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Damian, Age 17, Wayne Manor. 5:36 pm.
“Hi.” Jon said, blinking owlishly behind his oversized glasses.
“If that’s what you came here to say, I implore you to work on your conversational tactics.” Damian settled cross legged on the end of his bed, facing Jon-– who still stood awkwardly in the middle of his room. By now he should have been curled up against Damian's headboard in his disgusting, germ-ridden school clothes, talking about something his school friends did or a cat he saw on his walk home. Instead he looked like he was waiting for Damian to kick him out, which Damain might actually do if he doesn’t stop being so strange. He had come over to do homework (read: talk about manga and comics). Instead, he gawked at Damian like a zoo visitor in the arachnid exhibit.
“Is something wrong?” Damian asked, “Because you’re acting like a–”
“Go to prom with me!”
Damian blinked.
Jon looked like he was about to vomit. “I mean, do you want to go to prom with me is what I meant to say. I'm not telling you to go with me, I'm inviting you. I was gonna do this whole thing with a poster and flowers because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you ask someone to prom, but you would probably think that’s stupid so I thought I would just ask, and–”
“Yes.” Damian cut him off. ‘I– yes.” he nodded. “That would be… pleasant.”
“Oh.” Jon smiled shyly, flushed. “Okay. Good. Cool.”
Damian’s face burned. “Cool. Yes.”
Prom. With Jon. As a date. Damian tried his hardest to push down the complicated mess of emotions rising to his throat for later, when Jon wasn’t standing in front of him, blushing and smiling at Damian, and fuck, Damian was screwed.
He wasn’t exactly sure what they were supposed to do now. Jon was still standing dumbly in the middle of the room, and Damian was still on the bed, suddenly acutely aware of his body. Where had his hands been a moment ago? He moved them from his lap to his knees, then into his hoodie pocket. Where did he normally put his hands?
“It’s next Saturday, by the way.” Jon said.
Damian nodded. “Noted.” That was a sufficient amount of time to prepare.
“I figure you have a tux already.”
“I do.”
They looked at each other for another few moments. It was painfully awkward.
“Do you want to help me with a project for my art class?”
Thank god. “I’ll do what I can, but I doubt I can save whatever monstrosity you’ve created.” Damian scooted over on the bed as Jon settled across from him, leaning against the headboard and dumping out the contents of his backpack between them.
“We can’t all be freaking Van Gogh’s reincarnation like you.”
“It’s pronounced Van Gogh. Not Van Gogh.”
“Whatever, dude.”
…
Damian walked Jon to the front door because his father still had that inane rule that Jon couldn’t use the window (“Someone could see him, Damian.” (as if someone would spot Jon flying out the window but not see the batplane taking off from the backyard)).
“... but I think I'll get an okay grade on it because she knows I've been working really hard on finishing all the study guides.” Jon said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and stepping onto the porch.
“I have no doubt your idiotic teacher will give you a decent grade. But Metallo doesn’t use your GPA to decide how hard to punch you, so it doesn’t really matter either way.” Damian shrugged.
Jon laughed at that, in the same bubbly way he did at all Damian’s jokes, even if they weren’t funny. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“I have art club until 6:00.”
“I can come over after.” Jon shrugged. “We can just hang out, we don’t have to do anything.”
“Your curfew is at 7:00.”
“Dude. I can literally fly faster than the speed of sound. I think I can make it back home before 7:00.”
Logistically, it made very little sense for Jon to come over for only an hour on a school night. They saw each other nearly every day anyways. But the idea that Jon wanted to come over for an hour to do nothing important, just to spend time with Damian made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t describe.
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nodded.
Jon grinned, smile as goofy and lopsided as ever, and Damian’s stomach fluttered. “Okay, cool. And don’t forget– next Saturday.”
Damian nodded as Jon jogged into the trees on the property and took off into the sky. Saturday felt both impossibly far and devastatingly close.
…
Saturday, Wayne Manor. 4:02
“Tim. I have a question.”
Tim blinked blearily at him. “...What.”
“Were you asleep? It’s four in the afternoon.”
“Mind your own business.” Tim rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”
Damian dug his nails into the palm of his hand. “Do you know how to tie a bowtie?”
“What? I can barely hear you.”
“I said,” Damian grit his teeth, “do you know how to tie a bowtie? These infernal online videos are useless.”
Tim stared at him. “Why on earth do you need to tie a tie? Is there a gala tonight?”
Damian folded his arms across his chest. “No. It’s– I have been invited to the prom.”
Tim gaped at him. “You? Going to prom?” He stared in disbelief. “I know you’re sixteen, I didn’t know you were such a teenager.”
Damian turned to go back to his room. “If you are going to be so difficult, I'm going to just figure it out on my own.”
“Wait, Dami.” Tim grabbed his shoulder. Damian barely kept himself from knocking the hand away. “I’ll show you how. I learned how to tie a bowtie before I learned how to tie my shoelaces. Like, actually.”
Tim followed Damian back to his bedroom. Jon had already taken his suit back to his place to change there, but he kept his tie to practice. His computer opened on his desk to an infuriating youtube tutorial. He had tried for about an hour before nearly throwing his computer on the floor.
“Here.”
Tim took the tie from him and stood in front of the mirror. “So you just cross this, pull this…loop this through here… wrap it around… give it a little tug… there. Easy.” He pulled the silk off his neck in a smooth motion. “You try.”
Damian fumbled with the tie, shaky fingers trying to loop it how Tim had.
“So…” Tim ventured in a painfully obvious manner. “Prom?”
“I’m sure even you have heard of it.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “I was a high school student too, you know.”
“And here I thought you spawned as a college dropout.”
“I did not drop out, I'm just… taking a break. I’ll go back.” Everyone knew that Tim had no intention of going back to university. Who needed a college degree when you were already CEO of a Fortune 500 company before 18? No degree could beat that on a resume, although Father wanted to make sure Timothy had options, even if he was still supported by two family fortunes. “Who’re you going with anyways?”
“Jon.”
Tim nodded. “I didn’t want to assume, but…”
Damian had made something resembling more of an abstract flower than a bowtie on his neck. He let out a frustrated growl and yanked it off.
“So, you and Jon, huh?” Tim feigned a casual tone.
“If you have a question, Drake, just ask it.”
“Are you and him, like, together? or…?”
The answer, of course, was no, even if Damian pathetically wished it was yes. But maybe, if tonight went well, it might change. He wasn’t really sure if Jon asking him to prom was necessarily the same as asking him on a date. Prom usually was romantic, and Jon had seemed nervous enough asking him that it seemed like there was a romantic connotation, but Damian really couldn’t afford to be wrong about this.
“I’ll take that as an answer pending.” Tim said.
“Can you please help me, instead of prying into my personal life?”
“Sor-ry.” Tim said, but stood to help him again.
“You know,” Tim started, “He’s like, totally in love with you. You don’t have anything to be nervous about.”
Damian spluttered. “Wha-”
“Kon said that he talks about you like, all the time. And also, I've seen you two. You’re disgusting together.”
“I didn’t ask.”
