Chapter Text
Kryptonian warships dotted the sky, silhouettes casting long shadows over Gotham. The air was stale and tasted of ash. Damian spared a glance for Dick before he was kicked square in the chest. He grit his teeth then went back to fighting the alien soldiers in front of him. For everyone one person he was fighting, Dick was fighting 3 more, and neither could bridge the gap—especially not in civilian attire, armed only with minimal weapons, and with no backup.
A shadow cast over the side of the street, a small clearing forming amidst the conflict. Through the crowd, a white and black-clad figure emerged. Damian’s eyes narrowed as he saw the familiar figure approaching. Damian felt the scar on his chest burn and the breathe catch in his throat when he saw him. He couldn’t help it—his mind flashed back to the events that had led them here. To the promises made. To the trust that had once been so easy between them, before everything had broken. But that had been a different Jon. This Jon—this version of Jon—was different. His eyes were colder, filled with a sorrow that felt too heavy for someone so young. And yet, beneath it all, there was something else. Something that made Damian’s gut twist with unease.
Jon’s eyes found his, and for a brief moment, time seemed to stretch. Damian could almost hear his voice in his mind, that familiar lilt. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.
“You promised me it wouldn’t come to this, Jon.” Damian’s voice wasn’t raised, but he knew Jon heard him.
Son of Superman, stopped in his tracks as Damian’s words reached him. His feet touched the ground with a soft thud, his gaze meeting Damian’s. “No, I said my father wouldn’t have let this happen,” Jon replied, his voice calm but tinged with regret as he clenched his jaw. “But it’s not his decision anymore.”
Damian moved into a fighting stance, his body coiling in preparation for whatever came next. Jon may have been many things, but he wasn’t easily fooled. He could see the hesitance in Damian’s footing.
“I can’t let you do this,” Damian said, his voice low but determined.
Jon’s eyes softened, then turned cold. “And I can’t let you stop me.” He sighed, almost wearily. “But I can’t hurt you again.”
Damian didn’t have a chance to process his words before a sharp scream split the air. His head snapped around, and his heart lurched. Dick was in trouble—he could see his brother, grimacing in pain, as a spear was driven straight through his calf, pinning him in place. A Kryptonian soldier stood over him, a dagger poised dangerously near his throat.
Damian’s instincts kicked in, his vision narrowing on the enemy, but before he could act, Jon stepped forward.
“Come with me. Quietly.” His voice was steady, his eyes pleading in a way that made Damian falter for just a second.
“Or what?” Damian sneered, “You’ll kill him?”
“If I have to,” he said, his voice quiet, resigned. His hand reached out. “But you know I’ve never believed in an eye for an eye.”
Damian’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want to believe it—he couldn’t. But Jon wasn’t the boy he once knew. He was something else now. And Damian had no choice but to act.
The blade sunk deeper into Dick’s flesh, and the scream that followed—raw and full of pain—cut through Damian like a knife.
Damian hesitated for only a heartbeat. Then, his resolve solidified. He moved toward Jon, taking his hand—because the fight wasn’t over, not yet. Not when Dick was still alive, not when there was still a chance to save them all.
But as soon as his fingers touched Jon’s, a sharp impact hit the back of his skull. The world blurred into darkness.
When he came to, the pain was unbearable. His body ached as if every inch had been battered and bruised. His head throbbed, the pulsing rhythm of the injury making it hard to think, to focus. His vision was blurry, disjointed. The world seemed off-kilter, distant.
The first thing he noticed was the quiet, a sharp contrast to the heat of battle. He tried to open his eyes but found himself too weak, too disoriented. Finally, his vision cleared. A glass door. A balcony. The world outside was bathed in a blood-red hue, as though the sun itself had been poisoned.
He could barely make sense of it. The pain, the confusion—it all mixed into a haze. But one thing was clear: the fight was far from over.
And Jon, standing on the other side of everything Damian had ever known, was a problem he couldn’t afford to ignore.
3 Months Prior
Krypton’s red sun burned high as Damian and Jon sparred under its harsh gaze. Damian’s punch landed on Jon’s jaw, but did little else. Jon countered quickly with a right hook—too slow, Damian dodged to the side. They danced around each other, trading blows and feints, each trying to gain an edge over the other.
“You know what your problem is?” Damian asked, his voice laced with the satisfaction of a well-timed jab.
