The Supers of Tomorrow

by Jung2114

Summary:

Damian Wayne doesn't need saving. Especially not from Jon Kent, whose effortless power and optimism cut deeper than any blade. But when Gotham forces them into each other's orbit, bitter truths and buried wounds rise to the surface. To survive as partners, Jon must prove he understands more than strength-he must understand Damian himself.

Notes:

"First time writing JonDami! This idea has been stuck in my head for ages, and since I couldn’t find the exact type of JonDami fic I wanted to read, I decided to write it myself. Hope you enjoy grumpy Damian, sunshine Jon, and a little evil Talia on the side. Feedback is super welcome since this is my first go at their dynamic 💚☀️"

Chapter 1: Looming Shadows and Deflected Bullets

The Gotham night swallowed sound whole. Rain-slicked rooftops stretched out under a bruised sky, punctuated only by the jagged silhouettes of gargoyles and the distant, rhythmic blink of a red aircraft warning light high on a communications tower. Below, the city pulsed – a bass line of traffic, the wail of a siren fading into the maze of alleys, the neon glow of a dive bar sign staining the wet asphalt crimson.

Damian Wayne was a shadow within shadows. Perched on the lip of a gargoyle-adorned cornice, he was utterly still, the fabric of his suit absorbing the ambient gloom. His gaze, narrowed behind his domino mask, tracked a grimy window across the street and three floors down. Inside, indistinct figures moved behind grimy glass.

Almost time. His fingers flexed imperceptibly near the hilt of a blade sheathed at his back.

Then, the air changed. A subtle pressure drop, a displacement of atmosphere. Damian didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened. Only one thing disturbed the air like that.

A heavy thump vibrated through the rooftop gravel beside him. Cape settling, boots crunching slightly on loose stone.

Jon Kent landed, tall and broad-shouldered, a stark contrast to Damian's compact lethality. The city lights caught the stylized 'S' on his chest, making it gleam faintly against the dark blue. He straightened, scanning the street below with easy confidence.

Damian's voice cut through the low city hum, sharp as shuriken. "Stop looming, Kent." He didn't turn his head, his focus laser-locked on the window. "You're blocking my shot."

"Hey, Dami," Jon started, his voice warm, oblivious. He took a half-step closer, peering down to see what held Damian's attention. His sheer bulk effectively eclipsed Damian's line of sight. "What's the sit—"

CRACK!

The sound wasn't deafening, but it was viciously sudden. A precise, high-velocity spang echoed off the building facade. Simultaneously, a dull thwump impacted Jon's left pectoral, right over the crest. He rocked back half an inch, surprise flashing across his features visible even in the dimness.

A small, flattened slug pinged onto the rooftop gravel between their boots.

Silence stretched for a beat. Jon looked down at the ruined bullet, then at his chest where the fabric was barely scuffed, then finally at Damian.

Damian hadn't moved a muscle. His finger was still poised near his grapple line, his gaze still fixed on the now-empty window where the sniper had been. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to stare up at Jon. The look in his eyes wasn't surprise. It was pure, unadulterated irritation, simmering with something darker.

"Point proven?" Damian asked, his voice dangerously low and smooth. "Or do you require additional ballistic evidence of your inconveniently large physical presence?"

Jon blinked, the easy grin fading. He rubbed the spot on his chest. "Okay, okay. Sorry. Didn't see the sniper nest." He glanced back towards the window. "He's bugging out. Want a lift?"

"I require nothing from you," Damian snapped, already rising fluidly to his feet. He snatched the flattened slug from the gravel, tucking it into a compartment on his belt with unnecessary force. "Your arrival was poorly timed and clumsily executed. Again."

"Whoa, harsh." Jon held up his hands, genuinely puzzled by the venom. "Mission's mission. I was just trying to back you up. Like partners do?"

"Partners do not obstruct." Damian stalked towards the edge of the roof, cape swirling. "Partners anticipate. They observe the field. They don't descend like poorly aimed wrecking balls, announcing their presence and disrupting tactical positioning." He spun back, gesturing sharply towards the window. "That target was mine. Intel I tracked for three nights. Now, thanks to your... interference... and that entirely predictable display of invulnerability, they know they're compromised."

"Hey, they shot first!" Jon protested, a flicker of defensiveness breaking through his usual calm. "And they were aiming at you, genius. I just got in the way."

"Precisely my point!" Damian shot back, stepping closer. He had to tilt his head back to meet Jon's eyes, but the intensity in his glare made him seem taller. "Your invulnerability makes you careless. You position yourself without thought because the consequences don't apply to you. Bullets bounce. Walls crumble. Civilians might scatter, but Superman's son walks away unscathed." The title dripped with acid. "It breeds recklessness. It makes you a liability."

Jon stiffened. He wasn't used to this level of vitriol from Damian, even on a bad night. "A liability? I saved your hide!"

"Did I ask to be saved?" Damian hissed. "Did I signal for assistance? Or did you simply assume, as you always do, that your powers were needed? That I was incapable?"

"It wasn't an assumption! I saw a sniper scope glint right before he fired!"

"Then you saw it too late to avoid being a human shield!" Damian countered instantly. "Your reflexes are superhuman, Kent. Your tactical awareness, however, remains disappointingly... ordinary."

That stung. Jon's fists clenched at his sides. The easy camaraderie he tried so hard to foster felt like ash in his mouth. "What is your problem tonight, Damian? Seriously. You've been on edge for weeks. Did I do something? Forget your birthday again? Use your favorite mug?"

Damian froze. For a fraction of a second, something raw flickered in his eyes – a flash of vulnerability instantly buried beneath layers of practiced disdain. He looked away, towards the blinking red light on the distant tower. "My problem," he said, his voice suddenly flat, devoid of its earlier heat, "is inefficiency. And you are currently contributing significantly to it. The trail is cold. My time here is wasted."

He didn't wait for a response. With a practiced flick of his wrist, his grapple line shot out, finding purchase on a gargoyle several rooftops away. "Do try not to follow me this time, Kent." The words were clipped, final. "Your 'help' is neither required nor appreciated."

He stepped off the ledge, the grapple line snapping taut, and swung out into the void, a swift silhouette swallowed by the deeper shadows between the buildings.