Tim shrugged. “I know. Consider it a gift.” He tugged on either side of the tie. “There. What time is he picking you up?”
“Five.”
“And this is in Hamilton.”
“That is where he lives, yes.”
“And what time will you be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Curfew is at 12:00.”
“You have no authority over my curfew, Timothy.”
“Do you have a ride home?”
“I can assume he will be taking me home.”
“And do you have protection?”
“I never leave the house without a weapon.”
Tim found this immensely funny. “Oh my god,” He doubled over, clutching at his stomach. “Dami, HAHA–” he practically shrieked.
“What is so funny–”
Oh. Oh.
“You are the worst, get out get out get outoutout–” He shoved Tim out of his bedroom, still howling with laughter. Damian’s face burned as he slammed the door between them.
Ugh. Drake was so– ugh. Damian rubbed his hands over his face, scrubbing at the sudden pressure in his head. This wasn’t even that big of a deal. It was prom, not a battle, or a trial, or any of the equally awful and difficult things that Damian had done before the age of 10. He could handle prom, being in a too-warm high school gymnasium decorated like an aquarium or Paris or whatever, drinking watered down punch and listening to awful radio pop, and dancing with Jon, and holding his hand, with matching bowties, and getting batburger with him before the dance, sharing a milkshake, and Damian was so fucking screwed.
No. It’s fine. He could handle this. It was Jon. It was Jon, his best friend who was afraid of crime documentaries, but not horror movies because "those ones actually happened, Dames-”. It was Jon, who couldn’t stay up past 11:00 without nodding off mid-sentence. Damian groaned, burning his face in hands, because it was Jon.
He had considered the idea of chucking himself out the window, or forging a new identity, or maybe returning to the league when someone knocked on the door.
“Go away, Drake.” He groaned.
“Close, but no cigar. Am I an acceptable alternative?”
“Richard.” Damian sat up. “I thought you weren’t coming home this weekend.”
Richard shrugged, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. He was still in his work clothes, old Bludhaven Premiere Gymnastics sweatshirt and leggings. “I heard you have a date tonight.”
“Drake.” He cursed.
Richard laughed, sitting down on the bed next to Damian. “Actually, B told me the other day.” He smoothed down Damian’s hair gently. Damian allowed it. “Are you excited?”
“I suppose.”
“Then why do you look like you’re gonna vomit?”
Damian groaned and shoved his face back into a pillow.
Richard just laughed, the traitor. “Ah, high school crushes. I don’t miss them.” He said. Damian slapped at him, but his heart wasn’t in it. “You’ll be fine, Dami. Promise.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I totally do.”
“No you don’t.”
“Okay, how could this go wrong?” Richard asked. “You’re a strategist, Robin. Make some contingency plans.”
“He could decide he hates me.” Damian groaned into the pillow.
“Work with me here.. That's not gonna happen.”
“Metallo could attack the school.”
“Sure.” Richard said. “But would that really ruin the night? You might have more fun fighting him.”
“Hmm.” That was probably true. “He could decide he doesn’t like me.”
“Like he wants to stop being your friend, or he decides he’s not interested in a relationship?”
“The second one.”
“That would be a bummer, but not the end of the world.”
It would be the end of the world. How could Jon keep being his friend knowing that Damian has a huge, embarrassing crush on him? Jon is, of course, infuriatingly kind and would keep being friends with Damian, despite being uncomfortable and probably repulsed by him.
“Seriously, Damian, it is not the end of the world. A little awkward, sure, but you guys are best friends. You’ll make it through.”
Damian kept his face buried in his pillow and didn’t answer.
Richard sighed, and Damian could feel him lay down next to him on the bed. “You know Roy? Harper? Lian’s dad?”
“I know of him.”
“Well, when we were on the Titans together, I had like, the biggest crush on him. Like so embarrassing. And he totally knew, but was being very kind and not bringing it up. But one night, after a successful mission, I kissed him.”
Damian turned his face to look at Richard. He was staring up at the ceiling. He looked very…wistful. “What happened?” He asked.
Richard laughed. “He was very flattered about the whole thing, but not interested. I was so embarrassed and could barely look at him for weeks afterwards. But nothing really changed. He was still my best friend.”
“And now he’s with Jason.” Damian hadn’t thought of that. Maybe Jon would reject him and years down the line start dating Tim. Rejection, maybe he could handle. Jon and Tim, Damian didn’t think he could.
“Okay, well, yes, but that’s not going to happen to you. And I'm totally over him. That was a long time ago. The point is,” Richard looked at him meaningfully, “that you two will be fine. I promise. Besides, I didn’t think this kind of stuff really made you nervous.”
“What do you mean?”
Richard shrugged. “Kinda seemed like you were pretty suave when it came to dating, y’know? You and Nika?”
“Oh my god, never say suave again,” Damian groaned. “And that was different.”
“Becuase she’s not Jon?”
Sometimes Damian hated Richard. It was an awful thing to say. Damian loved Richard, more than… more than he thought was appropriate at times, given that they were brothers, technically, and didn’t have the relationship they had both so easily fallen into when Richard was his Batman. But other times, he hated him. Hated how vulnerable Richard could make him feel. He hated how well Richard knew him, he guessed was the real issue. That was supposed to be his thing. He was supposed to be the one who saw people and got inside their heads. He was supposed to have the power. And with half a fucking sentence, Richard had him pinned to the frame like a butterfly in a display case. With half a sentence, he could neatly rip the nerves out of Damian's throat and label them in neat handwriting.
“Becuase she’s not fucking Jon.”
“Well I would hope not. That would make things awkward.”
“You and Tim are absolute trilobites.” He shoved Richard's shoulder, but couldn’t help his smile.
Richard laughed heartily. “Yeah, yeah. But seriously, I get it. It’s different when it’s your best friend. He already knows you. The real you.”
And that was really what Damian was afraid of, wasn’t it. Jon already knew Damian, better than Damian was comfortable with. What if he decided that this was too close? That Damian was too much from close up?
“It’s just prom.” He said. He wished he didn’t sound so much like he was trying to convince himself.
…
“Damian. Are you two leaving?”
Oh great. Awesome. Father came out from his study down the hall, clearly just getting out of a business meeting, phone in hand.
Damian grabbed Jon’s arm, tugging him towards the door. “Yes, we’re going right now.” He wanted to get out before Father could take any more pictures. Richard had enough already. “We’re already late.”
“Jonathan. Wait a moment.”
No no no no no no.
Jon was, despite being entirely invulnerable and much, much stronger, deeply intimidated by Batman. He stopped at the command, and no amount of pulling Damian did towards the front door could get him to move.
“Yes, sir?” His voice went up several octaves.
Father stared him down. He was very clearly aware of the fact that Jon was scared of him and using it to his advantage.
Damian gave Jon some credit. Despite being visibly nervous, he didn’t break eye contact, taking the full brunt of the Bat Stare (Richard’s words, not his).
Father must have been impressed by this, or at least found it acceptable, because he nodded once, shortly, and said, “Have him home by midnight.”
Jon gave Damian a small relieved smile. “You got it, sir. Midnight.”
