Chapter Text
It was times like these when Damian mourned the life he once had. Not even two years ago, he had been commanding League divisions, infiltrating governments, and exterminating high-profile targets.
Now, he was helping to rescue a cat stuck in a tree. How incredibly valiant.
In all honesty, though, he wasn’t even helping at all, as he had opted to stay on the ground, glaring at the sky of the Metropolis suburbs in protest, as Superboy gracefully floated up, trying to coax the cat into his arms so as not to scare it.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” Jon said, smiling kindly as he stretched his arms out to try to let the cat come to him. He had learned his lesson since the last time an incident like this occurred, when he had just grabbed the cat outright, causing it to screech and scratch in alarm. Jon, who was both startled and didn’t want the cat to rip out its claws trying to take a swipe at his invulnerable skin, accidentally dropped the cat from 35 feet in the air. Luckily, Damian was directly under them and managed to catch the peeved cat before it went splat on the ground. Unluckily, they’re pretty sure they gave it cat-PTSD, as the owner has called their base repeatedly to thank them and say that their cat hasn’t gone near that particular tree in weeks and puffs up every time it looks at it.
“This is completely beneath our talents,” Damian said, waiting not-so-patiently for Jon to wrap it up. “Luthor’s drones are attacking the Hall of Justice as we speak. We should be helping with that instead.”
“Well, if it's not us helping out with simple things like this, who would?” Jon asked, halfway done with the task, as the cat’s front two legs stepped off the branch and onto his forearms.
“Arsenal has a seven-year-old daughter,” Damian snarked, crossing his arms. “She could take over ‘cat rescuing duty’.”
Jon tried to smother his laughter at his partner's sarcasm as the cat finally seemed to trust him enough to stand fully on his arms. The young hero then gently put him in a more secure hold and slowly drifted downward so he wouldn’t startle it.
“Also, Luthor is ‘simple things’. The man is merely a narcissist who has even less intelligence than Drake and happens to be in love with your father.”
“Luthor’s not in love with my dad!” Jon shouted in horror, startling the cat, but only to the point where it merely swatted his face instead of trying to jump out of his hold.
Damian crossed his arms and quirked an eyebrow at Jon as he somewhat gracefully landed in front of him. “Luthor’s been obsessed with your dad for years, has tried multiple times to kidnap him to other realms to keep him all to himself, and he literally had a child with him. As far as I’m aware, that’s love in its most obvious form.”
“First of all: ew, you're gonna make me barf. Second of all: I really don’t think all of those reasons hold up as strongly as you think they do,” Jon replied, rolling his eyes and petting the cat behind its ears. “What do you think?” Jon asked the cat while turning it to face him better, and it meowed in reply. “Ya see?” Jon grinned, smug. “It agrees with me. Damian needs therapy to figure out how to tell the difference between being in love and being a weird, creepy stalker, doesn't he? Yes, he does,” he said in a baby voice to the cat and proceeded to make funny faces that only succeeded in making the cat meow at him in annoyance.
Damian let out a huff, having no idea how they started this argument, but recognizing that Jon most likely wouldn’t see reason at the moment, and planned to acquire backup in the future. (The backup was Lois; she’s the one who came up with the theory in the first place and shared it with him. She thinks it's the most hilarious thing in the world. Damian is smart enough to know that she’s right about nearly everything.)
Stepping forward, Damian examined the cat’s collar, hoping to find an address or at least a name, while Jon continued to distract it by making faces. The collar charm contained no information other than a star engraved on the gold metal.
Damian knew that engraving.
Shit.
“Jon, we should probably put the cat down and leave. It’s-”
“Teekl!” A voice shouted behind Damian, and they both looked over to see Klarion the Witch Boy sprinting toward them down the sidewalk, pumping his arms wildly and looking distressed and out of breath. Then, he laid eyes on the Super Sons.
“What are you doing with my cat?!” Klarion screeched in his nasally voice, stopping a few yards away from them, eyes glowing red and magic swirling around him like a whirlpool.