Jon watched him go, the cold Gotham wind tugging at his cape. The flattened bullet lay forgotten at his feet. Damian's words echoed: A liability. Disappointingly ordinary. They shouldn't cut so deep. Damian was always like this, right? Sarcastic. Critical. Guarded.

But the sheer, personal bitterness... the way Damian had looked at him just before he left... that wasn't just mission frustration. That was something else. Something Jon couldn't quite decipher. He'd seen Damian angry before – coldly furious, explosively violent. This felt different. This felt... personal. Charged.

He looked down at the faint smudge on his suit where the bullet had struck. Proof of his power. Proof, according to Damian, of his carelessness. Proof that he was fundamentally, frustratingly other. The easy optimism that usually buoyed him felt heavy. Gotham's chill seeped deeper than the rain.

Below, the city throbbed on, indifferent. The mission was blown. His partner was gone. And Jon Kent, Son of Superman, stood alone on a rainy rooftop, feeling inexplicably, profoundly, useless. The red aircraft light blinked steadily, like a mocking eye in the darkness. He needed answers. Not about the sniper. About Damian. He took a breath, the air tasting of exhaust and damp concrete, and launched himself into the night sky, following the path Damian had taken, aiming for the one place Damian might return to: the Cave. The confrontation wasn't over. It had barely begun.

 

The rain intensified as Jon cut through Gotham's smothering night sky, a blue-and-red blur against the charcoal clouds. Each droplet slammed into him like icy needles, a stark contrast to the lingering burn of Damian's words on his skin. A liability. Disappointingly ordinary. The accusations echoed louder than the wind whistling past his ears. He focused on the rhythmic thrum of the Cave's hidden entrance systems, a low-frequency vibration only Kryptonian senses could pick up from miles out, guiding him towards the jagged cliffs beyond the city limits.

He descended silently through the waterfall entrance, the roar momentarily drowning out the city's distant pulse. The Cave's familiar, cavernous gloom hit him – damp stone, the ozone tang of advanced tech, the faint, ever-present scent of Alfred's polishing wax and... something sharp, acrid. Burnt insulation?

Damian was already there. Not at the main console, but near the specialized training alcove. He wasn't reviewing mission logs. He was systematically, violently, dismantling one of the reinforced combat drones. Sparks showered the floor at his feet as he ripped a servo assembly free with brutal efficiency. The discarded pieces lay scattered like metallic offal. His cowl was down, revealing the tight lines of fury etched around his mouth, the damp sheen of rain or sweat on his brow. He hadn't even bothered to towel off.

Jon landed softly on the rock floor, the sound swallowed by the cavern's immensity. "Damian," he started, his voice cautious but firm, cutting through the rhythmic thunk-crunch of Damian's assault on the drone.

Damian didn't pause. He tore a hydraulic line, fluid hissing out onto the floor. "Following me, Kent?" he spat without turning. "Persistent. And predictable. Like a poorly trained dog."

"Someone needs to talk about whatever the hell is eating you," Jon countered, stepping closer, the damp gravel crunching under his boots. He kept his distance, wary. Damian vibrated with barely contained violence. "That wasn't just about the mission back there. That was personal. What did I do?"

Damian finally stopped. He slowly turned, discarding the mangled component. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were dark pits reflecting the Cave's cold light. He surveyed Jon, from his rain-damp hair to his sturdy boots, a sneer twisting his lips. "What did you do?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low. "You exist. You soar. You shine. You walk into a room – or land on a roof – and everyone turns. The golden son. Effortlessly powerful. Effortlessly good." He took a step forward, his wiry frame coiled tight. "Do you have any idea how grating that is? Day after day? Watching you blunder through life with the universe bending to make everything work out for you?"

Jon recoiled slightly. "Grating? That's what this is about? You're jealous? Because things are... easier for me?" The concept felt alien, absurd. Damian was Bruce Wayne's son. He had everything.

"Easier?" Damian barked a harsh, humorless laugh. "You reduce it to ease? It's obscene, Kent! Your power is a birthright you did nothing to earn! You have no discipline! No understanding of sacrifice! No comprehension of the darkness! You just... float above it all, radiating your insufferable optimism, expecting everyone to bask in your glow!" He gestured wildly, encompassing the Cave, the world. "You think Father looks at me the way he looks at you? With that... that pride? No. He sees the weapon my mother forged. The potential for failure. The darkness I have to fight every second just to stand in the same room as the paragon of hope's son!"

The raw pain in Damian's voice, buried deep beneath the venom, hit Jon like a physical blow. It wasn't just jealousy. It was a profound, festering wound of inadequacy Jon had never truly glimpsed. "Damian..." Jon breathed, stepping forward, hand rising instinctively, wanting to bridge the gap, to offer... something. Comfort? Understanding? He wasn't sure.

Damian saw the movement. His expression hardened into a mask of pure contempt. "Don't." The single word was a blade. "Don't you dare pity me, Kent. Save it for the civilians you rescue while smiling for the cameras."

The dismissal, the absolute rejection of any connection, ignited a spark of frustration in Jon. "Then what do you want, Damian?!" he demanded, his voice rising. "For me to apologize for existing? For having powers? For not being tortured enough to earn your respect? You want me to prove something? Fine! Prove what?"

Damian's eyes narrowed. The air crackled. "Prove you understand consequence," he hissed. "Prove you aren't just brute force wrapped in a boy scout uniform."

Before Jon could process the words, Damian moved. Not towards him, but sideways, towards a rack of specialized equipment near the training alcove. He snatched a cylindrical device – a compact sonic emitter, one of Bruce's non-lethal countermeasures. Jon recognized it instantly. At close range, calibrated high, it could shatter concrete.

Damian didn't point it at Jon. He pointed it down, at the intricate network of power conduits and data cables snaking beneath a grated section of the Cave floor. Vital systems. Bruce's systems. Alfred's systems. The Cave's nervous system.

"You want to help?" Damian's voice was chillingly calm now. "Stop me."

He thumbed the activation switch. A high-pitched whine began to build.

"Damian, NO!" Jon yelled. Pure instinct took over. He couldn't lunge fast enough to physically grab the emitter without risking shattering it and causing the very blast he wanted to prevent. There was only one option.