“I am not Cinderella. We will be home when we get home.” Damian finally got Jon moving towards the door.
“Midnight, Jonathan.”
Jon nodded, and affirmed, “Midnight.”
Damian rolled his eyes. “Leaving, now.”
“Behave, you two.” Father said, because that was what fathers were supposed to say to their children on prom night.
“Have fun!” Richard echoed. Damian pretended that he didn’t hear or understand what Richard’s tone implied. He and Tim, both compete imbeciles.
Jon laughed as the door shut, but the second the lock clicked, he dropped the act. “Your dad,” he sighed, “is genuinely terrifying.”
Damian had seen him fall asleep face first sitting at the kitchen table, which severely cut down his intimidation factor. “You have laser eyes. You can handle Batman.”
“Yeah, but I can’t laser your dad in the face! He would like, nerve-strike me or something.”
“Not true.” Damian said. “That wouldn’t be effective on you. He has an alternative contingency plan for you in the case you decide to go off the deep end.”
“Exactly!” Jon flew over the last step of the porch. “He would do whatever evil, twisted plan he has for me in his contingency folder he has for everyone, and then I would be wishing that he would just kill me instead, of like, tying me up and covering me in spiders or something.”
Damian pictured it. Jon, tied up with kryptonite and crawling with spiders– which could do no actual damage to him but were scary enough to incapacitate him. The image forced an embarrassingly loud laugh out of Damian.
Jon laughed with him, clear and unabashed. “No, seriously though,” he said. “It’s something equally messed up and deranged, isn’t it?”
Damian shook his head. “It’s not deranged nor evil. It’s an appropriate tactic that limits harm to you while being effective. I should know, I helped develop it.”
“What?” Jon yelped. “Now you have to tell me. Dames, c’mon. Dames. Damian–”
“That completely defeats the purpose, Jonathan.”
“Don’t Jonathan me, dude, you sound like my mother.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“Ew, ew, I don’t want to think about you as my mother. Gross.”
“What about that is so gross? Your mother is a Pulitzer prize winning journalist. A modern day muckraker. Lois Lane is cool.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “Okay, yes, but don’t let her hear you say that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
They were a little ways into the treeline of the property now, hidden enough that no one could see them from the street. Not that Bristol got much traffic anyways.
“Ready?” Jon asked, and instead of grabbing Damian by the shoulders like they did in uniform, he wrapped an arm around Damian’s waist.
The sudden contact made Damian jump, twisting around to face him. “What are you doing?”
Jon pulled his arms back abruptly. “It should be more comfortable for you this way. I can go faster without you getting windburn.” He shrugged.
That…made sense. “Fine.” he agreed. “Just don’t drop me.”
This time when Jon wrapped around him, he was ready for it. Jon trapped him in a hug, holding him against his chest. He was stupid warm. Every place their bodies pressed together, Damian's skin burned. He pressed his face into Jon’s shoulder, like it would be able to hide his blush. Fuck, he even smelled good, like clean laundry and that stupid cheap body spray that should be hell on his senses yet he insisted on wearing. Stupid Kryptonians and their stupid inability to sweat or smell or be disgustingly human.
“Ready?” Jon hovered them a few feet off the ground.
“Seriously, if you drop me, I will kill you.”
Jon laughed in his ear, clear and bright. “When have I ever dropped you?”
Damian didn’t answer, because he didn’t have one, and instead just closed his eyes and let Jon take them to Hamilton.
When the air stopped whipping so violently, Damian opened his eyes and looked around. Below, fields of green patched the flatlands like a quilt. Jon was honed in on the yard of his house, and they descended.
“Thanks for flying Super-Air, we hope you enjoyed your flight!” Jon chirped as they touched down.
“Was it the pilot’s first day? The turbulence was terrible.”
“Rough air conditions, what can you do?” Jon shrugged. “Just be glad he got you to your destination safe and sound. No Damian-droppage whatsoever.”
Jon’s arms had loosened around him, but he still had a hand on Damian’s waist. He wondered if Jon even noticed. “I didn’t even get an in-flight snack.” Damian scoffed. “What’s the S stand for? Stingy?”
“Sorry, you couldn’t afford to upgrade to business class. Economy passengers don’t get in-flight entertainment or snacks. Next time, we might even start ejecting passengers mid-air for being rude to the attendants."
“Terrible business model.” Damian tutted. “I’ll take my private jet next time.”
“God, I always forget how disgustingly wealthy you are.” Jon shoved at his shoulder. “Keep that 1% BS to yourself.”
Damian just grinned at him as they walked towards the house.
On the porch, the screen front door swung open. “Boys! I thought I heard your voices.” Superman stuck his head out. “How was the trip?”
“Turbulent.”
“It was fine, Dad. Like the other thousand times we’ve done it.” Jon rolled his eyes. He held the door open for Damian, and they followed Superman back inside.
“Just checking. You don’t usually have a passenger.” He said.
Jon’s house always made something twist in Damian’s gut. It was so foreign to him. The low ceilings, the warm stained wood, covering not only the floor but the walls and the roof. Small but bright windows. Pictures were crammed on the walls, of Jon, of Lois and Superman, of friends and articles and family. Several heroes– out of costume, of course– holding such special places in the Kent home.
There were even some with Damian in them. Jon and him, side by side, matching batman and superman t-shirts, respectively. Them laying in the grass, sprawled out and exhausted. Krypto bounced in the background. Damian didn’t even remember that day, but he could guess that he was young and had just finished trying to beat the shit out of Jon before giving up (read: physically collapsing) out of exhaustion. Jon was kind enough not to retaliate when Damian was vulnerable.
Another from last year. Damian had plotted to take it down and burn it the first time he noticed it hanging up. It was taken when he, Jon, and Kathy were together to watch some terrible vampire movie series Kathy indoctrinated Jon into the cult of. Damian had fallen asleep out of boredom, and by the time he woke, it was nearly 3 am and all three of them were piled together, limbs tangled. In the photo, Damian’s head rested on Jon’s shoulder, their arms wrapped together. Kathey’s legs stretched across their laps, her feet resting on Damian’s thighs, and all three of them shared one too-small quilt. The photo was a deeply personal portrait of him. This version of him, sleepy and clingy, on display next to Superman and Lois’s engagement portraits made something twist in his gut.
The house itself was so different than anything Damian was used to. Small, warm, and bright-- the polar opposite of the grand palaces and manor that he called home. But he didn’t hate it. It was impossible to hate a home like this.
“We should probably get ready. It’s almost 6:00.” Jon tugged on Damian’s wrist. “I put your tux in the guest room. My mom just ironed it.”
“You put me in the guest room to change? You’re such a girl.” Damian teased.
“It’s tradition!” Jon argued, but he turned tomato red. “Shut up. Put your stupid tux on.”
“That’s a wedding tradition, Jon. We’re not getting married.”
“Just go,” Jon shoved him again, and he got even redder. Damian grinned wickedly and ignored his own blush at the thought of weddings and Jon together.
“You better not come out in a white gown.” He called out as he went to the guest bedroom.