They circled each other, eyes sharp, watching for any hint of weakness. Jon feinted left, then spun and aimed a roundhouse kick at his head. Damian caught his ankle mid-air, flipping him onto his back. The air left Jon’s lungs in a sharp gasp as he hit the ground with a thud.
“Yeah?” Jon wheezed with an out-of-breathe smile. Damian put the bottom of his foot on Jon’s chest, and Jon grabbed his ankle and twisted. Damian landed on top of him, his hips over Jon’s waist, fists balled in Jon’s loose-fitting shirt.
“You just react- you never plan ahead,” Damian said with a smirk. Jon’s eyes narrowed playfully at the statement.
Jon let out a mock snort, clearly unimpressed. “And you’re the expert? I’ve seen you run into burning buildings. Literally.”
Damian smirked again, making a clicking sound with his tongue. He leaned down over Jon, “With a plan,” he said.
Before either of them could speak again, Jon’s hand shot up to grab Damian by the neck, pulling him down into a heated kiss. Damian responded instantly, feeling his body shift against Jon’s, the rhythm of their kiss matching the pulse of their desire.
Jon’s hands were everywhere—grasping, pulling.
“Maybe I did have a plan,” He mumbled against his lips.
“Shut up,” Damian mumbled back, before sliding down over Jons waist. Jon groaned against him at the sensation. Jon grabbed his hips and grinded the other up and down. They kissed deeper, becoming desperate, as if his need for the other was the only thing keeping Jon grounded.
Damian broke away first, standing up with a determined expression, despite Jon’s protests.
“God, we both have things to do later,” he said, slowly moving to his feet. “I promised Dick I’d make it to dinner at the manor.”
Jon groaned in exaggerated frustration but didn’t resist as Damian helped him to his feet. “I know, I know,” Jon whined, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his irritation. “But you’re impossible.”
Damian smirked.
Jon rolled his eyes but followed him to the shower. Their responsibilities kept them on different planets more and more now—and the older they got, the harder it was to see each other. Jon knew it would likely be weeks before he could carve out time for a trip to Earth.
When Damian finished showering, he lingered in Jon’s room, admiring the Kryptonian architecture that still held its awe despite the years. It wasn’t his taste, all stark white lines and geometric shapes, but the familiarity of it was comforting in its own way. Jon’s desk was cluttered with papers, random and disorganized. One of Jon’s most human traits.
Damian picked up a few of the papers, trying his best to practice his Kryptonian. It can’t be too hard, he surmised to himself a few years ago when he first tried to learn the language. He already spoke seventeen Earth languages. How difficult could one alien one be?
As he sifted through the documents, he recognized them as government files, passed off from Kal no doubt. Jon’s father kept him up to date and even asked his approval on more than a few issues. He spotted the symbol for Earth, emblazoned across one thick packet bound by twine. The words “attack,” “escape,” and “war” stood out among the Kryptonian script.
“What’re you looking at?” Jon’s voice broke through casually, and Damian dropped the papers in an exaggerated gesture of indifference.
“Just brushing up on my Kryptonian,” he replied. It wasn’t entirely a lie.
Jon’s wet hands slid around his waist from behind, and Damian groaned at the feeling. Jon pulled him closer, and Damian felt the heat of Jon’s chest, still soaked from his shower, against his back.
“I’m going to have to change,” Damian muttered, though his irritation was tempered by the grin he could hear in Jon’s voice.
“Now who’s not planning ahead?” Jon teased before pressing his lips to the soft skin of Damian’s neck.
Damian tilted his head to the side, giving Jon more access, feeling his partner’s hands slide lower.
“You’re insatiable,” Damian remarked with a raised eyebrow.
“Maybe I missed you,” Jon breathed out, slouching against Damian’s neck. “It’s been hard to find time with everything going on.”
Damian hm-ed softly. Jon wasn’t wrong. Between Earth’s League responsibilities and the looming Kryptonian climate crisis, Jon barely had time for anything, let alone for them. Their moments together had become more fleeting, more precious.
Damian sighed. “Speaking of time, I really do need to go back. I told you I have a promise to keep.”
Jon complained but stepped back with a resigned look. “Alright, alright. You’ve made your point. Tell Dick I said hi.”
“Of course.”
Damian grabbed Jon by the hair and pulled him into a chaste kiss, a gesture that left both of them wanting more.
Damian changed and left, making sure to pocket a few pages of the Earth files before slipping out. The zeta tubes made interplanetary travel a breeze now, taking mere minutes to travel between worlds. He was five minutes early, just like always.