He phased.

One moment he was ten feet away. The next, he was a ghostly blue shimmer passing effortlessly through the solid rock floor beneath the grating, appearing instantly between Damian and the critical conduits. He solidified, his back to the vulnerable cables, his chest facing the emitter just as the sonic blast erupted.

It wasn't calibrated for Kryptonians. The concentrated wave of sound hit Jon's chest like a physical hammer blow, a pressure that would have liquefied internal organs in a human. It slammed him back a step, grating and biting into his boots. He gritted his teeth, absorbing the punishing energy, letting it dissipate harmlessly through his invulnerable form. The sound, contained by his body, became a muffled thump against the stone walls behind him. The conduits beneath his feet remained untouched.

The whine died instantly as Damian released the trigger, staring at Jon. Not at the feat of phasing through solid rock, an ability Jon rarely used in combat, but at the effortless way he'd intercepted and nullified the threat. To Damian, it wasn't a desperate save; it was a display. A reminder of the impossible gulf between them.

A flicker of something ancient and wounded flashed in Damian's eyes, deeper than anger, deeper than jealousy. It looked like despair. Then it vanished, buried under a layer of ice so thick it seemed to chill the air around him.

"Show off," Damian muttered. The words were barely audible, thick with disgust and a bitterness that tasted like ash.

He didn't wait for a retort. He dropped the sonic emitter; it clattered loudly on the grate, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. Without another word, without even a glance back, he turned and strode towards the motorcycle bay, his silhouette swallowed by the deeper shadows near the vehicles. The roar of the engine igniting moments later was a guttural challenge, tearing through the Cave's stillness before fading rapidly into the distance.

Jon stood frozen, the phantom pressure of the sonic blast still humming in his bones, Damian's muttered condemnation echoing louder. He stared at the spot where Damian had vanished, then down at the discarded weapon. Protecting the Cave, protecting Bruce's work, protecting Alfred's domain... it had been the right thing. The only thing. So why did it feel like he'd just lost something far more crucial than a fight?

The Cave's systems hummed obliviously around him. The only evidence of the confrontation was the sparking wreckage of the drone, the dropped sonic emitter, and the hollow chill Damian left behind. Jon's fists clenched. Answers. He needed answers. And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that chasing Damian into the Gotham night again wouldn't get them. He needed a different approach. He needed to understand the weapon Talia al Ghul had forged.

 

The sonic emitter lay cold and inert on the grating, a stark counterpoint to the furious energy still crackling in the air. Jon stared at it, then at the sparking remains of the drone, then at the yawning darkness where Damian's motorcycle had vanished. Protecting the Cave was automatic, instinctual. Why, then, did victory taste like battery acid? Damian's words, Show off, echoed, stripping the action bare. It wasn't about the save; it was about the effortless display of power Damian could never replicate. The gulf wasn't just tactical. It was existential.

He crouched, picking up the sonic emitter. The casing was cool, smooth. A tool. Like Damian saw him? Just another piece of equipment, powerful but ultimately replaceable? Jon ran a thumb over the activation switch. He hadn't hesitated. He'd phased, absorbed the blast, neutralized the threat. Instinct. But Damian saw only the spectacle, the impossible ease of it. The reminder of everything Damian wasn't – and believed he could never be.

The Cave's vastness felt oppressive. The hum of servers, the drip of water somewhere in the gloom, the lingering scent of ozone and burnt metal – it all pressed in, amplifying the hollow ache Damian's departure left behind. Jealousy? Jon understood the concept academically. Kids at school, teammates. But this? This was corrosive. It wasn't just about Kryptonian strength. It was about perception. About legacy. Damian saw himself as the flawed weapon, Jon as the effortless, shining ideal. And every time Jon acted, every time his powers worked, it wasn't help. It was salt in a wound Jon hadn't even known existed.

Prove you understand consequence. The challenge hung heavy. How do you prove consequence to someone raised by Talia al Ghul, forged in the League's crucible of blood and betrayal? Someone who'd faced consequences Jon couldn't even imagine before he was ten? Damian understood consequence on a cellular level. What he couldn't grasp, apparently, was that Jon did too. Every time he held back, every time he calculated the precise amount of force, every time he chose words over heat vision – that was understanding consequence. Choosing hope over fear, restraint over power... that was the consequence of his upbringing, of Clark's lessons burned into his soul. But how to make Damian see that? See past the cape and the invulnerability to the deliberate choices underneath?

The mangled drone sparked again, a dying gasp. Damian's rage had been terrifyingly focused. It wasn't random destruction. It was the controlled demolition of a substitute. He's hurting. The realization hit Jon with the force of a phantom sonic blast. This wasn't just anger. It was pain, deep and old and festering. Pain Jon, with his sunshine and earnestness, had somehow become the unwitting trigger for. Talia al Ghul hadn't just forged an assassin; she'd forged a boy perpetually braced for rejection, seeing confirmation of his own perceived inadequacy in every casual smile Jon offered the world. The "weapon" Damian feared he was... Jon saw it now. The real weapon Talia forged was Damian's own crippling belief that he was nothing more than that weapon, forever unworthy of the simple acceptance Jon seemed to embody without trying.

He needed insight. He needed context Jon himself, raised on a farm with love as tangible as sunlight, couldn't possibly provide. He needed to understand the furnace, not just the blade it produced.

Jon straightened. His gaze swept the Cave, landing on the secure comms console tucked away near the main Batcomputer bank. Alfred was likely upstairs. Bruce... Bruce was probably out in the Gotham night, a deeper shadow among shadows. But he would answer. Especially for this.

He crossed the cavern floor, the crunch of gravel unnaturally loud in the heavy silence. The chair sighed as he sank into it. The console glowed to life at his touch, biometric scanners confirming his identity – Jonathan Kent, Access Level: Beta. He navigated past mission logs, encrypted files, the endless streams of Gotham's surveillance feeds, finding the direct, heavily encrypted line labeled simply: B.

His thumb hovered over the comm activation. Taking a slow breath, filling his lungs with the Cave's cool, damp air, he pressed it. A soft chime sounded, signaling the connection attempt, pinging the receiver wherever Bruce Wayne was buried in the city's darkness. Jon waited, the silence stretching, punctuated only by the rhythmic drip... drip... drip of water from a distant stalactite. He braced himself for the clipped, gravelly tone of the Batman. The line clicked open.