“You wish!”
….
For how long Tim had spent teaching him how to put together his bowtie, he was failing miserably. He was on his sixth attempt, and it was getting progressively worse.
Cursing, he pulled it off his neck again. The silk was already wrinkled, and he was considering foregoing it completely. Tim’s lessons didn’t do him any good.
“Knock knock.” The door cracked open and Lois popped her head in. “You doing okay in here?’
Damian huffed a frustrated sigh. “I think ties were invented to induce suicidal ideation into the elite.”
“Interesting theory.” Lois stepped inside and shut the door behind her. “Need some help?”
Damian dropped his hands from the silk noose he was fastening. “Yes.” He tacked on, “Please.”
Lois took the tie from him and wound it around his collar. “I can tell you’re nervous.”
Damian really, really didn’t want to talk about this with Jon’s mother, of all people. He was nervous, and hated that she could point it out so easily, but discussing it wouldn’t do any good. It wasn’t even really nervousness. More like anticipation. Jitters. Like before an exciting mission, or an ambush. Hard work is finally paying off. The thrill of a score. What exactly the score was in this case was unclear, but the feeling was somehow the same. Like the nerves were leading to something exciting.
“Just jittery, I guess.” He shrugged as she looped the silk.
“Don’t be. He really likes you.”
He wished everyone would stop saying that. It wasn’t nearly as helpful as they thought.
“You probably shouldn’t be revealing your son’s secrets so easily.”
Lois huffed a short laugh and shook her head. “How he feels about you has never been a secret.” She smiled softly. “And don’t think that doesn’t go both ways. You’re not as secretive as you’d like to think, Damian Wayne.”
“Wayne-Al Ghul now, actually.” He muttered, like it was particularly important right now. “We got the paperwork fixed.”
“Well, Damian Wayne-Al Ghul.” Lois gave his tie a final tug. “I know you would never do anything to hurt Jon.” she paused, then added, “Anymore.”
Damian looked away, sheepish. They were both picturing all the times Damian had tried to kill Jon when they were kids, and had nearly succeeded a couple times before their fathers stepped in. But that was behind them.
“But I have to make one thing clear.” She looked him straight in the eye, pinning him in place. Her eyes were the exact same deep, clear blue as Jon’s, sharp and intelligent and just the littlest bit playful, even when trying to be serious. “You better take care of him. He’s very sensitive, and you mean the world to him. Do not hurt him.”
Damian nodded. He knew all of this. He had already made that oath to himself a long time ago, when he was first able to admit to himself that Jon was a friend. “I promise, ma’am.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.” Lois straightened up, then gave him a lopsided grin. “Okay, you look good, kid. Sharp. You ready to go?”
He wiped his disgustingly sweaty palms on his trousers and followed Lois out of the room.
….
“Okay, smile boys!”
Damian forced a small smile, mostly because he was kind of scared of Lois, embarrassment making his cheeks flame. He thought he had avoided this kind of stuff by not having Richard here. He had been a fool to think that the disgustingly domestic Kent family wouldn’t take prom photos.
Jon slung an arm around Damian’s arm and pulled him into his side, their shoulders squishing together. They posed on the last step of the stairs, matching tuxedos and matching boutonnières. Damian hadn’t known that was a thing until Jon pinned one on his chest 30 seconds ago. It’s tradition, Jon had muttered.
“Okay, Mom, that’s enough.” Jon said through his teeth. “We gotta go.”
Lois’s camera flashed about 30 times in the span of 10 seconds. “I know, I know. You two are just so cute.” She cooed.
“Mom.”
“Be back by midnight.” She said sternly, “And please don’t crash the car.”
Jon tugged Damian towards the door. “Got it. See you later. Don’t wait for us.”
Superman cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, no. We’ll see you back here at 12:00, Jon.”
Jon nodded tersely, once, and ushered Damian out the door and towards the car parked out front. “Sorry about them, they’re kind of overbearing sometimes.” He scratched at the back of his neck, under the collar of his own tie. “It’s just for show. Mostly.”
His tuxedo, while clearly cheaper than Damian’s by a long shot, fit him unfortunately well, framing his broad shoulders but cutting in as it hugged the rest of him. Damian had never seen him in anything more formal than a flannel, and was having a hard time thinking beyond shoulders, chest, waist.
Damian tried to force his stupid brain to be normal about his best friend and not be a total hormonal teenage idiot. He rolled his eyes as he reached the passenger door of the truck. “You should be sorry for having such loving parents. Totally your fault.”
“Wait!”
Damian froze in front of the passenger door, hand midair. Jon rushed around the car and pulled the door open. “For you.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm. It was unbelievably dorky, and unfortunately, incredibly endearing.
“...Thanks.” Damian pulled himself into the truck. Jon shut the door after him.
“Wait, sorry.” He opened the door again. “You gotta just–” he shut it again, harder. “Nope, one more time.” He opened it again and slammed it shut. It rattled the whole vehicle.
“Sorry, you have to slam it but I worry about just crushing it with the whole super-strength thing.” Jon said as he slid into the driver's seat. “It’s an old truck, haven’t gotten around to fixing it.”
“You are such a hick.”
It was, objectively, a classic car. Firetruck red, paint lovingly buffed and shined. Old but cared for. The interior was inevitably cracked with age, the leather bench seat creaking under him, but it was clean and oiled. A pair of dice and a little football keychain hung from the rearview mirror. Damian could picture Jon listening intently to Superman explaining how the clutch works. Jerkily pulling forward only to stall a few feet later.
“I wasn’t aware you converted.” Damian said as the engine roared to life.
“What? Oh– that.” Jon said. “It was there when my grandpa bought the car. He said it felt wrong to take it out. Besides,” Jon leaned forward to give the little plastic Jesus a flick on the head and set him in motion, “It doesn’t hurt to have a little extra protection.”
Damian shrugged. He and Jesus had a tenuous relationship at best. “Let’s get a move on, Kent.”
Jon pulled carefully out of the driveway and onto the road. “Here,” He reached over and flicked on the radio. “Pick something. It’s like 30 minutes into town. We really only get country hits and norteño, but sometimes I’m able to hit a rock station.”
“I’m getting you a new car for your birthday. Not for your sake, but for mine. One with airbags. Maybe I can even get you one that uses a combustion engine instead of a steam engine.”
“I mean, I won’t say no to a new car, but this is a classic. I learned how to drive in this bad boy.” Jon shrugged. “And don’t lie, you love my truck.” He grinned sideways at Damian. Cocky motherfucker.
Rolling his eyes, Damian tried to fight back the heat rising to his face. He appreciated how Jon looked driving a truck far more than Jon would ever let him live down if he knew. His ego didn’t need it. Damian’s pride couldn’t take it.
“Okay, don’t call your truck bad boy. That’s a new low even for you. And don’t look so smug. Smug-boy.” He barely resisted the urge to stick out his tongue at him, because he was 12 years old any more, but it was a close thing.
“Smug-boy? Seriously?” Jon raised an eyebrow at him. “That has to be your worst yet, Dames.”