Damian endured a two-and-a-half-hour, seven-course meal between Dick and Stephanie before finally escaping. The second he was free, he made his way to the Batcave, his footsteps sharp against the polished stone floors. His patience had worn thinner and thinner as the night grew on, and he kept thinking about what he found in Jon’s room.
He found Bruce seated at the Batcomputer, scanning through reports, his posture as composed as ever. The glow from the monitors cast long shadows across his face, making him look even more unreadable than usual.
Damian didn’t waste time. “Father, how adequate is your Kryptonian?”
Bruce didn’t turn immediately, though his head tilted slightly at the question. “Hello to you too, Damian.”
Damian clenched his jaw. “This is important.” He pulled the few pages he took from Krypton and thrust them toward Bruce.
Bruce finally turned, taking the papers with a practiced patience that only irritated Damian further. He scanned the text, his brow furrowing the deeper he read. The silence stretched too long for Damian’s liking.
“Well?” he pressed.
Bruce flipped to the next page, his grip on the paper tightening ever so slightly. “Where did you get this?”
Damian hesitated, just for a second. “Krypton.”
“Krypton or Jon’s room?” Bruce’s eyes flicked up, sharp and assessing. “You went through Jon’s belongings?”
Damian bristled. “I didn’t ‘go through’ anything. It was out in the open.”
Bruce let out a slow breath, unimpressed with the distinction. “This looks like a proposed plan, not something already set in motion.”
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t serious,” Damian snapped. “Does it say what the end goal is?”
Bruce leaned back, fingers laced beneath his chin. “All the information isn’t here, but what I can gather is that the Kryptonians believe Earth is the solution to their planetary crisis. Krypton didn’t implode years ago like they thought it would, but that doesn’t mean they solved all of their problems.”
Damian’s stomach twisted. He had already suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed made it worse. “They want to mass migrate to Earth.”
Bruce’s silence was answer enough.
Damian’s fists clenched at his sides. “So what are we doing about it?”
“We don’t act without evidence.” Bruce’s tone was firm, unmoving. “If this is true, it’s not just a political issue. It’s a survival issue.”
Damian shook his head, his heartbeat thudding against his ribs. “I could just ask Jon. I know him. He wouldn’t lie to me.”
“That’s not the point.” Bruce’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it now, a warning. “If Jon doesn’t know, we risk tipping off the wrong people. If he does know, forcing his hand could push him into a position we don’t fully understand yet.”
Damian scoffed, taking a step closer. “You think he’s lying to me?”
Bruce’s gaze darkened. “I think personal feelings can cloud judgment.”
Anger flared in Damian’s chest. “Jon isn’t like that. If he knew, he would tell me.”
“You want to believe that.”
Damian stiffened, his nails digging into his palms. “You don’t trust anyone.”
“I trust the situation to be more complicated than you’re willing to admit,” Bruce corrected. “Jon may not agree with it, but if his people are desperate enough, he might not have a choice.”
Damian hated that the words made sense. He hated the doubt they planted in his mind.
His breath came sharp as he exhaled. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
Bruce didn’t look away, his expression unreadable.
They wouldn’t have to wait long.
Damian still spoke to Jon day after day, exchanging messages that felt increasingly strained under the weight of unspoken truths. Conversations that once flowed easily now felt like walking a tightrope—Damian carefully chose all of his words, pretending not to have noticed anything. Even when Jon was right next to him, smiling and laughing like always, Damian felt a world away.
Now, he sat on the edge of Jon’s bed in his room on Krypton, staring out at the city beyond the window. It was eerily pristine, the skyline humming with controlled energy, but Damian knew the truth—Krypton was running out of time.
Jon flopped onto the mattress beside him, grinning like nothing was wrong. “This is nice, D. You’ve been over more recently. Less problems in Gotham?”
Damian hesitated, guilt gnawing at his ribs, battling the suspicion that had been growing with each passing day. He had never doubted Jon’s intentions before. Not in over 10 years of knowing him. But doubt had a way of creeping in, especially when planted by someone you trusted just as much.
“Something like that,” he muttered.
Jon turned his head toward him, the light in his eyes dimming just slightly. “What’s wrong? You’re being weird.” He nudged Damian’s knee with his own, smiling. But when Damian didn’t react, his smile faltered. His brows pulled together, his fingers curling slightly against the sheets.
“Wait… is something actually going on?”
Damian exhaled slowly. “What’s going on with the crisis, Jon?” His voice was quiet but firm. “I know Krypton’s getting closer to extinction, and I know you’re getting closer to a solution.”