Static hissed for a fraction of a second, then cleared.

"Jon." Bruce's voice was low, but it wasn't the full Batman growl. Tired. Alert. "Report." A pause. "Is Damian with you?"

Jon leaned forward, the glow of the console casting sharp angles on his face. "No. He... left." He swallowed, the words catching slightly. "Bruce, we need to talk. It's about Damian. It's... bad." He hesitated, the enormity of what he was asking, the violation of Damian's fierce privacy, warring with the desperate need to understand. "It's about Talia. About what she made him believe he is."

Chapter 2: Brotherly Interception

The silence on the encrypted line stretched, thin and brittle as old glass. Jon stared at the glowing 'B' on the console, the rhythmic drip from the cave ceiling the only sound besides his own thudding heartbeat. Then, a soft click, not the gruff acknowledgment he expected, but the distinct sound of the connection terminating. Bruce hadn't spoken. He'd just... hung up. The cold finality of it felt like a slap.

Bruce knew. And whatever Bruce knew, he wasn't sharing. Not with Jon.

Frustration, sharp and hot, warred with the lingering chill Damian left behind. He slammed a fist onto the console, the reinforced metal groaning under the impact. Sparks flew from the ruined drone nearby, a final, sputtering protest. He needed answers Bruce wouldn't give. There was only one other place Damian might go, one person who might have insights Jon desperately lacked, even if approaching him felt like stepping onto a live wire.

The Gotham Clock Tower. Tim's sanctum, but sometimes a neutral ground, high above the city's grime. Jon launched himself back into the rain-lashed night. The storm had intensified, wind buffeting him, trying to claw him off course. He pushed harder, the city lights below smearing into neon streaks. Gotham felt like a clenched fist tonight, squeezing.

He phased through the massive, ornate clock face – the intricate brass mechanisms whirring silently behind the translucent surface for a split second – and landed silently on the worn oak planks of the interior platform. The air inside was dry, thick with the scent of old paper, ozone from banks of monitors, and the faint, ever-present trace of Tim's coffee obsession. Moonlight, fractured by the giant clock's numerals, sliced through the high windows, painting shifting bars of silver across the cluttered space.

Jon expected the usual: the hum of servers, maybe Tim hunched over a keyboard, or Kon draped over a chair, radiating relaxed confidence. He didn't expect the figure blocking the narrow staircase leading down to Tim's main workstation.

Dick Grayson stood there, silhouetted against the dim glow from below. Not in civvies. Nightwing. The sharp blue emblem stark against the black. His usual easy posture was gone, replaced by coiled readiness. And his escrima sticks were out, held loosely at his sides, their tips crackling faintly with contained electric charge, casting flickering blue light onto his determined face. The warm, teasing older brother was absent. This was something else. Something dangerous.

"Dick?" Jon started, surprise momentarily overriding caution. He took a step forward. "I need—"

"Stop." Dick's voice cut through the quiet hum of the tower. It wasn't loud, but it was flat. Hard. Utterly devoid of its usual warmth. The command halted Jon mid-stride. "Turn around, Jon. Go back to Metropolis."

Jon stared, bewildered. "What? Why? I need to talk to Tim. Or Bruce. Damian—"

"Damian isn't here," Dick stated, his eyes never leaving Jon's, unblinking in the fractured moonlight. "And you talking to anyone right now? It's not happening."

"Dick, you don't understand," Jon pleaded, frustration bubbling up. "It's bad. He tried to blow up the Cave's systems! He's hurting, and I don't know why, and Bruce just hung up on me—"

"I do understand, Jon," Dick interrupted, his voice still that terrifying calm. "Better than you, apparently. That's why you're leaving." He shifted his weight slightly, the escrima sticks humming a fraction louder. The casual threat was chilling. "Now."

The dismissal, the blockade, the humming weapons... it ignited something raw in Jon. The helplessness he'd felt on the rooftop, the sting of Damian's words, the confusion – it all boiled over. "Why are you doing this?!" he demanded, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. "I'm trying to help him!"

Dick's expression didn't change. No flicker of sympathy. Only that intense, focused assessment. "Are you?" he asked softly. The question hung in the air. Then he took a single, deliberate step forward, the crackle of the escrima sticks intensifying, filling the silence between them. "You really think your brand of sunshine and super-strength is what he needs right now? After tonight?"

"He needs something!" Jon shot back, fists clenching at his sides. The urge to just push past, to phase through Dick, was strong. But this was Dick. "He needs to know he's not alone!"

A humorless, sharp bark of laughter escaped Dick. It sounded alien coming from him. "Alone? You think that's the fear? God, Jon." He shook his head slowly, the movement tight, controlled. "You still don't get it. You landing on that roof tonight? Your invulnerable chest catching that bullet? That wasn't backup. That was a demonstration. A reminder." Each word was clipped, precise. "Every time you flex, every time your powers solve the problem he was trained from birth to handle with precision and pain... it doesn't tell him he's not alone. It tells him he's inadequate."

The words landed with the force of one of Damian's perfectly aimed strikes. Inadequate. Jon flinched. "That's not... I wasn't showing off! He was about to—"

"Doesn't matter what you intend, Superboy," Dick cut in, the codename a deliberate barb. "It matters what he sees. What he feels." He took another step. The distance between them was shrinking rapidly. The air crackled with more than just electricity. "You are the living, breathing embodiment of everything Talia told him he wasn't. Everything Bruce struggles to see past the League's conditioning to find." His voice dropped lower, colder. "Your powers aren't the shield you think they are. Right now? For him? They're the knife. And every time you try to 'help'? You just twist it deeper."

The brutal clarity of it stole Jon's breath. He saw it again: the flicker of despair in Damian's eyes after the phasing, the way he'd dropped the sonic emitter like it was poison. Show off. It hadn't been about the action; it had been about the effortless otherness of it. The unbridgeable gap. Dick was right. Horribly, devastatingly right. His very existence was salt in Damian's wounds.