“It’s better than anything you could come up with.” He huffed.
“That’s even worse than sucky-boy. And also, it’s smug-man now.” Jon corrected. “Papers said so.”
Damian had seen them. The Boston Globe had called him the “new Superman” last week, after Superboy stopped a rogue oceanliner from crashing into the harbor. Apparently the new suit cued the public that there was a new super in town. Whether they caught on that it was the same kid who fought crime in skinny jeans and a hoodie was unclear. Probably for the best. Jon wore that costume everywhere. It wouldn’t be hard to make the connection.
As Superboy’s partner, Damian wasn’t a big fan of the new suit. Or, more embarrassingly, he was a big fan. It was distracting.
“Okay, smug-man. Eyes. on. The road. You don’t have super-peripheral vision.”
“I could. I have a lot of vision-based powers.”
“Except 20-20 vision.”
“It’s not my fault my mother gave me her astigmatism!”
“What’ll the New Yorker say when they find out Superman is fighting crime half-blind?”
“Oh, I don’t know, how about ‘thank you Superman, we love you Superman, here’s free optometry forever Superman!”
Damian just rolled his eyes and didn’t both coming up with a response as they sped onto the highway.
Not the highway, exactly. It was a country road, single lane with irrigation ditches on either side. Damian hadn’t been into the town of Hamilton very often and the roads were only vaguely familiar. Rows of crops stretched out on either side of the road, and the truck bumped with every pothole (of which there were too many).
It felt familiar, in a way that didn’t make much sense. When he had first come to Gotham, he never felt comfortable like this. He barely even felt like this back home in Nanda Parbat.
He hated it, but he knew why. It was Jon, in the driver's seat, drumming along to the radio. There was no Jon in Nanda Parbat or Gotham. But Jon was here, next to Damian. The feeling didn’t come from Hamilton.
Damian crossed his arms and watched the rows of cabbage or lettuce or whatever the hell they grew here pass by.
…
“Jonno! There he is! ”
“Oh God. Damian, hide me.” Jon whispered, ducking behind Damian like he wasn’t several inches taller than him. “It’s Danny and Trent.”
Damian knew all about Danny and Trent. Not bullies so much as ill-adjusted highschoolers who clearly found Jon strangely entertaining. They were more annoying than anything else, but Jon wasn’t overly fond of them.
The boys, normal in every surface level sense of the word, bound up to them. “There he is! How’s it going, best friend?”
“We’ve had two classes together, guys.” Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “You guys here alone?”
Trent or Danny-- Damian couldn’t really tell them apart-- laughed uproariously as the other one ducked his head. “Danny was rejected 6 times before he gave up.” Trent slapped the blushing Danny on the back. “Couldn’t find a girl to save his life. Although it looks like you couldn’t either, huh, Jonny?” Danny crowed.
Jon just rolled his eyes. “Not the same thing, man. This is Damian. I think we’re here together a little differently than you guys are. Not to assume, or anything.”
DannyTrent spluttered out their corrections, and Jon smiled that tiny, smug smile he only wore when he was being a little mean and knew it.
Jon tugged Damian’s arm lightly, steering him away from the snack table. “Catch you guys later.”
Damian grinned from ear to ear. Mean Jon was fun. When they were kids, everyone thought that Damian was a poor influence on Jon, but they didn’t know him like Damian did. Didn’t know how quick his tongue was, or how sharp his words could cut to the bone. If anything, it was Jon who made Damian sharper.
Only when Jon stopped guiding Damian’s arm and instead placed his hands on Damian’s hips did he notice that they were in the middle of the dance floor.
Noticing his stiffness, Jon’s hands guided them closer together. “It’s a dance, Dames. You have one job.” He teased.
Damian rolled his eyes, but relented, reaching his arms up to rest on Jon’s shoulders. “The things I do for you.” He shook his head, but it wasn’t enough to shake off the stupidly pleased expression he was sure exposed him.
The song wasn’t really slow enough to waltz too, but they did a strange, off-beat sway to it anyways. They had been this close to each other hundreds of times, but this was new, somehow. Maybe because this was clearly a romantic thing or because they were in public-- in a high school gymnasium of all places, surrounded by Jon’s classmates. They didn’t know Damian. They barely even knew Jon, not in any way that mattered.
Jon’s head tipped over and came to rest on Damian’s, their chests pressed together. They had given up any semblance of real dancing, and instead just shifted their weight back and forth to the slow song playing. As much as he hated to admit it, something satisfied bloomed in Damian’s chest. Pleased. Damian was born to be extraordinary. He was the son of Batman, Grandson of the Demon. He had taken his first life at the age of six. His life had never been normal, and he had no prospects of it ever being normal.
But here he was, seventeen years old and dancing with a boy he had a stupid crush on at the high school prom. Checkmate, Ra’s.
“Jon, Damian! There you are!” Just as the song came to a close, Kathy came bounding up to them. “We’re so late, my grandpa wanted to take like a million pictures.”
She pulled them both into a tight hug. “Jon really got you to come! I can’t believe you’d be seen interacting with us plebs.” She grinned at him.
Damian smiled back. “It counts towards my volunteer hours.” he said.
She found this uproariously funny, her head thrown back laughing. Damian couldn’t help but laugh with her. Over the years, he could finally admit that he liked Kathy. He didn't always really understand her, but she was fun. She never took anything too seriously (even when Damian was a kid who had meant all his insults very seriously).
“Oh, you two haven’t met yet. Damian, this is Blake.” She pulled her date, a lanky, freckled boy to her side. He waved awkwardly. “Blake, this is Jon’s totally-not-boyfriend Damian. He’s from New Jersey.”
“Kathy! No, that’s not- we’re not-” Jon waved his hands in front of them as if to clear the air. “I-- we’re---”
Damian stretched his hand out towards Blake. “I’m his totally-not-boyfriend. Nice to meet you.”
Blake looked between them awkwardly, but shook Damian’s hand anyways. “Good to meet you. Jon’s mentioned you a couple times. It kinda started to seem like a canadian girlfriend situation.” He joked, as if that made any sense.
“O-okay. We’re gonna grab some punch. You two want anything?” Jon started steering Damian away before he could respond to Blake.
“No thanks, I think I see Kayla.” Kathy started across the gym, Blake in tow.
“Smooth, not-boyfriend.” Damian said when they left earshot.
“Shut up.” Jon mumbled. “She’s embarrassing."
Jon spooned up two glasses of violently blue punch from the communal bowl and handed one to Damian. “Cheers.” He knocked their glasses together.
Damian did not take a sip, deeply aware of both the color and that the bowl was uncovered and very large. Who knows what had been in it.
Jon spluttered beside him, spitting his drink back into the glass.
“Christ, Kent, you forget how to drink all of a sudden?” Damian thumped him on the back.
Jon shook his head, coughing. “That’s spiked.”
Damian ventured a sniff at his own glass. It was spiked, and it was strong. “You can smell an oil spill across the Pacific but can’t smell vodka until it’s in your mouth? What’re your powers even good for?”
