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It had been fourteen days, five hours, and six minutes since Damian had last seen Jon.
Not that he was keeping track.
Of course not.
It was simply good strategy to know how long one’s partner had been away.
So if his heart gave a small, traitorous lurch the moment Jon flew into view, he’d deny it until the end of time.
“Dami! Hi!” Jon called out, voice bright as the sky behind him. He touched down beside the brooding figure in black and green, still grinning.
It was ridiculous how much quieter patrols had been without him.
“No names in costume, Superboy,” Damian snapped, eyes narrowing. Then his gaze swept up, and up, to Jon’s face. The Kryptonian seemed a good foot taller than last time. Tch. Disrespectful.
“Stop hovering, idiot.”
Jon blinked. “But I’m on the floor.”
Damian’s eyes dropped, confirming that Jon’s boots were, in fact, touching the ground. The audacity of him.
“Why did you grow while we were apart?” he demanded, brow furrowed. “I did not permit that.”
Jon laughed. That easy, infuriating sound that always made Damian’s chest feel uncomfortably warm. “Dami, I can’t control my perfect Kryptonian genes.”
“Hmph.” Damian folded his arms. “I suppose not.”
And if he happened to stand a little straighter after that, well. That was a matter of personal dignity, not insecurity.
After that, the height thing became an issue.
Jon had discovered the perfect weapon against him; and he wielded it mercilessly.
At first, it was subtle. While talking, Jon would dip slightly in midair so their eyes were level. He’d do it with that maddening smile, just long enough for Damian to notice.
That habit earned the Kryptonian a swift kick to the shin. (Sheer mercy that Damian didn’t aim higher.)
Then Jon started getting bolder. He’d rest his chin and forearms on Damian’s head during briefings, humming contentedly.
“You make a great armrest, Dami!”
That earned him a punch in the jaw and a week of Damian pretending he didn’t exist.
But the final straw came one evening in the Batcave, when Jon leaned against the railing and said with a smirk, “Need a lift to reach the higher shelves?”
The words had barely left his mouth before a Batarang whistled past his ear, followed by Damian’s voice, low and lethal:
“Say that again, Kent.”
Jon didn’t. Not aloud, at least. The laughter in his eyes said enough.
Damian, of course, was unbothered. Entirely.
So what if he made a habit of standing on raised platforms whenever Jon was around?
And perhaps his boots had been quietly modified with a slightly thicker sole and heel. Strictly for tactical advantage.
Completely unrelated to the Kryptonian’s ridiculous growth spurt.
Unfortunately, the rest of the family did not share his sense of subtlety.
“Aww, Little D’s growing up so fast– Oh wait, never mind.” Grayson smirked, ruffling Damian’s hair until his hand was nearly impaled by a hidden blade.
“Boy, I can’t wait for Christmas!” Todd called from the couch. “Hey, Brat, when you’re up at the North Pole, put in a good word for me with Big Red, yeah?”
It was May.
Even Drake joined in. “At least I’m not the only family twink anymore.”
They all thought they were hilarious.
Then came the gift.
It arrived one afternoon; a plain box on the manor’s doorstep, addressed to Damian Wayne. Already suspicious.
He carried it to the lounge where Grayson, Todd, and Drake were scattered about, and immediately their heads turned like vultures spotting fresh roadkill.
“What’s that, Little D?” Grayson asked, far too curious for his own good.
Damian turned the box over, shook it once. No ticking, no weight imbalance. Not a bomb. Satisfied, he lifted the lid.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Todd and Grayson collapsed into wheezing laughter, clutching their sides. Even Drake had to hide his grin behind his mug.
Damian’s face flushed scarlet. Inside the box sat a miniature pink stepstool, and on top, a note in Jon’s neat handwriting:
So you can reach the shelves while I’m away <3
Damian stared at the gift for one long, murderous moment. His jaw ticked.
“This means war, Kent,” he muttered.
Sneaking into the Kryptonian’s apartment was insultingly easy.
His parents were at work, Jon at school. The timing was perfect.
And Damian Wayne never struck without a plan.
He wasn’t the only one invested in his mission.
When Damian gathered materials from the Cave’s storage, it took less than five minutes for the rest of the family to notice.
Jason leaned over his shoulder, eyeing the pile of glitter like it was a live grenade. “You’re making a bomb or a Barbie, kid?”
“Neither,” Damian said curtly. “Revenge.”
Jason grinned. “Oh, this, I’m in for. You need glitter that sticks? I’ve got industrial-grade craft adhesive from when I rigged Roy’s arrows with confetti.”