“We didn’t do anything! We were helping him!” Jon protested as Teekl jumped out of his arms and scurried over to Klarion.
“It’s not our fault you lost him!” Damian shouted as the magic got louder, almost smothering their words. (Who knew magic made noise?) Jon elbowed him in the gut and gave him a look that said true, but not helpful.
Klarion either couldn’t hear them or didn’t care, his rage consuming him as his magic flared out towards them. Just as Jon grabbed Damian, who was about to fly them away, the magic slammed them backward, zapping them away before they ever hit the ground.
Jon groaned in pain as he woke up, hands immediately flying to his head to try to smother his headache. He didn’t get headaches often—they only occurred if he got knocked in the head by someone or something about as strong as he was—but when he did, they sucked. Damian claimed it was because Kystopians had crappy pain tolerance (only he didn’t use the word “crappy”). Jon would have disagreed, but he had seen Damian walk off multiple broken limbs and ribs and only accept medical care because his dad made him.
Although that was probably just a Damian thing and not an all-non-Kryptonians thing.
After taking a moment, he winced his eyes open, taking in his surroundings. He was in a nearly bare room, all concrete, with a light hanging from the ceiling and a very fancy, very heavy-looking door. Sitting up, he realized that his wrists were cuffed and chained to the wall behind him.
The light gave the room a red glow.
Red sunlight. That explains the headache.
Jon was trying very hard not to freak out. The deep breathing Damian had taught him to use in times of stress actually really helped. He had been in worse (and weirder) situations than this. He just needed to take stock of everything he knew and try to come up with a plan.
Gosh, his best friend would be so proud of him.
Okay, piece of information number one: Klarion did something to them. The magic he wielded must’ve transported Jon somewhere, and from how angry he looked, it's obvious he didn’t intend to send Jon anywhere nice.
Second piece of information: Damian wasn’t with him. That could be good or bad. Good if Damian escaped Klarion’s magic and made it out unscathed, and bad if he was locked up somewhere separate from Jon. Odds are it was the latter.
Testing his restraints, Jon noticed the dried blood stains on the cuffs and tried not to throw up.
Damian would gnaw his own arm off if it allowed him to escape.
He’ll cross that bridge only if he absolutely has to.
Third piece of information: he was in a different suit. Or, to put it more accurately, he was in his old suit, with the Superman hoodie and the ripped jeans. Damian had only tolerated that outfit for a few months before designing and manufacturing an actual superhero suit for him, grumbling about “Supers and their insipid love of raggedy uniforms”.
Jon had hugged him. Damian pretended not to enjoy it, but he hugged him back anyway.
That meant he didn’t have the small utility belt with the lock-picks inside. It also brought up the question of why the heck Klarion had changed his clothes. (Does he not like my new suit? I’m actually a little insulted.)
Was he in a cell that belonged to Klarion? Or did Klarion transport him to someone random’s cell that just happened to have a red sun lamp to keep him depowered?
Jon’s deep breathing and examination of his situation had switched him from being scared to being generally annoyed. (Was this why Damian always looked annoyed when they were in dangerous situations? Dang. He’s starting to make a lot more sense.) They were just trying to help the cat! And now Jon was stuck in a prison cell without his best friend.
They really needed to have a talk with their dads. At this point, they may as well just allow the Super Sons to go on dangerous missions on purpose instead of dealing with small crises that ended up being far worse than they were supposed to be.
The first thing Damian felt when he woke up was pain.
This wasn’t exactly unusual. He was nearly always in pain, either from injuries from patrol or the constant radiating pain from his metal spine. He was accustomed to it. It was normal. Expected.
Ignored.
This pain was different; it was twofold. The first was an intense aching sensation all over his back. It wasn’t the same as the pain from his metal spine, which he actually didn’t feel at the moment. This throbbed and burned, almost as if his skin was trying to break itself apart. Blinking his eyes open, he found himself lying on his stomach, reaching his hand behind him to run it up and down along his back, feeling raised welts that felt hot the more he touched them.
