having a photographer’s eye means tim looks at the world through a filter. he lines his gaze up with the viewfinder and lines up his shot, almost holding his breath when he aligns the edge of a rooftop with the footfall of a vigilante, then clicking the shutter furiously, hoping that he got at least one good shot. eventually, he stops focusing just on the flutter of a yellow cape, and starts focusing on the city he flies above. gotham’s buildings line themselves up in a perfect asymmetry, and tim hangs in between then, taking picture after picture of hazy smog turning a simple sunset into a saturated wash of vibrant colour, of corner shops whose owners break off the spikes on the ground with a hammer, of broken and bruised children who still manage to smile, all framed by sloping lines of brick and granite that somehow, after all these war-torn years, have not yet fallen. tim takes all of these pictures, absorbs them into his very being, into his soul, but only through the filter. he stands on top of a building, or hangs off the rungs of a fire escape, and lets the underbelly of gotham find its way to him through the camera lens. the only scars he has are chemical burns on his fingers from his processing room.
having a photographer’s eye means tim’s got an itchy trigger finger, but also the ability to see beauty in everything. there’s beauty in bruce’s grief, in the hard set of his shoulders, in the shake of his hands, because another word for grief is love. there’s beauty in dick’s rage, in his brutal training, in his desperation that maybe tim would trust him in a way jason never did. there’s beauty in alfred’s methodical cooking and baking in cleaning, in the rigid line of his back that’s been keeping the entire manor from collapsing, in the quiet way he seeps tea from a tin box labeled jason. there’s beauty in the haunting architecture of wayne manor, in every burn mark in the kitchen that tells of old laughter long gone, in pieces of paper used as bookmarks randomly throughout the wayne library. there was even beauty in that cursed glass case, in the way the robin suit had been carefully and methodically stitched back together, in the stories entrenched in every single fiber of the fabric. what tim doesn’t understand is how no one else is able to see it. he tries taking pictures as proof, but no one seems to be able to read them but himself.
having a photographer’s eye means that no moment goes unnoticed, unwatched, or unappreciated. kon’s warm chuckle and rough arm thrown around tim’s shoulders are things that happen every single day, but tim commits every single one to memory. the same goes for steph’s multitude of earrings and friendly punches and kisses full of passion that tim’s not sure how to feel about quite yet, but he knows they make her happy. and there’s no way he could ever forget the zap of electricity whenever bart jumps on him in a hug and the way his giggles are loud and bright and so full of air that they fill up an entire room, banishing any silence that remained. or cassie’s strong hugs and mischievous smirks that hold tim up anytime he feel like he might fall. he tries to hold every single one of those moments close to his chest, but he takes pictures of very very best. tim remembers that he’s got people who love him, and he has pictures, lovingly taken and painstakingly preserved, as proof.
having a photographer’s eye, though, meant that no one else saw the world the way he did. jason didn’t understand when tim showed him pictures taken without his notice, of bruce turned away from him after an argument, couldn’t see the love pouring from his body. his dad scoffed at his hobby, saying his mom indulged him far too much, and before tim could show him otherwise, he was gone. cass was always silently supportive, but he could see the confusion in her gaze, never understanding why he chose to freeze moments in time instead of letting them play out and reading their grace in real-time.
(maybe damian had a point when he hid his sketches in his sketchbook, kept the one hobby he truly enjoyed to himself.)
(and maybe dick had a point when, way back when tim was first slipping on the cape, he introduced him to donna, who had a gleam in her eye that tim recognized. he saw it in the mirror.)
my blog was getting absolutely covered in dick content, and don’t get me wrong, i love my boy, but i needed to breathe for a minute. so have some timmy!
also disclaimer: i know next to nothing about photography and cameras.
Tim looked up at him, a wan grin on his face. “I don’t mean to,” he responded, equally as quiet. “I just...lose track of time.”
Kon snorted. “Don’t I know it.”
