Chapter Text
One day you are getting into any sort of troubles with your best friend, and three weeks later you are at crossroads and your best friend can now get a driver license before you.
One day you are getting into funny problems, and the next one you are into life-and-death problems. But what can one do when the world is always in crisis and needs saving? Take a day off?
If only it were that easy.
But when you've got the R in your chest it is never easy.
If it were, he wouldn't be looking so intently at Jon Kent, now a 17-year-old something.
No, a 17-year-old kryptonian. Human. Half human, half kryptonian. Superman's son. Superboy. Superman. Superman 2. Superman the second. Jonathan. Jon. Samuel. Kent. His best friend.
Yes.
He was his 17-year-old best friend. Friend. Were they still best friends? Were they still friends?
He hoped so. It's just...
In three weeks, a life was changed. No. Two lives were changed.
They were no longer Robin and Superboy. Superboy and Robin. The Supersons. D & J. J & D. They were now...
He was Superman. The Superson, from what he had heard. Son. Singular. Not sons. Not plural.
He was Superman. And Superman did not need a Robin. And Robin did not work with Superman.
Then what were they?
Who was this 17-year-old something?
Damian, as he had been reflecting on for the last few months, had come to the conclusion that, in order to know who Jonathan Samuel Kent was, he had to know himself.
What he once was. What he was. What he was now.
Of course his family had a lot to do with it, but he couldn't have achieved any of it if it weren't for Jon.
He had believed in him. He had been with him through his worst. He had been on his side when he went into hiding to commiserate with himself. When guilt had been drowning him, Jon had reached out a hand to keep him afloat. And there he was. Damian Wayne. Al-Ghul. Something.
Who was Damian Wayne?
He had come to realize that wasn't an easy answer.
Son of Bruce Wayne. Son of Talia Al-Ghul. Brother to many brothers. Brother to Maya, to Brown, to Cain. Someone's enemy. A lot of someones' enemy. The heir of... Not the League of Assassins, that's for sure. And... would it be too bad if he doubted about being Batman? He once thought he had the right to be the next Batman, his father's heir. Now... maybe Richard was right. No. He certainly was right. No one could be Batman. Not even his son. His blood son. His blood.
Still, the mantle was there. Just... it was there.
And it was going to be there till the end of times because... Everyone wants to be Superman, or Wonder Woman, or Green Lantern, or Green Arrow, or Plastic Man, or Tempest, or Starfire... but not Batman.
He didn't want to be Batman. Not anymore. But that was a secret. Nobody knew that yet. Only one person.
Jon.
Right.
Who was Damian Wayne?
...
That was the problem. He didn't know a damn thing about himself. How would he know anything about Jon?
He knew... He hadn't liked Jon when they first met. He had loathed him. And he had tended to disregard him. And... Yeah, they were not really friends. Just reluctant persons forced to work together. At some point they started to call each other "friend". At some point, Jon had synchronized his whole being with Damian's, and Damian had done the same. He... Just... Jon knew every one of his moves, of his words, of his... Jon knew him, and knew how to react and how to move and what to say and what to do when it came to Damian. And Damian...
He...
He knew him. He knew Jon.
Or he used to.
He used to.
Used to.
Yes, Jon was taller and broader and sharper and older and...
Damian couldn't help it. Every time he turned, he was hoping to see a 11-year-old boy, too eager for adventure, too brash, too witty. He expected to see black curls, too long and too wild. He expected to see blue eyes that, depending on the light and mood, could be purple, or red, or the bluish blue one could ever imagine. He expected to see one of the few people who wasn't afraid of him, that knew how to manage his harsh words, that knew...
Jon always knew what to respond to whatever got out of Damian's mouth. He didn't take it to heart. He knew when to take it to heart. And Damian knew when he had overstepped. He knew the limits. They both did.
And now...
This wasn't a 11-year-old kid. This wasn't his 11-year-old best friend. But he was the same person. He bore the same name. And the same hair. And the same eyes. And the same wittiness. But...
But.
No.
It wasn't fair to Jon.
It wasn't his fault.
How could he have known?
But.
Damian was supposed to be the one making the impulsive decisions, the wrong decisions. He was supposed to be the bad influence, the one with the worst reputation possible. Damian was supposed to...
Who has Damian Wayne?
He didn't know. But he knew who Jon Kent was.
Or something like that.
Something like that.
He once was a 11-year-old boy forced to be something else in order to survive something worse. He once was his 11-year-old best friend who...