The second pain seemed almost to crush and squeeze his chest, though he felt no injury as he sat up and examined himself. The sensation seemed paired with a weight in his mind that tried to drag him back down. Down to where, he had no idea. After a few moments of examining his mind for the emotion he was feeling (Damian was capable of feeling every emotion; it was the self-identification part that was always tricky), he realized he was…sad. So sad, apparently, that it seemed to be causing him physical pain in his chest.
Damian had no idea why he felt such intense sadness. What he should be feeling is anger. Because of Klarion. The ungrateful little asshole.
Thankfully, the anger distracted him from the sadness and excruciating pain on his back enough for him to actually examine his surroundings. He was sitting on a cot, less than a half-foot off the ground. The walls were lined with various swords and knives hanging from mounts. Beautiful tapestries hung in the spaces between.
House of al Ghul tapestries.
Damian felt his heart stop and throat drop to his stomach. His body froze, unable to move an inch as his reality sank in. He was back in the League of Assassins. Terror paralyzed him so intensely that he became dizzy and nearly keeled over from where he sat.
Klarion, I swear to God, if you teleported me to the League of Assassins because Jon and I were trying to help your fucking cat, I’m going to maim you.
Damian tried to regain his breath, which was penduluming between non-existent and too fast.
This was fine. This was fine, this was fine, this was fine.
He had survived the League before (well, he had been murdered multiple times, but he was also revived multiple times, so he wasn’t sure if those counted), and he had escaped the League before. He could do this. Standing up from the cot, he winced at his injuries, trying to make sense of his situation.
Did they torture me while I was out? They must’ve, as he didn’t have these injuries beforehand. He reached under his shirt and felt the welts again with his fingers. They were definitely whip marks, he confirmed mentally, similar to the ones he received in the past in the League after failing tests or assignments.
The thought that Jon may also be somewhere in the building, possibly getting tortured, stopped him in his tracks and pained him more than anything else did. He really hoped Klarion had sent Jon somewhere else and left Damian to his own personal hell.
Another question remained: why was his spine not hurting? Did Klarion teleport him to his old murder cult and also treat his chronic pain? Doubtful.
Damian may be underestimating Klarion’s magic. The witch boy had been pissed. Mere teleportation may not have cut it.
Curious, Damian checked his thigh beneath the dark green clothes he wore. He had many scars, some he recognized and some he didn’t. The most damning evidence was the lack of bullet wound scars that peppered his leg from the machine gun a rogue had gotten his hands on a year ago while Damian was patrolling as Robin.
This was both his body and not his body. Knowing Klarion, he was most likely on an alternate Earth.
Shit. Again.
And, judging from the lack of Gotham-gained scars and fresh League whip marks, the Damian from this dimension had never left the League.
Focus. Fear is beneath you. It is contemptible. If Jon is trapped here, too, he needs you. This is no place for him.
Damian had to come up with a plan. First, find Jon if he was here. Next, avoid Grandfather at all costs. Finally, escape and find a magic user who can hopefully transport them back to their dimension.
Simple. Not easy, but simple.
Good news, Damian could feel himself calming down from this onslaught of new information. Bad news, he could feel himself calming down too much, almost as if he was slipping out of his body and the situation entirely. He knew what that meant.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
In an act of desperation to not shut down on himself, Damian grabbed one of the knives off the wall and carefully sliced a little bit of his skin along the outside of his forearm. (You promised Richard you wouldn’t do that, even if you felt yourself slipping away.)
Well, he didn’t have any freaking ice cubes available, and deep breathing had already not been enough, so desperate measures it was.
The pain helped. Somewhat. He was already in intense pain, so it didn’t do much, but the new sensation was enough to ground him temporarily. He needed to be alert. He needed to find Jon and get him out of here.
Hiding the small wound, Damian slid the knife into his other sleeve and made his way towards the door, only to have it slowly swing open before he could get to it. A servant was revealed; she was young, maybe in her early twenties, with dark brown hair hanging at shoulder length, wearing a cream-colored robe. She bowed to him as soon as they saw each other, her eyes widening slightly as they met his.