Jon's shoulders slumped. The righteous anger bled away, leaving behind a hollow ache, a profound sense of helplessness he'd never truly experienced before. "So... what?" he asked, his voice rough. "I just leave him? Like Bruce is doing? Pretend it's not happening?"

"Bruce isn't pretending," Dick said, his tone shifting minutely, the rigid anger giving way to something harder, older. Wearier. "He's hunting. Talia surfaced. A whisper in the Balkans. He thinks she might be the trigger. That she reached out. Poisoned the well again." Dick's gaze held Jon's, intense. "He went alone. Because Damian... Damian is volatile. And right now, anything Bruce says, anything he does... Damian will twist it. See it as judgment. As confirmation of his failures. Just like he twists you."

Dick finally lowered the escrima sticks, the electric hum dying down to a low thrum. The immediate threat lessened, but the atmosphere remained charged. "Going after him now, Jon? With your powers blazing? Trying to talk him down with that earnest Kent charm?" Dick shook his head again, a flicker of something like pity in his eyes now. "It's not help. It's gasoline on the fire Talia lit."

Jon stood frozen. Rain lashed the giant clock face behind him, distorting the view of the storm-wracked city. Gotham looked like a swirling pit of darkness. He thought of Damian, alone somewhere in that maelstrom, his mind a battlefield Jon suddenly realized he had no map for. His powers were useless here. Worse than useless.

"So what do I do?" The question came out a whisper, stripped bare.

Dick studied him for a long moment. The crackle of the sticks vanished entirely. He clipped them back onto his belt with a decisive click. "You stand down," he said, his voice regaining a fraction of its usual timbre, but still edged with steel. "You let Bruce handle Talia. You let us handle Damian. Find him, contain him, keep him from burning everything down – including himself – until the poison clears." He met Jon's eyes. "And you? You stay the hell away. Because right now, Jon Kent? You are the last person Damian Wayne needs to see."

The finality in Dick's voice was absolute. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order from the heart of the Batfamily. The protector. The glue. The one who saw the fractures before they became breaks.

Jon looked past Dick, down the staircase into the dim light where he knew Tim's workstation lay. No sign of Tim or Kon. Maybe they were down there, listening. Maybe Dick had cleared them out. It didn't matter. The message was clear. He was out of his depth. He was part of the problem.

The hollow ache in his chest deepened. He'd flown here seeking answers, seeking a way to fix it. Instead, he'd been shown the jagged edges of a wound he couldn't heal, a battle he couldn't fight. His strength meant nothing. His hope felt like a childish delusion.

He didn't argue. Didn't plead. He just nodded, once, a stiff, jerky movement. The rain on the clock face blurred the city lights into a watery smear. He turned away from Dick, from the staircase, from the answers he wouldn't find here. He walked towards the massive window, towards the storm.

He stopped just before the glass, looking out at the tempestuous Gotham night. His reflection, distorted by rain and leaded panes, looked unfamiliar. Diminished. Slowly, deliberately, he unclipped the comm unit from his ear. The tiny red light winked out. He placed it carefully on a dusty, gear-strewn table beside the window. A surrender.

He didn't look back at Dick. He just phased silently through the thick glass and the driving rain, back into the howling wind. The Clock Tower shrank below him, its face a pale, indifferent moon in the city's storm-lashed sky. He hovered for a second, buffeted by the gale, feeling utterly, terrifyingly human. Powerless.

Then, without a destination, without a plan, just a crushing weight of uselessness pressing down, he flew. Not towards Metropolis. Just... away. Into the dark. Leaving the knife behind, not knowing if pulling it out would save Damian or kill him.

Chapter 3: Hollow Confrontation

The wind off Gotham Harbor tasted like rust and dead fish. Jon hovered high above the water, the city's jagged skyline a smudge of sickly light to his left, the vast, ink-black expanse of the Atlantic swallowing the horizon to his right. He wasn't flying to anything. Just... away. Away from Dick's devastating assessment, away from the suffocating certainty that he was poison to the person he desperately wanted to save. Dick's words echoed, relentless: You are the knife. Twist it deeper.

Below, the Gotham Docks sprawled – a decaying maze of skeletal cranes, crumbling warehouses like rotten teeth, and mountains of shipping containers stacked haphazardly, their bright colors faded to grimy ghosts under the weak glow of sporadic security lights. The air hummed with the low thrum of generators, the groan of stressed metal in the wind, and the distant, mournful blare of a foghorn. Salt spray mixed with the pervasive reek of diesel and decay.

He wasn't scanning. Instinct, or maybe desperation, dragged his gaze down. And there, perched atop a rust-scabbed container near the water's edge, a silhouette cut sharp against the flickering sodium lights reflecting on the oily harbor surface. Small. Tense. Utterly still.

Damian.

Jon's breath hitched. He dropped lower, silent as a shadow, landing on the adjacent container stack with barely a whisper of displaced air. The wind whipped his hair, carrying the sharp tang of salt and something else... ozone? Metal? He crouched, the cold, pitted metal biting through the fabric of his suit.

Damian hadn't moved. He sat on the edge of the container, legs dangling over a twenty-foot drop to the cracked concrete below. His back was to Jon, hood up, shrouding his face. But Jon didn't need to see it. The rigid set of his shoulders, the unnatural stillness – it screamed. It screamed louder than any rant, any thrown punch. This wasn't the furious storm of the cave. This was the eerie calm after the detonation, the radioactive fallout.

Jon hesitated. Dick's warning roared in his ears. Stay the hell away. You are the last person he needs. Every instinct screamed to swoop down, to grab Damian, to shield him... from what? From himself? From Talia's ghost whispering in his ear? From the crushing weight of his own perceived inadequacy, an inadequacy Jon embodied by simply existing?

He stayed crouched. Watching. The silence stretched, filled only by the harbor's industrial throb and the wind whistling through the container stacks. Then, slowly, Damian raised his right hand. Moonlight glinted coldly off the curved, wickedly sharp blade of a League assassin's dagger. The same design Jon had seen countless times in League strongholds, in Ra's al Ghul's grip, in Talia's own hand. Damian's fingers were white-knuckled around the hilt.

Jon couldn't stay silent. "Damian?" His voice, barely above the wind, felt too loud in the desolate space.