Jon stilled.
For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He stared ahead, his expression blank, but Damian could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched at his sides. When his eyes flickered with something close to guilt, Damian felt his stomach drop.
“Dames, I…” Jon started, but the words caught in his throat. He swallowed, then shook his head. “Whatever you heard—ignore it. No matter what gets proposed, my father won’t let that happen.” His voice was firm, as if saying it with certainty would make it true. “Earth was his home first. It still is. He’d never let Krypton take Earth.”
The conviction in his words was strong, but Damian caught the hesitation in his voice, the way his fingers tightened around the fabric of his blanket. A tell. A crack in the foundation.
Jon forced a small smile. “And my mom definitely wouldn’t let him.”
It was a poor attempt at a joke, and neither of them laughed.
The silence between them stretched unbearably long. Jon exhaled, then shifted closer, slow and careful, like he was afraid Damian might pull away. When he didn’t, Jon wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in.
Damian should have resisted. Should have pushed for more answers. But Jon was warm, familiar, and for a moment, Damian let himself sink into it. He felt Jon’s fingers trace slow, absentminded patterns along his bicep. His head fit against the curve of Jon’s shoulder, tucked into the space between his jaw and jugular, where he could hear the steady rhythm of his pulse.
It felt the same as it always had. As if nothing had changed.
Except…
Jon exhaled, his breath warm against Damian’s hair. “Besides,” he murmured, so quietly it was almost a whisper, “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. No matter what.”
Damian’s gut twisted painfully.
Jon meant it. Damian knew he did. But the weight of those words pressed down on him harder than the truth he was withholding.
Because despite everything, Damian wasn’t sure if it was a promise Jon would be able to keep.
Only a single week after that conversation, Damian’s world fell apart.
He was on patrol, deep in the east side of Gotham, crouched atop a crumbling gargoyle, his cape billowing in the cold wind. The streets below bustled with the usual chaos of Gotham—sirens wailing in the distance, the hum of late-night traffic, the occasional shout from a dark alleyway. But Damian barely registered any of it. His eyes were locked on the massive outdoor screen across the street, the glow illuminating the rain-slick rooftops around him.
He couldn’t hear the broadcast, but he didn’t need to. One moment, a news anchor sat behind a polished desk. The next, the screen cut to a shaky live feed. The air left Damian’s lungs.
Krypton was burning.
Or at least, the High Council chamber was.
Smoke billowed into the air, flames consuming the once-imposing structure in terrifying waves. Figures in white and red—the robes of Kryptonian delegates—ran for their lives, some collapsing before they could reach safety. The camera jerked wildly, the image pixelated and frantic, but Damian could still make out the devastation. Bodies strewn across the chamber floor.
His stomach twisted violently. This wasn’t just an attack. This was a massacre.
Then, his heart nearly stopped altogether.
Because he recognized two of the figures on the screen.
Clark Kent and Lois Lane, unmoving amid the destruction.
Damian barely had time to process the cold dread spreading through his veins before a voice cut through the night, sharp and trembling.
“Did you know?”
The words were shaky, but they burned with accusation.
Damian whirled around, heart pounding, already knowing what he would see.
Jon stood a few feet away, silhouetted by the neon glow of Gotham’s skyline. Ashes still clung to his clothes, his entire frame trembling with barely contained rage. His hands were clenched into fists, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. But what sent a chill down Damian’s spine wasn’t his stance. It wasn’t the way the air around them crackled with tension.
It was Jon’s eyes.
They glowed molten red, brighter than Damian had ever seen, veins of heat spreading from his irises like cracks in glass.
“You took something out of my room,” Jon said, his voice barely above a whisper, but thrumming with fury. “Don’t lie to me, Damian. I saw you.” His voice wavered for just a second—then it grew louder, his grief morphing into raw, seething anger. “And less than a month later—we’re attacked.”
“Jon,” Damian started, forcing his voice to stay calm. “I had nothing to do with what happened. I don’t even know—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish.
Jon blurred forward, faster than Damian’s eyes could track. A crushing force slammed into him, and suddenly, he was airborne—ripped from the rooftop and hurled backward at impossible speed.
The impact came a second later. The air was forced from Damian’s lungs as his back slammed against the side of a skyscraper, the reinforced glass spider-webbing on impact. His head snapped back against the surface, stars bursting in his vision.
Then came the hand around his throat.