“I’m terribly sorry, my prince. I was not aware you were up; I didn’t want to wake you by knocking. I simply wanted to check and make sure your wounds hadn’t worsened,” she said softly in Arabic, standing back up straight but not meeting his eyes.
Damian swallowed harshly. “It’s quite all right,” Damian replied, not wanting her to worry but also not wanting to give away his slight change in identity. “I require no medical attention.” He thought for a moment and then decided to risk it. “Do you know where my mother is, by chance? I need to speak with her regarding an urgent matter.”
The Talia in this world must not have been successful in getting Damian to his father in Gotham. Hopefully, with both of them planning together, he would be able to find Jon and escape. It was fifty-fifty on whether she would be willing to help, but it was worth trying.
The servant flinched unexpectedly, a look of fear flashing over her face before returning to the blank stare that served as a shield within the League. He had seen that blank stare many times throughout his life, often in his own mirror, fearing he would forever be lost behind it.
“My prince,” the servant said hesitantly, “unfortunately, it seems you may have sustained a minor brain injury from your…training.”
Damian scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. “And why do you think that?”
“Lady Talia, regretfully, is dead. She has been for the past eight years.”
Suddenly, it was as if the Sun disappeared and the Earth was flung from orbit, hurtling out into the depths of space as it froze over. This time, when Damian’s mind retreated from reality, he didn’t try to stop it. Couldn’t stop it, even if he was willing to try. Because no no no no no…
The wave of grief-anger-sadness-rage that tried to crash into Damian was stopped, almost as if a glass wall was constructed around him, shielding him. The glass turned half-opaque, distorting his view and disconnecting him from the world, becoming a barrier between him and his surroundings. His muscles tensed as he slipped from his mind, his body feeling almost floaty as he seemed to observe the world from outside of himself.
He knew what he was experiencing wasn’t logical, wasn’t normal, wasn’t real. He didn’t dislike it, though. Was the disconnect distressing? Yes. Was he grateful for it?
Who knows? He couldn’t really feel anyway.
“Right,” Damian saw and heard himself say, not choosing to but not really caring either way. “My mistake.”
He watched him watch the girl as she bit her lip, clearly wanting to say more. She seemed to be about to, when her eyes shot to her left down the hallway and saw something that made her freeze. Hastily bowing, she quickly made her way in the other direction down the hall.
A shadow crept towards Damian's door.
He knew that shadow. But also… not really. His memories seemed brittle and drifted off into dust when he tried to reach them.
The shadow then stepped directly in front of his body, towering over it. Damian remained unconcerned, especially considering that, from his vantage point, he seemed to gaze down upon Ra’s al Ghul as well.
How peculiar.
His grandfather glared down at Damian’s body with that expression on his face that always made Damian want to shrivel up and die in the past. He considered him for a few moments, seemingly taking in Damian’s posture and blank stare before giving a slight nod of approval and turning away to walk back down the hall.
“Come with me, Grandson,” he ordered, to which Damian dutifully followed. “Your captor has been sufficiently weakened. It is time for you to begin the interrogation.”
The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, the arched ceiling towering far above him. He floated down the hallway behind his grandfather, stopping abruptly when the man had stopped walking in front of him. Grandfather opened the large door, revealing a harsh red glow emanating from the revealed room. Putting a hand on his back that was probably meant to hurt him due to his wounds, Ra’s al Ghul guided Damian into the room.
A young boy was sitting on the floor, wrists shackled to the wall, sitting criss-cross, most likely because the chains weren’t long enough for him to stand up. His eyes widened slightly upon seeing Damian, and then his expression shifted into fierce rage, glaring daggers at Grandfather.
Damian thought distantly about how stupid this boy had to be to look at the Demon’s Head that way.
Even more distantly, he realized the boy in front of him was Jon.
Damian should do something. Damian wanted to do something. The fact that he couldn’t was beginning to weigh more heavily on him. His brain was moving slowly, like a train trying and failing to push another one forward on the tracks. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to break through the glass that separated him from his friend.
Nothing felt real, but it should.
He knew it should.
God, he hoped it wasn’t.