Damian didn't startle. He didn't whirl around. His head tilted just slightly, a predator acknowledging a sound. Then, with a slowness that was more terrifying than any sudden movement, he turned. The hood cast deep shadows, but the harbor lights caught the lower half of his face. His jaw was clenched tight, the muscle jumping. But his eyes... Dick had said 'hollow'. That didn't capture it. They were voids. Flat, dark pools reflecting the distant city lights but holding no light of their own. No anger. No calculation. Just... an awful, consuming emptiness.

The dagger didn't waver in his grip. He looked at Jon, through him.

"Come to gloat, Kent?" Damian's voice was a rasp, devoid of its usual sharpness, stripped down to raw, scraped bone. "Or just get a front-row seat to the self-destruction?" A humorless ghost of a smile touched his lips, gone in an instant. "Dick send you? Or did you ignore his order too, like you ignore everything else?"

The accusation stung, layered over Dick's earlier words. Jon forced himself to stand slowly, keeping his movements non-threatening. "No one sent me. I... I was just flying." It sounded pathetic. "I saw you." He took a cautious step forward onto the same container, the metal groaning faintly under his weight. "Damian, what happened? With Talia? Bruce is—"

"Bruce is chasing shadows," Damian cut in, his voice gaining a shred of brittle edge. "He always does where she is concerned. Running towards the fire while the real embers smoulder right under his nose." He looked down at the dagger in his hand, turning it slowly. The edge caught the light, winking dangerously. "She didn't do anything new, Kent. She just... reminded me."

"Reminded you of what?" Jon asked gently, taking another slow step. The distance between them felt like miles. He kept his hands open, palms out. "Whatever it is, you don't have to face it alone. We can—"

"We?" Damian's head snapped up, and for a second, a flicker of something vicious ignited in the hollows of his eyes. "There is no 'we'. There's you." He jabbed the dagger point towards Jon. "Invulnerable. Powerful. The perfect son. The future." The word dripped with venom. "And there's me. The flawed weapon. The failed experiment. The..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping back to the blade. His knuckles whitened further. "The reminder of everything my father couldn't fix."

"You're not flawed, Damian," Jon insisted, his voice fierce despite the fear coiling in his gut. Fear for Damian, not of him. "You're you. And you're incredible. Your skills, your mind—"

"Skills?" Damian let out a short, sharp sound that wasn't laughter. "Skills honed to kill. To maim. To instill terror. Skills that mean nothing next to solar-powered invincibility." He suddenly stood up on the container's edge, balanced precariously, the wind whipping his hood back. His hair was a mess, his face pale and strained in the harsh light. He held the dagger up, not threatening Jon, but examining it as if seeing it for the first time. "This... this is what I am, Kent. Forged in darkness. Sharpened for a single purpose. A tool. An instrument." His voice cracked on the last word. "And tools break. Or they get discarded when something better comes along."

"Damian, get down from there," Jon said, his own voice tight with urgency. He took another step, closing half the remaining distance. "Please. Just... talk to me. Without the blade."

Damian's gaze snapped to his, the emptiness momentarily replaced by a flash of pure, agonized frustration. "Talk? What is there to say? How do you talk about the feeling that your entire existence is a mistake? That everything you are, everything you were made to be, is fundamentally... wrong?" He looked back at the dagger, his hand trembling slightly now. "She didn't plant a bomb in my head, Kent. She just held up a mirror. And I finally saw the reflection clearly. A monster wearing my father's face." His breath hitched, a ragged sound. "And I can't... I can't unsee it."

Jon saw the tremor in Damian's hand intensify. Saw how his gaze fixated on the blade's edge, not with intent, but with a horrifying kind of morbid fascination. A terrible understanding crashed over Jon. This wasn't about attacking him. This was far, far worse.

"Damian, no!" Jon surged forward, super-speed kicking in, but he pulled back at the last millisecond, terrified that sudden movement would trigger the outcome he dreaded.

Damian flinched violently at the burst of speed, stumbling back a half-step on the narrow edge. His boot scraped on the rust. His eyes, wide and wild now, locked onto Jon's, filled with sudden, shocking vulnerability beneath the panic. The dagger flashed in his grip.

He didn't point it at Jon. His arm jerked down and inwards, towards his own body.

Jon was moving before the thought fully formed. Not to grab the dagger – too risky, too fast. Instead, he lunged, wrapping his arms around Damian's torso in a crushing bear hug, pinning Damian's arms to his sides, lifting him clear off the container edge. He turned his own back to the potential fall, shielding Damian.

"LET GO!" Damian screamed, a raw, animal sound, thrashing wildly. He kicked, twisted, slammed his head back. Jon absorbed it all, tightening his grip, feeling the frantic hammering of Damian's heart against his own chest. The dagger was trapped between them, pressed against Damian's side and Jon's forearm.

"Stop! Damian, stop!" Jon pleaded, his voice rough with emotion. "Please! Don't do this!"

Damian fought like a trapped wildcat, fueled by terror and shame, but Jon's strength was absolute. Gradually, the thrashing subsided into violent tremors, then into a terrifying stillness. Damian went limp in Jon's arms, his head hanging. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps against Jon's neck.

Jon didn't loosen his hold. He could feel the cold metal of the dagger pressed between them. He slowly, carefully, adjusted his grip, sliding one hand down to Damian's wrist. Damian didn't resist as Jon gently pried his fingers open. The League dagger clattered loudly onto the container roof, the sound echoing in the sudden quiet.

Jon lowered them both carefully to the solid metal surface, still holding Damian tight. Damian's face was buried against Jon's shoulder now. His body shuddered with silent sobs he was clearly fighting to suppress. The awful emptiness was gone, replaced by a raw, exposed agony that radiated from him in waves.

Jon just held on. Words felt useless. Hollow platitudes would be an insult. He rested his cheek against the top of Damian's head, the dark hair smelling of sweat, ozone, and harbor grime. He could feel the dampness soaking through his suit where Damian's face was pressed. The wind moaned around them.

 

A flicker of movement caught Jon's peripheral vision. High up on a nearby crane gantry, two figures materialized from the deeper shadows. Tim Drake, Red Robin, crouched low, his expression unreadable behind the mask but his posture radiating weary tension. Beside him, Conner Kent landed silently, his usual cocky ease replaced by a watchful, protective solidity. Conner's gaze flickered from the broken figure in Jon's arms to the discarded dagger gleaming dully on the rusted metal. He gave Jon a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Understanding. Solidarity.