“I wasn’t thinking about it.” Jon defended. “Besides, half of that reaction was just ‘cause this punch sucks to begin with. Tastes like watered down gatorade.”
Damian sloshed the liquid in his cup around. The dance was in full swing now, with couples and friend groups writhing around on the gymnasium floor.
“Want to get out of here?” Damian said before he could stop himself. “Sorry, we just got here. Let’s stay longer--”
“God, yes please.” Jon breathed. “The music and lights are killing me, and the smell-- i can barely be in here on a regular day. The amount of sweat and body spray is giving me a migraine. Let me just say bye to Kathy and Blake.”
Damian nodded, relieved. As not-terrible this dance was turning out to be, there was only so much socializing he could do in a night.
“If this is a kidnapping attempt, it’s not very good.”
Damian felt Jon roll his eyes more than he saw him do so. “If I was going to kidnap you, it would be much more planned out than this.”
“I don’t know if you’re capable of an elaborate kidnapping plot, Kent. Doesn’t really seem like your speed.”
Jon batted a hand aimlessly at Damian, not taking his eyes off the road. In front of them, the road unfurled, into the hills. It was as dark as midnight in the Gobi (although this experience was much better than the time he had spent in the gobi (there had been lots of sunspiders, and Damian was 9. He still has nightmares about it sometimes)). Jon had said that he ‘knew a spot’, whatever that meant.
“Okay, well, a kidnapping plot is not my speed at all, first of all. But second of all, if I were to hypothetically want to kidnap you for whatever reason, I could pull it off flawlessly.”
“Okay, what’s your ingenious plan?”
Jon shrugged. “Easy. I just kidnap Titus or Alfred first.”
“I suppose that might work.” Damian mused. “Are you kidnapping me as Robin or a Wayne?”
“Both. I know your identity. I’m kidnapping you as me, not as some random thug.”
“Why would you ever need to kidnap me?”
“What if I turn evil?”
“I feel that we’ve had this conversation very recently.”
“I guess you're right.” Jon looked over at him, completely amused. “We have all our bases covered then.”
Damian didn’t answer. Instead, he let his eyes wander over Jon. He had discarded his jacket the moment they left the dance, rolled up the sleeves and undone his bowtie. There were a thousand words Damian could use to describe how Jon looked, half out of his tux and driving with one hand on the steering wheel. But the most precise word for the combination of Jon’s appearance and the disorienting feeling it caused in Damian’s chest was completely and utterly devastating.
The gel in his hair was starting to wear off, and coils of springy black curls stuck out. A few pieces fell over his forehead. Behind him, the sun had already set, and now just the afterglow defined his profile. Sharp browline lead to long, dark lashes. His eyes were still slightly squinting in a way Damian knew meant he was smiling, even if his mouth wasn’t. And dear God, his mouth. It was always in some sort of grin– laughed, amused, antagonistic, clever, soft. Shouting “Robin!” in the field, or whispering Damian’s name when it was late and they were both supposed to be asleep. Damian knew he was entirely too obvious about how much he wanted to know what it was like to kiss Jon with how he could never keep his eyes from wandering to his mouth.
Would he kiss Damian tonight? He was pretty sure the dance had gone well. Even when they had waltzed to the horrific slow pop songs the DJ insisted upon, it had been… nice. And not just nice in the way almost all his time spent with Jon was. It felt… romantic, as much as describing slow-dancing at the prom as romantic made Damian feel like a hormone-addled idiot. It felt like it was leading to something.
What that something was… Jon could kiss him. That would be… good. That would be good. Maybe they would even do more than kiss. The idea burned itself into Damian’s head before he could will it away. Jon’s hands on his chest, on his hips, that ridiculous mouth on his neck–
Damian forced that line of thinking away before it went any further. The inside of his stomach twisted in nerves or anticipation or something he didn’t want to name or think about or in any way acknowledge. He trained his eyes on the road, counting the road lines as they passed. On the dash, the little plastic Jesus bobbed carelessly with every bump in the road.
Damian eyed Jesus warily. Jesus shook his head back at Damian. ‘Don’t look at me like that’, he thought. ‘As if you’re such a saint.’
Silently, Damian accepted the situation. He was a hormone-addled idiot, and he really, really wanted to kiss Jonathan Kent tonight.
“–amian? Hellooo, you there?” Jon waved a hand in front of his face.
Damian startled.
Jon laughed. “Dude, your pulse is freaking out. You know I’m not actually kidnapping you. Scouts honor.” He held up his right hand like he was taking an oath.
Damian shook his head. “No, I just…” His cheeks flamed. Jon could probably feel the temperature in the car rise about 10 degrees. “You were never actually a boy scout. That doesn’t count.”
“I would have been, but my parents wouldn’t let me.” Jon shrugged. He seemed content not to dwell on Damian’s racing heart. It was definitely more out of politeness than anything else. Fucking boy scout. “It was right when my powers were coming in and they couldn’t let me out of their supervision for more than like an hour.”
“Don’t tell me you lasered your babysitter in the face or something.”
Jon didn’t answer, and the silence was guilty.
“No shit, Jonathan!” Damian grinned. “How have you never told me about this before?”
“She wasn’t hurt badly! Her arm was just a little toasted.”
“How did you explain that one? Sorry, our kid’s got a really intense stare?”
Jon shrugged. “I think she just kind of assumed she hit it against the radiator somehow. I didn’t even really know I had that ability until like a month later, too. None of us knew I had done it.”
“So how’d you figure it out?”
“That time I killed my mom’s cat.” Jon said.
“Oh. Right.” Damian remembered that very well. “I’m sorry for what I said back then, you know.” He said. “That wasn’t your fault..”
“You’re being so nice tonight, it’s freaking me out.” Jon said weakly. “But I know. I’m over it. It’s just… sad. She was a good cat.”
“My grandfather made me kill my pet rabbit with my bare hands when I was five.”
“Jesus, Dames.”
“So, you know. I get it.”
“That wasn’t your fault either.”
Damian shrugged. It was different, but Jon wouldn’t get it. “It was a long time ago.”
Jon smiled crookedly at him. It was a little sad. Damian didn’t know how he did it. He could always fit so many feelings into one look, one glance. “Look at us, just a couple of murderers.”
“I’m a little ahead of you, murder-wise.”
“When I inevitably turn evil, I’ll catch up.”
“Don’t even joke about that, Jonathan. I’ll have to call your mother.”
“So that’s what the contingency plan is! I knew it!”
Even talking about respective murders, Damian felt light. Giddy. Jon really was turning him soft.
Far enough back into the hills that the radio had lost all reception miles ago, Jon pulled over. He hopped out of the truck and waived for Damian to follow.
The spring night air was pleasantly warm and humid. They clambered into the bed of the pickup and Jon tugged him to sit against the side of the cab.
Above them, the stars stretched out vast and bright. The Milky Way, Vega and Leo. Jon already knew them, because Damian had taught him before, but he had the urge to point them out again, like they were new and wonderful all over.
“Tada!” Jon smiled at him. “I know you get pretty great views from Gotham rooftops all the time, and I can fly, so there’s not really a shortage of views, but this is where normal people come to get a good view, so… I thought it would be nice.” Jon rubbed the back of his neck.