Something was wrong with Damian.
At first, Jon didn’t really notice, too busy wishing his laser vision was working so he could burn through the hand of Ra’s al Ghul that had dared to touch Damian after all he had put him through. The man had simply smirked in response and told Damian to “Do what you must”. (Damian had been teaching him Egyptian Arabic, and Jon was getting pretty good at it, as long as the sentences were simple and Damian spoke slowly enough—Damian said he was a fast learner, though, so that basically meant that Jon was fluent.) Then, he left, closing the door behind him and leaving Jon in here with Damian.
Perfect!
Or, it should have been, but Damian was just…staring at him. The more Jon examined him, the more his eyes looked glazed over.
“Dames?” Jon asked, trying to get some recognition from him. “Are you okay?”
To his surprise, Damian jerked his head in a no motion. Jon knew Damian wasn’t okay at the moment, but he hadn’t expected him actually to admit it.
“Are we at a League base?” Jon continued, watching Damian. “Why do you think Klarion sent us here?”
Damian still said nothing, this time turning his head away from Jon to instead stare at the wall beside him. This wasn’t good. Something was really wrong with his friend, and it was honestly scaring him more than the fact that he was wearing blood-covered cuffs in what might be Ra’s al Ghul’s house.
“Can you come over here?” Jon asked, gently. The more he tried to figure Damian out, the more Jon was convinced he had kind of retreated within himself. It made sense, too. Damian hadn’t told him much about his life before coming to Gotham, but the few things he did know made him want to dangle Ra’s al Ghul off a cliff and hug Damian even if he claimed to “despise” hugging.
To his surprise, Damian walked over to him, sitting down on his calves. Jon reached out his hands as far as he could, which wasn’t very far, and gestured for Damian to take them. Staring at Jon’s chest and refusing to meet his eyes, Damian grasped his hands and squeezed them, almost like he was checking if Jon was real.
“Something’s wrong,” Damian muttered, glancing up to meet Jon’s eyes before going back to staring at the bright S on his chest. Jon nodded, squeezing his hands back.
“It’ll be okay,” Jon assured him, even though he himself barely knew what was going on. “Um…do you have something I can pick the lock with? I think you’ll feel better once we get out of here.”
Damian blinked at him, as if taking a few extra seconds to comprehend what Jon was saying, and then released his hand to pull out a small, very thin knife. Like his cuffs, it also had bloodstains.
Jon eagerly grabbed the knife, pulling his hands close together so he could use the skills Damian taught him to pick the lock. Since Jon didn’t have superhearing at the moment, he tried to go as fast as he could, Damian staring at his fidgeting, blinking slowly. Finally, after what seemed like forever but was probably only a few minutes, Jon got the first cuff off.
Starting with the second one, Jon looked back up at Damian, who had shifted so that he was now hugging his legs against his torso, his face obscured as it lay on his knees.
“Don’t worry, Dames,” Jon said, speeding up his attempt at picking the second lock. “We’ll be out of here soon.”
As soon as the second lock was picked, Jon jumped up to his feet, still in a crouch in front of Damian. “Hey.” Jon tenderly grabbed Damian’s hands again and guided him up to a standing position, which he went to easily. “We’re almost out of here. I just need some yellow sunlight, and then we’re home free.”
Damian pursed his lips at that, almost as if he disagreed, but still tugged Jon over to the door. “Help me open it,” Damian said in a monotone. Jon did, it taking the two of them to push the door forward. Damian then tugged Jon to the left by the scruff of his shirt. At first, Jon was confused, but then, as they passed a few servants, he realized this made it seem as though Damian was simply transporting Jon somewhere else.
They walked up two flights of stairs before they found a giant open window, which Jon stood in front of, throwing his arms open and grinning, welcoming the blaze of the yellow sun. When he looked over at Damian, though, the smile dimmed as he saw his friend harshly shaking his head back and forth and blinking, but failing to get rid of the detached sheen that covered his eyes.
“The exit is too guarded. The window is better,” Damian said, explaining himself a bit too late, given that they were already standing here for at least five minutes.