Jon’s fingers dug into his windpipe, his grip unrelenting as he pinned Damian high above the streets.
“Don’t lie to me!” Jon roared, his voice breaking with raw grief. The heat in his eyes intensified, the glow so bright it was almost blinding.
Damian struggled, gasping for air, his hands scrambling against Jon’s wrist. The pressure was unbearable, his lungs burning. He tried to speak, but all that escaped was a strangled sound.
“My father is dead!” Jon shouted, his voice raw and ragged. “My mother is dead! And all the signs point back to you!”
Damian’s eyes widened in horror. Clark and Lois were dead.
The realization hit him like a physical blow, sharp and jagged, tearing through his chest.
Jon’s grip tightened around his throat. “I trusted you—we trusted you!” His voice cracked, his entire body trembling with barely restrained rage. His breathing was ragged, uneven, and through the searing heat of his gaze, Damian saw the tears welling up, glowing crimson in the light of his eyes.
“What have you done, Damian?!”
Damian could feel his strength fading, his vision tunneling at the edges. He had to get through to Jon. He had to make him listen.
But Jon was beyond reason.
“I didn’t—” Damian choked out between gasping breaths. “I didn’t—”
Jon let out a sound caught between a whine and a growl, his grief twisting into something animalistic. Before Damian could react, they were airborne again.
Wind howled past his ears as Jon lifted him higher and higher—then let go.
Damian plummeted.
The fall felt endless. The cityscape blurred, lights streaking past him in a chaotic swirl. Then—impact.
His body slammed into concrete, pain detonating through his bones. His lungs seized, desperate for air, a ragged, wheezing gasp escaping his lips. Black spots clouded his vision as he turned his head just enough to see the skyline. He was on a rooftop.
And Jon was in front of him again.
Before he could move, Jon’s hands fisted in his shirt, yanking him upright. His grip was crushing, his whole body radiating heat like an open furnace. Damian swore he could feel it searing through his suit, scorching his skin underneath.
Jon’s teeth were clenched, his brows drawn so tight it looked like it physically hurt. Somewhere between pain and rage. His chest heaved with unsteady, shallow breaths, like he had to remind himself to keep breathing at all.
“We trusted you,” Jon spat, his voice louder than it needed to be, shaking with raw emotion. “They trusted you.”
His jaw locked. His eyes burned brighter. Brighter. Too bright.
Then, twin beams of molten light exploded from his eyes.
Agony. White-hot, all-consuming agony. Every nerve in Damian’s body screamed. The smell of burning flesh filled his nose, acrid and sickening, and he couldn’t tell if it was the rooftop beneath him or him that was burning. The pain was unbearable, searing through muscle and bone, scorching everything in its path.
His body convulsed, every muscle locking up as the heat seared through him. His vision was nothing but white—pain and fire, his senses drowning in it. His thoughts barely formed, shredded apart by the sheer, unbearable agony. His skin felt like it was peeling away, his suit useless against the onslaught.
He clawed weakly at Jon’s grip, but his fingers barely twitched. His body refused to obey him, overwhelmed by the raw power ripping through him.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the heat vanished.
Damian crumpled.
The rooftop was rough beneath him, scorching hot where the beams had struck. He gasped for air, each breath like glass in his throat. The world blurred at the edges, his ears ringing so loudly it drowned out the sound of his own ragged breathing.
Jon was still standing over him.
Damian forced himself to look up. Jon’s chest was rising and falling in uneven bursts, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were white. His eyes had dimmed, but the red glow still flickered, unstable, like a fire that refused to die. They were smoking faintly. His face was twisted in something unreadable—pain, rage, regret. All of it at once.
Damian tried to speak, but nothing came out. His throat was raw, ruined, every breath sending spikes of pain down his spine. The world tilted violently, his vision swaying.
Jon took a step back.
Then another.
And without another word, he was gone.
Days from now, when he’s sitting in the Batcave infirmary, wrapped in bandages and drowning in the lingering ache of half-healed burns, he’ll realize that the screaming he heard—the one that rang in his ears long after Jon had disappeared—
Had been his own.
But tonight the last thing he sees is Stephanie's dropped jaw, widened eyes, and ashen skin before everything goes black.
He woke slowly.
His chest and lungs felt the worst—like someone had hollowed him out and filled the space with fire. His eyelids felt grainy, and his throat was raw, every breath scraping against torn flesh. He took inventory, curling each finger and toe, searching for breaks.