“I– yes. It’s beautiful.” Damian swallowed.
“Yeah. It’s really beautiful up here.” Jon said.
Damian was acutely aware that Jon was still looking at him.
“I had a really fun time tonight.” Jon said. Did Kryptonians need to blink? Damian was very aware that humans still needed to, even if they were looking at boys in trucks half out of a tuxedo, which hardly seemed fair.
Damian nodded. “It wasn’t terrible. If you leave out the music. And the drinks. And the decorations, and—”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Jon interrupted him. “Although I do agree on the music front. I mean, Weird Al, seriously?”
“I just wished they played more Steely Dan, I mean, 6 songs in a row just wasn’t enough.” Damian agreed.
“But seriously though. Thank you for coming with me tonight.” Jon leaned into his shoulder more heavily. Their faces were really, really close to each other. “I had a lot of fun.”
Damian’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost involuntarily. “Yeah. Me too.” He let his gaze drop to Jon’s mouth, which was still half smiling, always at least half smiling, or a quarter, or even an eighth, or…
His eyes slid shut as he tilted forward and kissed Jon Kent.
It was simple. So simple, he didn’t know why he hadn’t done it sooner. So simple that when Jon’s hand came up to rest on his neck, Damian kissed him again, and again, and soon it wasn’t multiple kisses but their lips were slotting together, and Damian didn’t know why he hadn’t done this sooner.
Damian slid his hand from where it was on Jon’s shoulder across his collarbone and up into his curls, breaking up the gel and tugging.
Jon gasped into Damian’s mouth, and wasn’t that a reaction. Damian filed it away into the JON folder in his head, and suddenly got dizzy with the fact that the folder now contained how to make Jon Kent gasp in pleasure.
“Damian. Damian.” Jon whispered against his lips. His hand cupped Damian’s head like it was fragile, delicate, precious.
Damian kissed him again. Jon broke it quickly. “Damian. I have to tell you.” He murmured. The feeling of Jon whispering right against Damian’s lips was incredibly distracting. How he was supposed to understand a single word was beyond him. “I like you so much, you have no idea.”
Damian opened his eyes and looked into Jon’s. They were barely even blue in the dark of the truck, just endless pupils, blown wide. “You're my best friend, Jon.” He stroked his thumb gently over the soft skin of Jon’s throat from where his hand rested on his neck. He wasn’t sure how to explain what he was feeling besides, best friend. It was a title exclusively reserved for Jon. Jonathan, Superboy, best friend. The meaning of the title changed, not the words themselves.
“Of course you're my best friend, Dami, but I-I like you. Like, I like you.” Jon whispered. “You know that’s different, right?”
Damian nodded. “I know.”
Jon stared at him. “You know?”
Damian stared back. “Well, I hope you don’t go around kissing just anyone, Kent.”
Jon laughed, “You ass.” He shoved at Damian lightly, but the effect was lessened by the fact that they were in each other’s laps, and Damian was still holding onto his neck. “No, I’ve been saving my virtue for someone special.”
“Glad to hear you’re so pious.” Damian said mock-seriously, but there was a serious-serious part of him that was giddy to know what Damian really was special. At least, in regard to truck makeouts.
“But seriously,” Jon lowered his voice. “I really, really like you, Damian.”
“I suppose,” He murmured, because he couldn’t bring himself to talk louder and break the blanket of quiet in the cab, “that the feeling is mutual.”
“Oh, you suppose?” Jon said, getting dangerously close to Damian’s lips again.
“I guess, yeah. Now that I've thought it over.”
“Lucky me.” Jon slotted their mouths together again, and Damian melted into him, completely pathetically and entirely naturally.
The first thing Damian noticed when he woke was the birds chirping. The second was the radiating pain in his neck. He peeled his eyes open and squinted in the dark.
Shit. Fuck, shit. He pushed himself upright from where he lay on Jon’s chest. They were tangled together on the bench seat, legs squished and bent against the door. Jon’s head rested against the hard plastic of the driver's side door in a way that could not be comfortable, even for a half-Kryptonian. He didn’t remember falling asleep, didn’t even remember getting back into the cab.
The sky was slightly brighter than pitch black. It must be early morning. Way past 12:00. “Jon.” He hissed and shoved at Jon’s shoulder. “Wake up, idiot.”
“Wha-?” Jon groaned without opening his eyes. “Wassup?”
“Jonathan, we fell asleep.” Damian shoved his legs off the seat so he could sit properly. “What time is it? Where’s my phone?”
Jon sat up abruptly. “It’s morning? Shit. Oh god, my parents are going to be pissed.” He scrambled to right himself. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know, I can’t find my phone.” Damian felt his hand under the seats for it. “Are your parents still up?”
Jon paused for a second, cocking his head to the side to listen like he always did when he was searching for a specific sound. He looked like a dog hearing a squirrel outside. It was stupidly endearing. “My dad is, I think. Shit.”
Finally, Damian’s phone appeared from the depths of the cab. “It’s nearly 5:00.” He read. He ignored the messages from Richard and his father and even a few from Tim, that were mostly laughing emoticons.
“Okay. Okay, we’re going. Oh god, they’re gonna be so mad.” Jon worried softly. He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.
“Wait.” Damian put a hand on his arm before Jon could shift the truck into gear. He leaned into Jon’s space and softly pressed their lips together. He wasn’t sure exactly why. Maybe to comfort Jon’s panicking, or to confirm that he was allowed, that last night actually happened. Maybe he just wanted to.
Jon sighed softly and knocked their foreheads together. “Okay. It's fine. We’ve literally fought supervillains. I think we can handle my parents.”
“Superman, yes. Lois Lane?”
“Yeah, you’re right. We’re so dead.”
The drive back to Jon’s was the shortest 20 minutes of Damian’s life. Superman was already on the porch in sweats and slippers when they pulled into the driveway, waiting.
They walked to the porch in silence. Superman opened the door for them without a word. He didn’t look particularly angry, or even disappointed. He almost looked… amused. It was more worrying than the other two options.
Inside, Lois sat at the kitchen counter, hands cupping a steaming mug of coffee. “Have a nice night, boys?” She asked cheerily.
“Mom, I can explain--” Jon started.
“No, I don’t want to hear it. Just tell me, were you at least safe?” She raised an eyebrow at them.
Damian’s face flamed.
“No! We didn’t-- We just fell asleep!” Jon exclaimed, waving his hands to fend off the accusation. “That’s it. Seriously. I promise. We just fell asleep.”
“Hmm.” She said skeptically. “In any case, you’re grounded.”
Jon nodded immediately. “Yep. I know.”
“And no hero work outside of emergencies for a week.”
Jon looked like he wanted to protest, but he kept his mouth shut before he could say anything stupid. Instead, he just nodded and looked at his shoes.
Lois turned her attention to Damian. “Did you sleep well, Damian?”
Damian’s shoulders crept up to his ears. “Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t mention the sharp crick in his neck. She wasn’t likely to be sympathetic. “We’re sorry for worrying you.”