Tim just watched for a long moment, then made a subtle hand signal to Conner. They melted back into the shadows as silently as they'd appeared. Backup. Watchers. The Batfamily closing ranks, but giving Jon this moment. Or maybe just confirming the disaster zone.

Jon tightened his arms around Damian again, a fierce, protective gesture. Dick's words echoed: You are the knife. Maybe he was. But right now, holding Damian as he trembled, feeling the fragile warmth of him through the suit, Jon knew with absolute certainty that walking away was no longer an option. He might be the problem, but he was also, impossibly, the only anchor Damian had in this storm. He pressed his face harder against Damian's hair, breathing in the salt and despair.

The dagger lay where it fell, a dark, accusing shape on the rust. The harbor wind carried the sound of Damian's fractured breathing out over the black, indifferent water. Jon didn't know how to fix this. He didn't know if he could. But he wouldn't let go. Not while the steel Damian clung to was the kind that cut himself.

The harbor wind sliced through the gap between them, carrying the taste of salt and decay. Damian remained rigid in Jon's arms, a statue carved from grief and shattered pride. His silent shuddering had subsided, replaced by a terrifying stillness deeper than the ocean below.

"Damian," Jon murmured, his voice barely audible over the groan of distant cranes. He didn't loosen his hold, anchoring them both to the rusted container roof. The discarded dagger gleamed dully nearby, a dark punctuation mark on the scene. "Please. Talk to me. What did she do?"

A ragged breath escaped Damian, warm against the damp fabric of Jon's suit collar. He didn't pull away. He didn't lift his head. His voice, when it finally came, was scraped raw and impossibly small, muffled against Jon's shoulder. "She... showed me."

"Showed you what?" Jon pressed gently, his hand moving in a slow, steady circle on Damian's tense back. He could feel the frantic flutter of Damian's pulse beneath his palm. "What happened in Nanda Parbat, Dami?"

Damian flinched at the nickname, a tiny, almost imperceptible recoil. His fingers, trapped between their bodies, curled into fists against Jon's chest. "Not... Nanda Parbat," he rasped. "Here. Two nights ago. Corner of Bleake and Sprang. An alley. It stank of garbage." He paused, swallowing hard. "She was just... there. Like smoke."

Jon stayed silent, willing him to continue. The cold metal beneath them seeped through his suit. He focused on the faint, rhythmic thud of Damian's heart.

"She didn't fight," Damian whispered, the words tumbling out like stones. "Didn't draw a blade. Just... looked at me. That look. Like I was a stain on the pavement." His breath hitched. "She said... 'Your father failed. He softened the weapon. Made it... sentimental. Useless.'"

A tremor ran through Damian again. Jon tightened his arms instinctively.

"Then..." Damian's voice cracked, brittle. "She smiled. That cold, perfect smile. 'Don't worry, beloved. Grandfather anticipated sentimentality. He prepared... replacements. Better models. Unburdened.'" He choked, the sound guttural. "She had... holos. Projected them on the wet brick. Boys. Younger. Leaner. Harder eyes. Trained since birth with... with his Kryptonian weakness protocols drilled into them. Anti-Superboy measures. Built into their reflexes."

Understanding crashed over Jon, cold and brutal. He saw the hollow terror in Damian's eyes on the container edge again. Not just the fear of being discarded. The fear of being replaced. By someone designed to neutralize him. Jon was the unwitting benchmark of Damian's perceived failure.

"She said..." Damian's voice was a shredded whisper now, thick with unshed tears and fury. "...they wouldn't hesitate. Wouldn't... feel. They'd complete the mission Ra's envisioned. Eliminate the alien threat. While I..." He trailed off, a violent shudder racking his frame. "I stood there. Frozen. Like a fool. Like the weakling she sees. She just... vanished. Left me staring at those ghosts."

He finally lifted his head, just enough to look sideways at the discarded League dagger on the rust. His eyes were wide, haunted pools reflecting the harbor's sickly light. Not empty anymore. Filled with a raw, primal horror. "They're out there, Jon. Somewhere. Walking embodiments of my failure. Proof I'm... obsolete." His gaze flickered back to Jon's face, searching, lost. "And she left me that." He nodded minutely towards the dagger. "A reminder of what I should have been. Sharp. Single-purpose. Unfeeling."

The weight of it pressed down – Talia's cruel psychological surgery, the existence of these engineered replacements, the deliberate targeting of Damian's deepest insecurities about his place, his worth, his connection to Jon. It wasn't just a taunt. It was a meticulously crafted torture designed to break him from within, using Jon as the unwitting fulcrum.

Jon didn't offer empty reassurances. He met Damian's desperate gaze head-on, the wind whipping strands of black hair across Damian's forehead. His voice was low, fierce, grounding them both in the cold, rusted reality of the docks. "You listen to me, Damian Wayne. You are not replaceable. Not by some... lab-grown ghost. Not by anyone." He shifted slightly, ensuring Damian saw the conviction in his eyes. "You feel. That's your strength, not your weakness. It's what makes you more than a weapon. It's what makes you you."

Damian stared, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The raw vulnerability was terrifying, laid bare after years of armor. He looked shattered, but something flickered in the depths – a spark of defiance, or maybe just exhaustion.

"And those protocols?" Jon continued, his jaw set. "They mean nothing. Because we know. We know how to watch each other's backs. We adapt." He glanced pointedly at the dagger. "That thing? It's just metal. You're more than the steel they tried to forge you into. You always were."

A strangled sound escaped Damian, half-sob, half-disbelief. He leaned his forehead back against Jon's shoulder, his body going slack, the last vestiges of resistance draining away, leaving only bone-deep weariness and the chilling echo of his mother's words. His fingers slowly uncurled from their fists, resting limply against Jon's chest. The wind howled, carrying the mournful cry of a freighter out on the dark water. High above, unseen but felt, the shadows held their vigil, knowing the storm was far from over.