“You have a few bruised ribs,” a voice said.
Damian forced his eyes open. Dick was sitting beside him, arms crossed but tense, his expression strained with something between worry and exhaustion.
“And severe… burns,” Dick continued, his voice softer. “But that’s the worst of it.”
Damian glanced around. The Manor. His room. Stephanie sat stiffly in a chair near the foot of the bed, arms wrapped around herself. She hadn’t spoken, but her silence, and the look in here eyes, was telling. Bruce stood further back, unreadable as ever, but Damian could see it in the tightness of his posture.
His eyes snapped to Bruce.
“You.” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp. “What happened?”
Bruce exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. “Krypton’s High Council was attacked. The tactical patterns resemble American warfare, but as far as I know—no one on Earth could have known enough to execute something like this.”
Bruce sighed, the sound heavy, measured—like he was speaking to a petulant child instead of his son. It only set Damian further on edge.
“Even if I wanted to mobilize something like this, I would need to inform the Justice League—which I didn’t,” Bruce said, his tone clipped, deliberate.
Damian’s fingers curled tighter into the blanket. “Well, clearly someone did something. And you’re telling me the almighty Bat knows nothing?”
Stephanie sighed heavily at the bite in his voice, but Bruce didn’t react.
“I know the League didn’t approve this. I know no official Earth government has claimed responsibility. And I know that whatever happened on Krypton, it wasn’t just an attack—it was a message.”
Damian’s jaw clenched. His mind raced, connecting frayed strands of information. “Jon thought I was involved,” he muttered. “He thinks I had a hand in it.”
Dick ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “You did take those documents from his room, Dami. If Krypton found out those files were compromised—”
“Then it could look like Earth had forewarning,” Bruce finished. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze flickered—just briefly—to the bandages wrapping around his sons chest.
Damian forced himself upright, his hand reached toward his chest subconsciously, ignoring the sharp pull of his ribs. “So what now?” he demanded.
Bruce held his gaze. “Now, we find out who really did this. And we stop them before Jon, or anyone else makes a mistake he can’t take back.”
Damian let out a sharp breath, swinging his legs off the bed. The ache in his body was unbearable, but he pushed past it. “And how do you expect to do that when you’re already ten steps behind?” His voice was like flint against steel, sparking with barely contained rage. “You claim you didn’t know. That the League didn’t know. That no one knew. But someone did.”
“Damian, sit down,” Dick warned, his voice tight with concern.
He ignored him, forcing himself to his feet. His knees nearly buckled and his eyes tightened at the pain, but he caught himself against the nightstand, breath heaving. “This is the Kryptonian High Council, not some back-alley Gotham syndicate. No one makes a move like this without inside intelligence.”
Bruce’s expression didn’t waver. “We don’t know that for certain.”
“You’re lying,” Damian hissed. “Maybe not with your words, but with your inaction. You always know more than you say. You always have contingencies.” His voice sharpened. “Tell me you didn’t see this coming.”
Bruce’s silence was damning.
Stephanie shifted, speaking for the first time. “Bruce—if you knew anything—”
“I didn’t.” His voice was firm, but there was a flicker of something beneath it. Regret? Calculation? Damian’s blood boiled.
“Then you’re losing your edge,” he spat. “Because Jon didn’t hesitate. He attacked me like I’d already been tried and convicted. He is grieving and if I know anything about him, he won’t move past this easily. So tell me, Father—when Krypton turns its eyes on Earth, are you going to sit back and pretend you ‘didn’t know’ again?”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. “We’re not going to let it come to that.”
Damian let out a cold, humorless laugh, though it felt hollow even to him. “It’s already here. Krypton will put two and two together.” His voice wavered for half a second before hardening into something almost unreadable. “Jon already did, and we saw saw how he reacted.”
The room was suffocatingly quiet.
Dick shifted uncomfortably. “We don’t know what will happen. He just lost his—”
“His family?” Damian cut in, his voice sharp, but not as biting as before. His throat felt tight. “You think I don’t know what that feels like? You think I don’t understand what it’s like to watch a parent die and be expected to just—keep going?”
Dick flinched, he remembered Damian being forced to watch Alfred die. But Damian continued. His breath was shaky, uneven.
“I understand,” he admitted, quieter this time. “And that’s the problem.” He looked down at his hands, flexing them against the fabric of the blanket. He could still feel the burn, the raw ache in his ribs, the phantom sensation of Jon’s grip around his throat. “He saw me as the enemy. And if he sees me that way, then what do you think he sees when he looks at all of us? What do you think Kryptons going to see when they look at Earth.”