“I do not want to know why you did that,” Tim muttered, but he didn’t move away. “You’ll need to test it, though. Kryptonian fabric’s basically bulletproof.”
Damian hesitated, then shoved a cape scrap toward him. “Fine. Test it.”
Within minutes, the Batcomputer was running a full diagnostic on “adhesive permanence levels.” Tim looked disturbingly pleased.
Dick wandered by mid-experiment, holding coffee. “So what are we calling this operation? Sparkle Justice? Bedazzled Vengeance?”
Damian glared. “Get out.”
“‘Get Out’, catchy. I like it,” Dick said brightly, snapping a photo before retreating.
When Alfred passed through an hour later, he paused at the glitter-coated workstation, sighed, and set down a drop cloth. “I shall not ask,” he said. “Merely… please, try to keep the explosion radius contained this time.”
Damian didn’t answer. His focus was absolute.
Jon Kent would learn.
Oh, he would sparkle with regret.
If Jon wanted to play games, he’d learn exactly how dangerous it was to challenge the heir of the Bat; and how spectacular revenge could look when painted in glitter.
***
Morning sunlight spilled through the Kent apartment like it was mocking him.
Jon blinked awake, stretching, the remnants of a dream about chasing down a meteor still fading; and froze.
Something was wrong.
His bedroom looked like it had been hit by a glitter bomb. Gold, silver, and suspiciously pink sparkles clung to every surface. They shimmered on his dresser, glinted on his sheets, and–
Jon groaned.
His capes.
Every. Single. One.
Hung neatly on their hooks, gleaming in the light like disco-ball monstrosities. His proud House of El crest was now buried under layers of sparkle so thick it could probably signal aliens from orbit.
Jon tugged one off the hanger, shaking it hard. Nothing came off. Not a single fleck.
“Oh, come on!”
When he finally arrived at the Batcave, still trailing an accidental galaxy of glitter behind him, Damian was already waiting, perched on a console with all the self-satisfaction of a cat guarding stolen jewels.
Jon landed, his cape throwing a burst of sparkles across the cave walls. “You–!”
Damian arched a brow. “Good morning to you as well, Kent.”
“My capes!” Jon gestured wildly. Glitter flew. “They’re ruined!”
“I fail to see the problem.” Damian’s tone was smooth, infuriatingly calm. “You look radiant. You should thank me.”
Jon’s jaw dropped. “Radiant?! I’m going to blind people by accident!”
“Tt. That would imply you ever managed subtlety to begin with.” Damian hopped lightly off the console, giving Jon’s cape a critical once-over. “And for your information, it’s kryptonite-safe glitter. You’re welcome.”
Jon blinked, momentarily stunned that Damian had tested it. Then realization hit him. “You planned for that?!”
Damian smirked. “Of course. I’m thorough.”
Jon looked down at himself, at his hair now permanently dusted in glitter, and let out a long, dramatic sigh. “You are so lucky I love you,” he muttered, flying off in a sparkly rage that left the Batcave looking like a fairy-tale explosion.
Two days later, a suspiciously large box appeared at Damian’s workstation.
He eyed it, scanning for tampering. None. Todd’s laughter echoing from across the room didn’t inspire confidence.
Inside, carefully packed and labeled in neat handwriting, sat a pair of glossy black platform boots. The attached note read:
“For your tactical advantage. –Superboy”
P.S. They add three inches! Now we can see eye to eye <3
Damian stared at the boots for a long moment. They were well-made. Custom leather. And unfortunately, the aesthetic matched his uniform perfectly.
He closed the lid with surgical precision.
“Drake,” he said without turning, “find out how to erase someone from every government record in the world.”
Tim didn’t look up from his tablet. “Again?”
The following morning, Jon woke up to find his favorite hoodie, his soft, perfectly worn blue one, replaced.
The new hoodie looked identical at first glance. Same material, same color, same comforting fit.
Until he caught his reflection in the mirror.
Bold white text stretched across the front:
PROPERTY OF SHORT STACK
Jon froze. “Oh no.”
Conner walked past the doorway, took one look, and immediately wheezed. “Dude. What did you do to him?”
“Nothing!” Jon said, mortified. “I just–” He cut himself off. “Okay, maybe something. But this is war now.”
It took Jon three days to come up with his counterstrike.
Three long days of plotting, programming, and, at one point, consulting Tim Drake under the guise of “learning about trigger-based micro audio circuits.”
The fourth night, it was ready.