Jon nodded, having figured the same thing, and gave Damian an encouraging smile. “I think I’m all powered up.” Jon blew a bit of freeze breath to test his powers. At the same time, a heavy burst of wind blew through the window, blowing the cold air right into Damian’s face. It made Damian freeze, eyes widening slightly, before he turned to Jon. “Do that again,” he said, lifting his hands in front of Jon.
Jon blew freeze breath onto Damian’s hands, not enough to give him frostbite, but enough for it to sting slightly. He did this until Damian pulled his hands away, flexing them like he was just now feeling them again.
“Hey,” Jon said, gripping Damian’s hands once more. “You back?”
Damian looked him in the eyes and nodded. Grinning, Jon expected this to be a good thing until he looked into Damian’s eyes and saw dawning horror consume them.
“Jon,” Damian said, gripping Jon’s hands tighter and shoving them both forward towards the window. “We need to go. Now.”
“Wait! No one’s coming yet; shouldn’t we make a plan fir—Ahh!” Jon shouted as Damian shoved them forward with such force that Jon’s mildly unstable Kryptonian strength couldn’t prevent them from tumbling out the window. Moving from holding Damian’s hands to grabbing his armpits, Jon was able to start flying right before they hit the ground, speeding away from the League base.
Unfortunately, being further and further away from Damian’s old home was not seeming to slow Damian’s breathing; in fact, it was getting worse the more they traveled to the point where he seemed close to hyperventilating. Determining that they were far enough away to avoid getting recaptured, Jon set them down on a tiny bit of sand, farmland behind them, and a river (was that the Nile?!) in front of them.
As soon as Jon let go of him, Damian collapsed onto the ground, breathing going haywire as he tried to smother it down and stop breathing entirely, which basically did the opposite of helping.
“Damian,” Jon said, getting on the ground as well and putting his hands on Damian’s shoulders. “You have to breathe slower, or you're going to pass out. Try and copy me.” Jon did his best to demonstrate calm and deep breathing (he had never actually talked anyone down from a panic attack before—he kinda wished he could’ve had more practice before trying to help his best friend), and Damian did his best to copy him, looking wildly into Jon’s eyes.
It took quite a few minutes, with Damian starting to get the hang of it before losing control again, but they eventually got to a point where he could breathe normally. Damian slumped forward, placing his forehead on Jon’s shoulder. Jon went to rub his back soothingly, but Damian flinched back, and Jon removed his hand like it had been burned, having felt long, raised welts along Damian’s back.
“What the heck?!” Jon shouted, shocked, and went forward to try and look at them to make sure Damian was alright, before thinking better of it and leaning back to where he had been.
“Did your grandpa do that?” Jon whispered, horror and rage twisting together within him. He could feel his laser vision start to heat his eyes.
Damian nodded and tried for a reassuring, cocky smirk that mostly just ended up looking pained. “Murder cults suck,” Damian muttered, surprising a laugh out of Jon, more the result of agreement than humor.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Damian continued, stretching his neck side to side. “This time, it didn’t actually happen to me.”
Jon looked at him in confusion, raising his eyes in question at Damian’s I know something you don’t grin. At least he was himself enough to be a cocky bastard (a phrase he had learned from Constantine, much to his parents’ exasperation) again. Jon was so relieved he honestly could’ve cried.
“And what exactly does that mean?” Jon asked, mostly because he knew Damian wouldn’t elaborate without prompting.
“We are.” Damian paused dramatically. “On an alternate Earth.”
Jon stared at Damian for a full ten seconds, waiting for him to say he was joking.
He did not.
“What?!” Jon screeched, jumping up onto his feet. “Are you freaking kidding me?!” Glaring at the sand, Jon mentally ran through the events of the past hour or so. “That-that-that witch,” Jon hissed. “We just wanted to help his freakin’ cat, and he sends us to another dimension?! Unbelievable!”