Bruce finally spoke, his voice steady, controlled. “Then we have to fix this before it’s too late.”
Damian exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He turned away, not trusting himself to hold their gazes any longer.
“I hope so,” Damian muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “Because if he comes for us…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop him.”
The words lingered in the air long after he lay back down, exhaustion creeping in like a slow, unrelenting tide. Bruce left first, silent and unreadable as ever. Stephanie lingered at the door, hesitation clear in her eyes before she finally followed.
Dick stayed.
For hours, he sat at the edge of the bed, unmoving. The only sound between them was the quiet hum of the Manor at dusk—the occasional rustle of leaves outside, the distant ticking of an old grandfather clock down the hall. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable, until Dick finally sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.
“You don’t know if you’ll be able to,” he said quietly, “or if you even want to?”
Damian blinked, his gaze flicking up sharply. “What?”
Dick met his eyes, steady, unwavering. “You’re giving him leniency. You’re making excuses. You keep saying he was grieving, but do you even remember what he did to you?”
Damian stiffened. “Of course I remember,” he said, too quickly. His hands curled into fists against the sheets. “It was the last thing I saw before I blacked out.”
But that wasn’t entirely true, was it?
Because the last thing he remembered before everything went dark wasn’t the pain, or the burning, or even the terror of falling—
It was Jon. His Jon. The one who had always smiled too easily, who dragged him into the sky just to remind him that the world wasn’t as dark as he thought it was. The one who had once said, with unshakable certainty, “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
And yet.
Still, Damian wouldn’t—couldn’t—see him as the enemy. Not entirely. Not yet.
Dick exhaled heavily, looking away. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if fighting off a headache, then finally stood. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll just show you.”
Before Damian could ask what he meant, Dick reached down and began peeling back the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest.
Layer by layer, the gauze fell away, and with it, Damian’s breath.
What was left behind was raw, angry, red. The burns had begun to heal, but they would scar deeply. Damian had expected that much. What he hadn’t expected was the shape they took.
The wounds weren’t random. They were deliberate.
Branded into his skin—burned in deep, seared into flesh—was the unmistakable emblem of the House of El.
The ‘S’ inside a diamond.
Jon’s symbol.
Damian’s breath faltered—stopped—then stuttered back to life, sharp and uneven. His stomach lurched, nausea clawing its way up his throat.
He stared. And stared. And for the first time since waking up, the truth hit him all at once. Not just the pain, not just the betrayal— But the intent.
Jon hadn’t just lashed out in grief. He hadn’t just lost control.
He had meant this.
Dick watched him carefully, gauging his reaction. His voice was quieter this time, softer—but not gentle.
“Now do you get it?”
Damian’s breath was uneven, his pulse a dull roar in his ears. His eyes flickered to Dick, sharp and dark.
“Get out.”
“Damian, I—”
“I said—get out!”
Dick hesitated for a fraction of a second, his expression unreadable, but he obeyed. The door clicked shut behind him.
The moment he was gone, Damian slammed the door with enough force to rattle the hinges. His back hit the wood, his head swimming. His vision blurred at the edges, his chest tightening like a vice. He sucked in a breath—too shallow. Then another—too fast.
He was losing control.
His lungs burned, empty yet full, the air trapped somewhere between his ribs. His hands clawed at his chest, nails scraping over the fresh wounds, over the raised, ruined skin. He needed it off—he needed it off now.
The panic swallowed him whole before he even realized he was falling.
Then suddenly—hands. Firm but careful, catching his wrists before he could tear at the burns again. A voice, steady and close, breaking through the fog.
“Damian—hey—breathe.”
The words barely registered. His body wasn’t listening. His mind was a thousand miles away, trapped in the heat, in the memory, in the realization.
“Damian.” The voice was clearer now. Stephanie.
Her grip was unrelenting but not harsh, grounding him, pulling him back.
“Breathe with me,” she murmured, guiding his hands away from his chest. She inhaled deeply—exaggerated, slow. Held it. Let it go.
He tried to follow. Failed. Tried again.
Eventually, something gave. The tightness in his ribs didn’t disappear, but it eased, just enough for air to scrape its way in.
They stayed like that for a long moment, his forehead resting against hers, the weight of everything still pressing against his skull like a hammer.
“I should’ve known,” he rasped, voice raw.