He broke into the Batcave at 3:00 a.m., bypassing three separate motion alarms (all of which, to his pride, he actually managed to disable this time).
By morning, the trap was set.
Damian, unaware, began his patrol prep as usual.
He clicked open the leftmost compartment of his utility belt–
“Taller than you~”
Damian froze.
Slowly, deliberately, he shut the compartment. Then opened the next one.
“Taller than you~”
He inhaled through his nose. Calm. Collected. Murderous.
Click.
“Taller than you~”
From across the cave, Dick’s laughter echoed like the sound of doom. “Aww, he personalized it!”
Jason wheezed. “Kent’s got a death wish.”
Damian’s glare could have melted steel. “When I find him,” he said softly, “I’m going to coat the Fortress of Solitude in glue and feathers.”
Somewhere in Metropolis, Jon sneezed, sending up a faint puff of glitter.
By the end of the week, Wayne Manor had become a war zone.
Every time Jon dropped by, the household braced for impact. Alfred kept a mop ready for glitter fallout. Titus had learned to hide under the piano. Even Bruce had quietly increased the Cave’s cleaning budget.
Because when Robin and Superboy fought, there were no survivors.
It began, predictably, with a family meeting.
Bruce had called everyone to the Cave to discuss patrol rotations. A simple, civilized gathering.
Then Damian walked in.
He strode toward the table with his usual composure, cape swishing behind him; only to notice the faint shimmer dusting his utility belt. His eyes narrowed into murder slits.
Jon, floating casually beside his father, looked too innocent.
Damian clicked open a compartment.
“Taller than you~”
Silence.
Tim’s coffee paused halfway to his mouth. Jason dropped his phone. Dick immediately lost it.
“Oh my god,” Dick wheezed. “Did your belt just–”
Click.
“Taller than you~”
Jason slid off the chair, laughing so hard he nearly hit the floor. “Kent, you’re a dead man!”
Clark rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Jon…”
“I–uh–” Jon tried, but the laughter drowned him out.
Damian stood perfectly still, expression carved from stone. “Kent,” he said softly, “I advise you to start flying.”
Jon did. Immediately.
Five minutes later, the Cave looked like a scene from Looney Tunes.
Jon darted behind the Batmobile, grinning like a maniac, while Damian stalked after him with a Batarang in each hand and the full support of his delighted brothers.
“Get him, Baby Bat!” Jason hollered.
“Don’t damage the car,” Bruce said without looking up from the console.
Clark floated down beside him, sighing. “Do you… do you just let this happen?”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. “It builds character.”
“Yours or theirs?”
“Both.”
Eventually, Jon landed, chest heaving, still laughing as Damian approached with the slow, deliberate steps of someone calculating exactly how much vengeance was legally permissible.
“Alright, alright!” Jon held up his hands. “Truce?”
Damian didn’t stop. “Define your terms.”
“No more glitter. No more height jokes. No more,” Jon gestured vaguely at the belt, “audio surprises.”
“Hmph.” Damian halted in front of him, eyes glinting. “Agreed. On one condition.”
Jon blinked. “Which is?”
“You apologize for the belt.”
Jon’s grin crept back. “What if I don’t?”
Damian’s tone dropped to a purr that promised suffering. “Then I’ll have to ensure your cape glows in the dark. Permanently.”
Jason made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh. Dick elbowed him, whispering, “Shh, let the romance happen.”
Jon’s cheeks flushed, but his grin didn’t fade. He extended a hand. “Truce.”
Damian eyed it like it might explode, then finally took it. “Temporary ceasefire,” he corrected.
“I’ll take it.”
The Cave was quiet for approximately six peaceful hours.
Then, the next morning, Damian found a note taped to his desk.
“You look taller today ;) –J”
His eye twitched.
Tim, walking by with a coffee, didn’t even break stride. “He’s gonna die, isn’t he?”
“Painfully,” Damian replied.
From upstairs, Clark’s voice drifted faintly through the coms: “Jon, whatever you just did; run.”
That evening, Alfred entered the Cave to find Damian sitting at the workbench, polishing his sword with surgical precision while glitter still clung to the hem of his cape.
“Master Damian,” Alfred said mildly, “I assume the situation with young Master Kent has reached its conclusion?”
Damian exhaled slowly. “It is… under control.”
From the belt resting beside him came a faint chirp.
“Taller than you~”
Damian’s jaw clenched. “I am burning that belt.”
Alfred, unflappable, handed him tea. “Of course you are, sir. Shall I fetch the fire extinguisher in advance?”