There were two Jons. A before-shitty-space-journey Jon, and an after-shitty-space-journey Jon. And Damian... did that imply that there were two Damians?
"Penny for your thoughts," said a very well-known voice.
His father had once established a rule regarding metahumans. His father always broke that rule. And he still insisted on that rule. Not that Damian actually cared about that pathetic rule. Not anymore. If he did, he too would be banned from entering Gotham. As Jon was him. And him was Jon. That he knew.
He came out of his reverie, taking in the lights that disturbed the night and overshadowed the stars. He looked at Gotham before looking, once again, as he had been doing for the last thirty minutes or so, at Jon.
Jon was sitting right beside him, looking at Damian with the same intent.
"Dames?" asked Jon, not frowning, but... there was something in his expression that Damian couldn't get.
"You are something," said Damian, realizing he wasn't making sense. But none that had happened made sense. What did it matter?
Jon just... smiled.
No.
Yes.
No.
His mouth curved upwards. His muscles moved to form a smile. But nothing in him was smiling. Jon hadn't smiled in a very long time. He knew how to smile; that didn't mean he was actually doing it.
Anyone who knew him would have noticed it; would have noticed the well-rehearsed smile, the hidden melancholy, the invisible wound that was still open. But that was the thing. They all knew the 11-year-old Jon, not the 17-year-old Jon.
"What kind of something am I?" asked then Jon. That infuriated Damian.
For 11-year-old Jon would have been furious for being called a "something". 11-year-old Jon would have pestered Damian until exhaustion. 11-year-old Jon would...
11-year-old Jon didn't exist anymore.
What a mess.
11-year-old Jon was a memory now. All that was left was a 17-year-old Jon and a futile memory. Was Damian futile then?
What kind of something was Jon Kent?
"I don't know," said Damian sincerely. The purple in Jon's eyes betrayed his melancholy. In those days, nobody knew what Jon Kent was. Did that imply nobody knew what Damian was? "I'm not even sure what I am."
At that, Jon frowned. "You are Damian."
"And you are Jon," he said. "Now that we have established our identities, let's establish what we are."
Jon looked at him.
Damian didn't like to be looked at. He liked to lie within the shadows and observe and analyse and not be seen. He didn't like to be seen. Not even by himself. That implied accepting truths about himself that he wasn't ready to accept. Implied to do a retroanalysis of his whole but short life.
However, he didn't care if Jon was the one looking at him. Jon wasn't going to unravel him. Although Damian didn't care if he did.
He didn't care what Jon did to him. Not because he really didn't care, but because... it was just...
"You are my best friend," stated Jon. A fact. It was a fact. A certainty. A truth. "And I'm yours." Another fact. Certainty. Truth.
Jon didn't seem distressed or hesitant about that last statement, for he was really sure of his words. Obviously he had to be sure about it. His whole world and mind and existence depended on that. He changed and came back to an unchanged world. He changed and came back to his old unchanged life. 17-year-old Jon was expected to be 11-year-old Jon. A lifetime had passed for Jon, but for the rest of the world it had only been three damn weeks.
That was one of the biggest differences between those two Jons. 11-year-old Jon always spoke in naiveté, while 17-year-old Jon always spoke in certainties.
And not really because he was right about them or believed in them, but because his life and existence had become a whole uncertainty that he couldn't risk it.
"You have just denoted our status," uttered Damian.
"Our status is 'alive'," complained Jon, now annoyed.
Damian could press. He could make fun of him, or bother him, or whatever so as to make Jon snap. Not because he wanted Jon to snap, but because he wanted... Damian didn't know what he wanted to prove. That he could do it? That he was still that 13-year-old brat who thought he could get away with it?
The thing was that... he really didn't want to do it.
He just wanted...
He sighed.
In those days, he had found it increasingly difficult to talk to Jon without feeling like he was walking through a minefield. Jon had always been short-tempered, but back in the day he was explosive. Now, he was...
"Jon."
He was...
"Damian."
Brittle.
"I don't want to fight," said Damian, suddenly weary.
"You were the one who said I was 'something'."
"I don't want to fight."
"But?"
That kept him from getting lost in his thoughts again. He grimaced.
"There's a 'but'," explained Jon.
There were twenty one buts. And another million not yet formulated.
Damian opened his mouth, then shut it close.
"Nothing," he exhaled.
"Damian."
"Jon."
"Damian."
"I don't want to..." He didn't finish the sentence. Now it was his turn to be upset, or angry, or something.