Stephanie exhaled. “It wasn’t your fault.”
But wasn’t it? If he had been fast enough. If he had fought harder. Somehow, in some way, he had failed. Failed Jon. Failed to stop this before it started. Maybe if he’d done something, Jon wouldn’t have looked at him and seen someone he couldn’t trust. Wouldn’t have burned his family crest into Damian’s skin like a brand, like a warning.
His fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his pants, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
“Damian,” Stephanie said softly.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her eyes. But he didn’t say anything.
Because what was there to say?
Dick took him to a café across town a few days later, a quiet little place that had the vegan options Damian had come to like and halfway decent chai. The smell of ground spices and roasted coffee beans filled the air, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in Damian’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” Dick said, his voice low as he slid into the booth across from him. “For, springing that on you. Stephanie told me what happened.”
Damian gritted his teeth, his fingers curling around the mug in front of him, the warmth doing little to calm the burning in his veins. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to hear the words Dick was about to say. But they came anyway.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Damian said, “I know how to regulate myself. It was my own failure.”
Dick sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Damian, you weren’t a failure. I’m not saying that. You—” he paused, trying to find the right words. “You didn’t cause any of this, you didn’t deserve what happened to you.”
Damian’s gaze stayed fixed on his chai, fingers tracing the rim of his cup absently. The words should have been a comfort, but they weren’t. Nothing felt like it would be anymore. The burn on his chest, the weight of everything that had happened with Jon—it felt too big, too heavy to lift. His chest tightened with the guilt that gnawed at him. He should have done something. He should have known. The idea of Jon in that kind of pain, turning on him like that—it made his stomach twist.
“Jon was hurting,” Dick said gently, his eyes soft but steady on Damian. “I know you feel responsible, but this—it wasn’t your fault. Jon’s grief turned him into something else. And even if you had known, it wouldn’t have been enough to stop him in that moment.”
Damian’s fists clenched involuntarily, the faint ache in his ribs still there as a reminder. “I didn’t stop him,” he muttered. “Maybe if I’d been faster… Maybe if I’d seen it coming. He was in pain, but that doesn’t excuse—”
“I’m not excusing anything,” Dick cut in, his voice a bit sharper now. “But you’re blaming yourself for something that wasn’t in your control. The things Jon did, the things we did, we’re still paying for them.”
Damian finally lifted his eyes, meeting Dick’s gaze. “But I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve been there for him. I—” His voice caught. I shouldn’t have let it get this far.
Dick softened, his expression falling. “I know you wanted to save him. I know you tried. But you can’t be everything for everyone, Damian. You’ve done more than most would ever ask of you. And that’s enough.”
Damian stared at the table, feeling the weight of his own failure pushing him down. Is it enough? He wanted to believe it was. He needed to believe it was. But the thought of Jon, angry and broken, still haunted him. The weight of the burn on his chest, the scar that wouldn’t go away, felt like a permanent mark of his own guilt.
“Maybe it wasn’t enough,” he whispered, the words scraping at his throat like broken glass. “But I’ll keep trying. For him. For all of us.”
Dick stayed quiet for a moment before nodding, his voice soft but firm. “I know you will.”
And maybe that was the only thing that kept Damian moving forward: the quiet promise to keep fighting. Even if the scars never faded.
The sky overhead darkened. Kryptonian warships dotted the sky, silhouettes casting long shadows over Gotham. They watched battalions of soldiers drop down from the sky, flooding the streets in droves.
Before either of them could make a move, the first alien soldier landed directly in front of Damian, delivering a crushing kick to his chest. He felt the air leave his lungs in an explosion of force. He crashed to the ground but forced himself back up, teeth gritted, and dove straight into the fray.
For every one enemy he faced, Dick was fighting three more. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and surrounded. Neither of them had the advantage, especially not in civilian clothes, armed only with what they’d managed to scrounge up. And with no backup in sight, the weight of the situation hit harder than ever.
Blasts of energy lit up the sky as explosions echoed through the streets, the world around them a blur of violence, but they didn’t hesitate. The air was stale and tasted of ash. Damian spared a glance for Dick before he was kicked square in the chest. He grit his teeth then went back to fighting the alien soldiers in front of him. For everyone one person he was fighting, Dick was fighting 3 more, and neither could bridge the gap—especially not in civilian attire, armed only with minimal weapons, and with no backup.
Then a shadow cast over the side of the street, a small clearing forming amidst the conflict. Through the crowd, a white and black-clad figure emerged.