheartedly agrees.
Pennyworth clears his throat. Kent and Drake continue making out. Drake looks moments away from climbing into Kent’s lap, which wouldn’t end well for Pennyworth’s careful stitches or Damian’s sanity.
“Master Connor,” Pennyworth says loudly, making the boys jump apart, “is still recovering from his injuries.” He levels them both with a disapproving stare. Drake shrinks under his gaze but Kent just looks smug. “As you both know, Kryponite continues to affect the body long after the substance itself has been removed. Master Connor requires rest.”
“Yeah, I know, Alfred.”
Alfred frowns at Drake. “And you know you should limit strenuous activity while Master Connor recovers?”
Drake winces. “Yes, Alfred.”
Pennyworth turns his stare on Kent, who winces. “Yes, Alfred.”
Alfred nods, satisfied. “Master Connor will be fine with time and rest. I’ll go and fetch extra food for you both.”
Alfred disappears up the stairs. When he’s gone, Drake wiggles off Kent’s lap and curls up on the mattress, half-folded around Kent, nose buried in his curls. Kent goes limp in his arms.
“You’re okay?” Drake murmurs into his hair.
“Yeah,” Kent says, one hand gripping Drake’s cape. “I’m okay, I promise. Hated being away from you and Jon like that, but Damian looked after me.”
Drake peaks over at Damian. His eyes are so wide and dark, like he’s still imagining all the things that might have happened to Kent tonight. All the ways he could have lost him again. “Thank you.”
Damian looks down at the cut-up sandwiches in his lap. He tugs at the crust of one of the triangles, feeling it crumble between his fingers. “You were with Jon.”
“Yes, I was.” Drake holds his gaze. A moment of silent understanding passes between them.
Jon shoves a sandwich triangle into his mouth. Through a spray of crumbs, he asks, “Has anyone talked to our dads yet?”
“Dibs not,” Kent says, grimacing.
Drake’s finger flies to his nose. “Dibs not!”
Damian copies the movement. “I also will not.”
Jon looks between them with betrayal. “I’m not telling dad and Batman!”
“Sorry, Jon,” Kent says from the safety of Drake’s arms, “but you gotta obey the laws of dibs.”
Jon looks ready to throw the platter of sandwiches at his brother, injury or no injury. Before he can resort to such methods, Nightwing’s bike cruises into the Batcave, much slower and safer than Drake had been earlier.
Nightwing has barely gotten his helmet off, before Jon is screaming across the cave, “DIBS NOT.”
“How are you feeling?” Drake asks, leaning against the doorframe, both hands carefully tucked behind his back.
Damian glares at Drake out of the corner of his eye. Drake winces.
“Grayson has been unbearable,” Damian says, hands tight around his sketchbook. “I’m fine.”
“You know the policy about serious head wounds. No patrol for three weeks.”
“Did you want something, or are you just here to state the obvious?” Damian turns in bed, contemplating throwing something at Drake—his tin of pencils, or maybe something heavier, like the water pitcher on the bedside table—but stops when Drake untucks his hands, revealing two heaping slices of apple pie. Pennyworth is an excellent baker, but that expertly crafted pie crust, little flowers and leaves woven into the golden could only be achieved by one person.
“Mrs Kent heard about what you did for Kon,” Drake explains, holding up the plates. “She sent her thanks along with Clark. He’s downstairs checking in on Kon and Jon.”
Superman would likely be upstairs soon to talk to him too. Damian has no need for the man’s gratitude, and he certainly didn’t rescue the clone in hopes of getting ‘thank you’ apple pie.
He’s not idiotic enough to say no to anything Mrs Kent has made, however. And if his heroics have earned him extra choc-chip cookies for the next year or so whenever he visits Smallville with Jon, then he certainly won’t be complaining.
Drake sets one of the slices on the bedside table and settles on the chair that Grayson recently vacated, the second slice of pie balanced in his lap. Damian once again considers hurling something at him so he will leave him alone.
“Come on, you can survive having Superman saying thank you for saving his son,” Drake says. “I don’t know what would have happened if–I don’t know what I would have done–”
“Something incredibly deranged and ill-advised, most likely.”
“Yeah, probably,” Drake admits, easily. He stabs a chunk of apple and pie crust on his fork and pops it in his mouth. “Kon also mentioned that you seemed surprised that he was wanting to protect you.”
“Tt, I know I’m not infallible. All heroes require allies.”
No one is an island, as Kon had said.
“Yeah,” Drake says through his mouthful of pie, “but he wasn’t just doing it because you’re an ‘ally’. He was protecting you for me.”
Damian blinks. “Excuse me?”
“What do you think I would have done if he hadn’t shielded you from the bomb?” Drake picks at his pie, not looking directly at Damian. “I would have done something just as deranged and ill-advised if I lost you.”
“But the clone is your…” Damian trails off. He’s not sure what word to use for what Drake and Kent are to each other. ‘Boyfriend’ sounds juvenile, and he’s too used to associating ‘partner’ with Batman (or Nightwing).
“And you’re my little brother.”
In the ensuing silence, Drake scoops another helping of pie into his mouth. He chews, crumbs on his chin, looking so calm and matter-of-fact.
Damian stares at the half-eaten pie, ears burning. “I… am also glad that Jon was with you. For a multitude of reasons.”
Before either of them can combust with awkwardness, Drake changes the subject. “I heard you and Jon are planning on having milkshakes on the moon.”
Damian scoffs. “Better than milkshakes in Metropolis.”
Damian glances at his slice of apple pie, left cooling on the bedside table. Drake hands it over with a grin, and there’s a fondness in that smile that Damian has never seen before–or, at least, never seemed aimed at him before. “Agreed.”