She nodded. “I’m not your mother, so I’ll refrain from grounding you. But,” she pinned him with her gaze, “I talked to your Dad. He’s waiting for you at home.”
Damian nodded in understanding, mostly to appease her. Outside of the field, his father floundered at the idea of punishing Damian. He would probably get the whole “I’m disappointed in you, go to your room” spiel, which wasn’t really effective past the age of 11. Curfew is hard to enforce when you’re Batman.
“Okay, don’t make me regret this. Jon, please fly Damian home. If you’re up for it.”
Jon jumped to respond. “Yes, yeah. I’ll get him home.”
“There and back. Seriously, 15 minutes, max. Your Dad’ll be listening. No funny business.” She pointed between the two of them.
Jon nodded. “We’ll be quick, promise.”
…
Back in Gotham, Jon landed gingerly in the driveway. Father was already on the porch, waiting for them.
“Oh God.” Jon whispered. “He’s gonna kill me.”
Damian shrugged. “Not if you laser vision him.”
“Still not gonna happen.”
“Wimp.”
“Jonathan.” Father greeted as they walked up to the porch. “This is not midnight.”
“Sorry, sir.” To his credit, Jon maintained eye contact, even if he looked deeply scared. “It was an accident, I swear.”
“Go home.” Father ordered.
Jon nodded immediately. “Yep, going. See you later, Damian.”
Damian waved as he took off like a bullet.
“Inside. Now.” Damian went.
Father shut the door behind him. Damian stood awkwardly in the doorway. Father wasn’t really one for punishment. They mostly just argued. He could take Robin away, but that was really only for serious issues. Damian wasn't exactly sure what to expect when it came to a punishment for normal teenage rebellion.
It was apparent that his father wasn’t either. They stood in the entryway, blinking at each other. His father was dressed in his post-patrol clothes, ratty sweats and even rattier old concert t-shirt from some random punk band no one knew anymore. Not particularly intimidating.
“You broke curfew.” He said observationally, like he wasn’t sure if he should be stern or not.
“I did.” Damian agreed.
“You’re grounded.” He tried.
Damian didn’t respond, and instead waited for the terms of his alleged grounding, which were unlikely to come.
“Go to your room?”
“You’re not very good at this.”
Father deflated at the criticism. “You're the first child who's had a normal teenage rebellion. I’m unprepared.”
“I’ll go to my room. We can pretend I'm grounded for a few hours if it makes you feel better, and then you forget about it by tomorrow.”
Father rubbed his eyes. “Thanks, Damian.” he said ungratefully.
Damian nodded and made his way up the stairs towards his room. Unsurprisingly, the cab of a pickup truck does not make a comfortable bed, and he was still exhausted. At least his “grounding” would allow him a few extra hours to sleep in.
“Damian,” Father called from the bottom of the stairs just as he turned down the hall. He turned back to face him.
Father looked up at him. “Did you have fun?”
Damian let himself share a small smile. “Yes. I had fun.”
“Good. I’m glad. You’re still grounded, though.”
“Of course.” He played along.
…
Ding! Ding!
Damian blindly reached for his phone on the bedside table, still half asleep from his mid-morning nap. The sun was high in the sky now, bright and streaming in through the windows.
Jonathan: Are you totally banned from leaving the house ever again?
You: allegedly im grounded but I should be free by tomorrow
Jonathan: Lucky. My parents barely even let me keep my phone.
Jonathan: That being said
Jonathan: I had a really good time last night
You: i did too
You: we should do it again sometime
Damian’s face was on fire.
Jonathan: Go to prom? I think it’s kind of a one time thing tbh
You: you know what i mean
Jonathan: Lol I’m just messing with you
Jonathan: But yeah
Jonathan: I really liked that part too.
Damian was typing before he could think any better of it.
You: come over?
Jonathan is typing…
Damian threw an arm over his face. He was grounded, idiot.
Jonathan: Hold on, let me figure something out. Give me 10 minutes.
8 minutes later (he was not counting the minutes on the clock), the window he kept perpetually propped open slid up and Jon tumbled through onto the floor. It was a sight as familiar as his own reflection in the mirror, but it made Damian’s heart race all the same.
Jon grinned at him from the floor. “You forgot your jacket in the truck. I have 10 minutes to get home. I think my dad took pity on me moping around.”
“You are pretty pitiful.” Damian agreed. Jon handed him his jacket. Damian flung it vaguely in the direction of his closet before tugging Jon up from the floor.
They came together so easily, so practiced that Damian didn’t know how this hadn’t happened sooner, why they waited until a stupid school dance to be this close.
“Are you gonna kiss me or what, Superboy?” Damian murmured, their lips just a hair’s width apart.
“Maybe I’m waiting for you to kiss me, Robin.”
“I have to do everything in this relationship.” He rolled his eyes playfully.
“Hey,” Jon drew back just the tiniest bit, and Damian immediately regretted his statement. “If I remember correctly, I asked you out.”
“Semantics.” Damian said, and pressed their lips together. Jon let the argument go and wrapped an arm around Damian’s waist, pulling their bodies tight together. They couldn’t physically be any closer, but Damian tried anyway, pressing harder against him and tilting Jon's jaw down to deepen the kiss.
“Damian--” Jon breathed, and Damian cut him off with another heavy kiss.
“Damian! If I come up there, Jon better not be there!”
Reluctantly, Damian pulled away. “Your dad sucks.” He breathed.
Jon ran a hand down Damian’s side. It gave him goosebumps. “Don’t look at me like that while talking about my dad.” He kissed the corner of Damian’s mouth. “Seriously though, I can hear him calling me.”
Damian stepped back and let Jon float to the window. “I reiterate, your dad sucks.”
“And yours is coming up here right now, so I really have to go.” Jon ducked out the window and floated for a second. “Call me?”
He shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”
“So kind of you.”
“Wait,” Damian called as Jon started drifting home. “Are we still not-boyfriends, Kent?”
“I think regular, totally-for-real boyfriends might be a better fit?” Jon asked.
He nodded once, trying to school his expression. “I think that works.”
Jon’s grin was so sappy and bright, Damian couldn’t help but smile back. “Okay, okay. I’ll call you later.” Jon floated forward again and kissed him, but they were both smiling too much for it to be anything other than just kind of pressing their faces together. It was perfect.
“I’ll call you.” He promised, and watched his stupid boyfriend as he took off into the clear blue sky.
“You guys are so gross.”
“Timothy!” Damian jumped. “How long have you been there? Get out!” he rushed to the door and shoved a laughing Tim out into the hallway.
Damian could hear Tim laughing even through the heavy wood door, but he couldn’t bring himself to be that upset. Maybe they were gross. So what? Damian pulled out his phone and hovered over Jon’s contact info. After a moment of deliberation, he made the change. It was kind of humiliating but Damian couldn’t bring himself to care.
You: parents kill you?
Jonathan <3 : Still alive for now. I just have to clean the bathroom and the kitchen :/
Jonathan <3: worth it though
You: gross
Jonathan <3: ;-)