Damian nodded, still sitting on the sand (which was hot, by the way—Jon had no idea how his completely human self was tolerating it), amused by Jon’s anger. “Apparently, on this Earth, I am still a member of the League of Assassins, and I captured you and was supposed to interrogate you about…something. I never actually figured out what I was supposed to be interrogating you about. I got…distracted.” Damian suddenly turned melancholy and avoided eye contact with Jon. “My mother died eight years ago, on this Earth. That was why…” Damian waved his hand to the side, a gesture that basically referenced all that had happened recently. Jon’s heart broke, even though he only knew part of the reason behind all of Damian’s pain. He tried to put a comforting hand on Damian’s shoulder, only to get an eye-roll in return, and his hand was swatted away.
Then, an embarrassed, horror-struck expression dawned on Damian's face as he seemed to realize at that exact moment that he had just had a panic attack in front of Jon and was subsequently comforted by him. Hiding his face in his hands, Damian muttered, “Ugh.”
Smiling empathetically, Jon sat back down next to Damian and bumped his nose on his shoulder. When Damian ignored him, he did it again a bit harder, tilting him to the side a little bit before letting him shift back to his original sitting position. Damian peeked out a little to the side to half-heartedly glare at Jon, who grinned widely in response. Jon then rested his elbows on his knees and propped his chin on his fists, looking at his friend.
“You know I love you, right?” Jon asked, to which Damian responded by leaning to the side Jon wasn’t on and mock-throwing up all over the beach.
“Oh, I know, I know,” Jon said, laughing and rolling his eyes as Damian continued to fake vomit at his words. “All you Bats are emotionally constipated and can’t admit to feeling emotions even if it would save you all from torture, or something, but I want to make sure you know…” Jon reached over to pull Damian back up towards him, hands on the side of his head to force him to look Jon in the eyes. Damian tried to glower at the younger, but Jon could see the smile he was trying to fight down. “That you are my best friend, and I would do literally anything for you. And helping you while you're having a panic attack because you just escaped from your abuser for the second time in your life after realizing an alternate version of your mom died, does not come anywhere near the limit of what I would do for you. Because, ya know, there isn’t a limit. Now,” Jon reclaimed Damian in a hug, avoiding his wounds, “stop being embarrassed. Trust me, if it were me all this was happening to, I wouldn’t be handling it half as well as you did.”
After a few seconds, Damian lifted his arms to return the hug, squeezing him in a way that Jon knew said I love you too, because, after all, Damian was his best friend, and if anyone was fluent in Damian-speak, it was him.
After Damian released him, Jon looked contemplatively around them, considering their situation. “So, what the hell do we do now?”
Damian smirked. “I’m glad you consider the situation to be serious enough for it to warrant you swearing, but don’t you worry, I have a plan.”
“And exactly when did you come up with this plan?” Jon asked suspiciously, considering Damian was definitely not in the right frame of mind to come up with anything actually viable for most of the time they’d been here.
“While you were busy having ‘emotions’, obviously.” Damian jumped up, eyes steeled with the determination Jon loved seeing in them. “First step: we need to contact your parents. This world’s version, anyway.”
Jon nodded, understanding quickly. “Because they’re probably worried about where I am, and your dad doesn’t exactly know you even exist right now?”
“Precisely.”
“What happened to never calling our dads for help?”
“Well, loophole number one: they’re not technically our dads. Two: do we really want to be the ones to lift Constantine up from whatever seedy bar floor he’s currently sleeping on?”
“Fair point. Continue.”
"After we explain it to them, they can call Constantine or Zatanna or whoever to bring us back to our universe. Also, we’ll get them to call my father. I’m not abandoning this Damian to suffer in the League any longer. I’ll explain my existence to him, and then the serial adopter will do what a serial adopter does. Of course, in my case, he kind of doesn’t have a choice, considering he’s my biological father, and I would just return to being Ra’s al Ghul’s weapon if he didn’t take me in.”
Jon flicked him on the arm. “You know it's more than that. He loves you. He’d take you in no matter what.”
“Ugh,” Damian said in disgust. “Again with this love talk. You Kryptonians are so emotional.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, freaking Bat. Come on, let's go. Up, up, and away!”