He didn't feel like it.
But Jon would not leave it until he heard Damian's complete thoughts.
"I miss you," he whispered.
That caught Jon off guard.
"What?"
"I miss..." you. "I miss when I knew what you were."
"What was I?" Was that a tremble?
"Just the 11-year-old kid who drove me crazy." Jon looked away. Had Damian overstepped? "Forgive me," he said instantly.
"Do I still drive you crazy?" asked Jon instead.
Every minute of every day. Always.
"Sometimes."
"Then what changed?"
A pause.
"Something."
"Damian."
"Jon."
He really didn't want to fight.
"Damian."
"Something."
"Damian."
"I don't know."
"..."
"I..." Silence. Why did he have to open his stupid mouth?
"You...?" Jon still didn't look at him.
The world had changed. Everyone had changed. But they all did it together. Jon was the odd one out. He did it on his own, and not because he had a choice. He was forced to become something else to overcome something worse. He had to change so as to survive. And then was forced to undo that change. As if it were that easy.
But Jon was trying. He was trying to be that excitable 11-year-old kid once again and trying to forget what happened to him and trying to pretend that all could be the same as always. As if he hadn't changed. As if his responsibility was to meet everyone's expectations.
"Damian," said Jon, bringing Damian back to reality. Jon was now looking at him.
His eyes were watery, but he didn't seem to have shed a single tear.
"You were saying?" went on Jon.
"What was I saying?"
"Something."
Right. Something. Wasn't that always the case?
"You know?" said Jon, still looking at him. Damian ignored the honking of a horn a few meters below. "Sometimes, I..."
He looked away.
Damian could press. He could... could do a sea of things just for the sake of it. Didn't mean he should do any of them.
But in those days, it was hard to get Jon to reveal a little of the truth that lay deep within him. So Damian had to press.
"You...?"
A pause. A long pause.
"Jon."
Still silence.
Jon wasn't a silent person. He had never been one. He had never internalized what he thought. But there he was, pondering whether he should or should not say something.
Something.
Wasn't that always the case?
"Jon," he called again.
This time, he reached Jon.
"I miss me, too," Jon whispered. A single tear fell. That was all Jon would allow himself to shed.
Damian hesitated. What now?
Should he touch him? Should he hug him? What should he do when faced with the confession of such devastating truth? Remain silent? Stay still?
"Jon."
What was he supposed to say?
"Damian."
This was always the case, wasn't it?
"Whatever you are going to say," Jon murmured, "just say it."
What was he supposed to say?
Everyone misses their past selves? That sounded cold-hearted.
That makes us two? That sounded crueler.
If there was a way to travel back in time safely, I'd take your place in that volcano? That sounded pointless.
If there was a way...
If there was a way, which there wasn't, Damian would have accompanied him on that ridiculous space odyssey. Most probably they both would have ended up in that volcano and would have spent years trapped there. He didn't care. He wouldn't have cared. He would have been with Jon, in hell, but together.
They would have been together.
Together.
But they weren't.
They would.
But they weren't.
What a mess.
"It's still you," he managed to say. How stupid that sounded.
"It's not me."
"Aren't you a Kent?" Damian attempted. "A member of the House of El? Super-something? Jon?"
Jon frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Damian sighed.
"Something."
"Does it mean something to you?"
Damian, as he had been reflecting on for the last few minutes, had come to the conclusion that, in order to know who Jonathan Samuel Kent was, he had to know himself.
Following that line of thought... Wasn't he a Wayne? An Al-Ghul? Robin? Damian?
What was that supposed to mean?
Did it mean something to him?
No.
"No."
What a mess.
"But it means something, doesn't it?" Jon asked.
Yes, it meant something.
Something.
"I don't want to fight," was all Damian could say.
"Yes," said Jon, wiping his cheek, "you already said that. Sorry," he added.
"For what?"
"Not listening the first time."
They could leave it there. They could stop talking and pretend everything was alright. Damian could get lost in though once again or check the comms just for the sake of having something to do.
"Don't be."
But Damian couldn't let it be.
Jon looked at him again. This time, he really looked at Damian.
Damian didn't like to be looked at. He liked to lie within the shadows and observe and analyse and not be seen. He didn't like to be seen. Not even by himself. That implied accepting truths about himself that he wasn't ready to accept. Implied to do a retroanalysis of his whole but short life.
However, he didn't care if Jon was the one looking at him. For he liked being seen by Jon.