High above, the shadows held their vigil, knowing the storm was far from over. Tim's masked gaze remained fixed on the two figures below, his posture tight with unspoken tension. Beside him, Conner shifted almost imperceptibly, a low hum vibrating in his chest – concern, readiness, a silent acknowledgment of the raw pain radiating upwards.

Down on the rusted container, Jon felt Damian's shuddering breath against his neck, the damp heat of tears soaking through the Kevlar weave. The wind off the harbor whipped strands of black hair across Damian's damp cheek, plastering them there. He was utterly still now, a spent shell pressed against Jon's chest, the frantic energy of moments before dissolved into a terrifying, hollow exhaustion. The confession hung in the salt-tinged air: Talia's surgical strike, the ghost-assassins, the calculated dismantling of Damian's already fractured sense of self-worth, all centered around the perceived threat Jon embodied.

"You are not obsolete, Damian," Jon murmured again, his voice thick, rough-edged. He tightened his arms, anchoring them both against the biting wind and the deeper chill of Damian's despair. He felt the sharp ridge of Damian's shoulder blade under his palm, the wiry strength coiled even in collapse. "Those... replacements... they're just puppets. Empty shells Talia built to hurt you. To twist the knife." He risked tilting his head, trying to catch Damian's downcast eyes. "You're Damian Wayne. You're real. You feel. You fight. That's why she fears you. Why she had to try and break you."

Damian didn't respond. A tremor, faint but undeniable, ran through him again. His forehead stayed pressed hard into Jon's shoulder, a desperate anchor point. Jon felt the minute shake of Damian's head, a negation Jon refused to accept. He cupped the back of Damian's neck, fingers tangling in the sweat-damp hair at his nape, the gesture instinctive, protective.

"Look at me," Jon urged, his voice dropping lower, almost lost in the groan of a distant crane cable. "Please, Dami. Look at me."

Slowly, painfully, Damian lifted his head. The harsh, flickering harbor lights painted stark shadows across his face. Tear tracks glistened on his cheeks, cutting through the grime. His eyes, usually sharp and guarded, were red-rimmed, swollen, stripped utterly bare. They held a universe of pain – the humiliation of Talia's manipulation, the crushing weight of perceived failure, the paralyzing fear of those ghostly replacements, and beneath it all, a desperate, aching need for something, anything, to be true. He looked utterly lost, adrift in the wreckage of himself.

Jon saw it. Saw the raw vulnerability, the terrifying openness. Saw the way Damian's gaze flickered over his face, searching, pleading without words for an anchor Jon wasn't sure he could truly be. Dick's warning – You are the knife – echoed, but it was drowned out by the tidal wave of fierce protectiveness surging through Jon. He couldn't fix Talia's poison. He couldn't erase the League's ghosts. But he could be here. Solid. Present.

Jon's hand slid from Damian's neck to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing away a fresh tear track, rough skin catching on the dampness. He felt the frantic pulse hammering in Damian's throat. It was reckless. Stupid, maybe. But the sheer, overwhelming need radiating from Damian, the terrifying proximity of that abyss he'd almost stepped into minutes ago... logic dissolved. Words felt like ash.

He didn't hesitate. He leaned in.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It wasn't planned. It was a collision born of desperation, a shared gasp against the cold Gotham night. Jon's lips met Damian's with bruising force, driven by a surge of fear, relief, and a blinding, terrifying clarity. Damian froze for a split second, rigid with shock. Then, with a choked, ragged sound that was half-sob, half-surrender, he surged forward.

He kissed Jon back with a frantic, bruising intensity that stole Jon's breath. Damian's hands, trapped moments ago, twisted free, fingers knotting in the fabric of Jon's suit, pulling him impossibly closer as if trying to merge their bodies against the world's cruelty. It was fierce, messy, teeth clacking, lips crushed together, tasting of salt tears and the metallic tang of the harbor air. Oxygen burned. Damian made a small, broken noise against Jon's mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated need, his entire frame trembling not with cold, but with the ferocity of his grip, the intensity of this sudden, reckless claiming.

It was a drowning man clinging to a rock, a starved thing finally finding sustenance, a silent scream against the echoing void Talia had carved. Jon held on, matching the desperate pressure, pouring every ounce of his own fear, his relief, his fierce, protective certainty into the kiss. The wind screamed around them, but it was distant. The rust, the decay, the watching shadows – faded. There was only the frantic heat of their mouths, the desperate clutch of hands, the shared, shuddering breaths, and the terrifying, exhilarating sense of falling into something vast and uncharted.

On the crane gantry, Tim went perfectly still. He saw the sudden shift, the blur of motion resolving into the fierce embrace. "Well," he breathed, the word almost lost to the wind. "Shit."

Conner's low hum shifted, a note of grim satisfaction cutting through the tension. "Finally," he muttered, his gaze sharp, scanning the surrounding darkness even as he tracked the scene below. A slow, almost imperceptible nod. "Took 'em long enough."

Tim didn't respond. He just watched, a complex mix of exhaustion, worry, and something else – reluctant understanding – flickering behind the mask. Far below, the intensity broke. Oxygen-starved, they wrenched apart. Jon gasped, his forehead resting against Damian's, eyes wide, stunned. Damian's own eyes flew open, blazing with shock, the raw vulnerability instantly replaced by a dawning horror. He recoiled as if scalded, wrenching himself violently out of Jon's arms, stumbling back on the rusted metal. His breathing was harsh, ragged. He stared at Jon, his expression a mask of utter panic, lips still slick and parted.

"They're still out there, Kent," Damian choked out, the words raw, accusatory, a desperate shield against the terrifying intimacy that had just shattered his defenses. His gaze darted wildly, not meeting Jon's, scanning the oppressive shadows of the container stacks as if the ghost-assassins might materialize right then, confirming his worst fears. "They're still out there." The last word cracked, echoing across the desolate dock like a gunshot in the sudden, heavy silence.

Notes:

"Thank you for reading the first chapter! Damian might be sharp enough to cut glass for now, but Jon’s energy refuses to back down. Evil! Talia will make her presence felt soon 👀 Stick around for angst, rooftop drama, and maybe a little heartache. Comments fuel me, so feel free to yell at me about mean Damian or soft Jon 🖤☀️"

let me know if you want more by leaving a comment