But that was another secret that nobody knew. Not even Jon.
Jon was still looking at him. Was he trying to decipher whether Damian was telling the truth or not?
"I'm being sincere," Damian insisted.
And Jon...
He smiled.
A genuine smile.
Damian couldn't help but smile too. It had been so long...
"I know," said Jon. "I'm just messing with you."
And just like that, they both started to laugh. For just one moment, Damian didn't feel like he was walking through a minefield. For just one moment, they were kids again and Jon hadn't gone to space and Damian hadn't ruined everything with everyone and the world could breathe.
For just one moment, they were just Jon and Damian. Damian and Jon. And nothing else mattered.
If only it were that easy.
The moment passed. But the silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was pleasant, as it hadn't been in a long time.
"You are still looking at me," said Jon suddenly. The reminiscent of the smile was still there.
I like looking at you wasn't exactly what Damian wanted to say. It wasn't the proper thing to say.
"Stay the night," was what he said. How was that any more proper?
Jon smiled once again and turned to look at him. He didn't say anything, just tilted his head.
How wrong Damian had been.
There weren't two Jons. There weren't a before-shitty-space-journey Jon, and an after-shitty-space-journey Jon. The 11-year-old Jon was the 17-year-old Jon. They were the same person. Damian had been confused like the rest of the world.
He should have seen it.
Jon was still Jon. He still was Jon.
If he weren't, he wouldn't have remained silent to let Damian organize his thoughts. Because he knew what Damian needed. He knew better than anyone else.
That implied that Damian was the one who needed to change, or grow, or something, in order to understand Jon again.
But he understood Jon.
Or so he thought.
There was one way to know it.
If he came closer, would Jon shift?
Everyone kept treating Jon like a 11-year-old, believing that nothing had changed. Everyone kept coming closer to Jon, even though he gave clear signs that he didn't want them to get near him. But nobody noticed the signs. Or nobody cared. Imbeciles.
Jon had once been very fond of physical contact, Damian knew that very well; but now it was rare for Jon to seek out physical contact. Whenever someone came close with the clear intention of touching him, Jon would shift. Not flinch, he wasn't that obvious. Maybe he should.
And not to mention the emotional part; that was way worst.
Sometimes, Jon let someone get close, but it was like the smiles: it was very rare.
So he looked at Jon, at the solitary figure of his best friend, and came closer.
It was barely detectable, at least for the normal human eye. But Jon wasn't a normal human. He was barely a whole human.
Thus, Jon did notice what Damian did. However, not only did Jon not move, but he came closer to Damian.
It was barely perceptible, at least for the normal human eye. Damian was a normal human. He certainly was a whole human.
And yet, he noticed it.
"Stay the night," he repeated, this time without sputtering it.
Jon looked at Damian's lips, as if he couldn't believe what Damian had just said.
"Wouldn't there be problems with your dad?" Jon was still looking at his lips.
What does it matter what my father thinks?, thought Damian. He will get mad and say no. Or he will say nothing and let us be. Whatever the outcome, stay the night.
"Probably." He wasn't going to lie to Jon, not tonight.
"And you still want me to stay?"
Yeah...
"Only if you want."
"Can I know why you want me to stay?" Jon said in a barely audible voice.
Damian thought about it for a second. He leaned a little more.
"I want to show you something."
"Something?" Jon raised his eyebrows.
"Yeah, something." Another smile threatened to appear on Jon's mouth. "Don't you trust me?"
Jon snorted and closed his eyes, leaning forward to close the gap between the two. His forehead touched Damian's.
"I do," he whispered. "With my life."
Now it was Damian's turn to smile. He closed his eyes and let himself get lost in his thoughts and the proximity of Jon's breath.
One day you are at crossroads and your best friend can now get a driver license before you, and the next one you are on a roof of some building in Gotham, having an existential crisis alongside your best friend.
One day you are getting into life-and-death problems, and the next one you want to show your best friend the finding you made some nights ago. But what can one do when the world is always changing and still needs saving? Take a day off?
If only it were that easy.
But when you've got the R in your chest, it is easy.
If it weren't, he wouldn't be touching foreheads with Jon Kent, now a 17-year-old something.
Something.
What kind of something was Jon Kent?
Damian didn't know. And he didn't care. Jon could be a white shark, a starfish, or a unicorn, and Damian couldn't care the least.
All he cared about was Jon right by his side.
As Jon was him. And him was Jon.
Whatever they were, they were, together.