There were headphones around his neck and he was shirtless, in the sort of casual way that someone is when they’re in a place where they feel at home, utterly relaxed and comfortable. The fact that Kon’s chosen the sleek and modern penthouse in Gotham as his home makes Tim’s heart sing.
Kon was cradling a mug with both hands, the patterned glass delicate under his large hands. He bent over and placed the mug on the small bit of empty space on Tim’s desk. The mug barely made a sound as it was placed down.
Tim remembered when he was skeptical Kon could do anything softly. Superboy was loud and brash and overconfident, and Tim distantly remembered thinking how in the world he was going to mold him into someone that works with others. He must have managed it somehow, because Kon was still loud but it was when they were on the field and he was Red Robin’s second in command, because Kon was still brash but it was when he crossed his arms and stared down Tim with a rival willpower, enough to make Tim take care of himself. And, well, he was still entirely too overconfident, but it usually ended up benefitting him in the end, so Tim stayed quiet about that.
Tim’s tapped a couple keys on his keyboard, coming to a natural stopping point, before stretching and straightening into a more relaxed posture. He reached over for the mug, the scent of rich coffee beans filling the air.
“Coffee?” Tim quirked his eyebrow at Kon. “I don’t usually—”
“Yeah, I know, I know,” Kon interrupted. “But it’s a different kind. Try it.”
Tim obliged, taking a sip, and his eyes widened with surprise when, instead of watery sludge with a surface level sweetness, the taste of creamy richness filled his mouth, the underlying bitterness of the drink weaved into milk instead of clashing with it.
“That’s new.”
“Mmm,” Kon agreed. “Filter coffee. I tried it on my last mission in India, figured you’d like it.”
“You’re not gonna chide me about staying up?”
“Will it do any good?”
“Probably not,” Tim acquiesced.
“Finish up the reports,” Kon said. “They’re about Blue Beast, right? The drug thing you’re jointing with the arrows?”
“Bruce wants to make a move in four days. Jason says give them a scare at three, then attack at five. Jason’s also the one with the most personal experience with this sort of thing, so I’m trying to find evidence to back him up and convince Bruce.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“So much fun,” Tim shook his head. Then, he twisted his body in the chair to look more directly at Kon. “You’re going to stay?”
“Yeah,” Kon reassured, and something inside Tim relaxed. He tapped his fingers on the headphones, drumming them in a pattern. “I’ll chill for a couple hours, listen to Jon’s new experiments in music. Maybe video call Bart or Cassie. If it’s after two, I’ll drag you to bed. Sound okay?”
“Sounds okay,” Tim affirmed.
Carding his hand through Tim’s hair, Kon’s fingers snagged on the short ponytail. He used it to cradle Tim’s head, tilting it up and bending down to kiss Tim gently. Tim’s lips were chapped and dry, but Kon’s were soft, so Tim pulled Kon down for a couple more seconds.
When Kon pulled back, he circled his Tim’s wrist with his own hand. Pressing at a pulse point, he said, “Good luck with your case. Worse comes to worst, get Nightwing to convince him or something.”
Tim wrinkled his nose. “Just call him Dick. You call everyone else by their names.”
But Kon shook his head vehemently. “Nightwing,” he said, then moved towards the bedroom as Tim laughed. He stretched his arm out, slipping his wrist from Kon’s hold to tangle their fingers for a brief second before Kon moved out of reach.
Giving a sigh, he turned around and took another sip of the coffee, letting himself indulge for a second.
Lingering by the bedroom door, Kon waiting until the arrhythmic tapping of the keyboard started up again. Then, he smiled to himself and went inside the room
does tim drink coffee? no. does tim occasionally indulge in filter coffee that’s more of a wonderful layered drink rather than the black sludge people call “coffee”? eh, i like to think so.
i had that stupid song stuck in my head this morning. you all know the one. so i put it on repeat and wrote this.
For as long as Damian can remember, he’s been excited to meet his baba. Talia practically sung his praises: Batman this, Batman that, Batman saved this, Batman stopped that. His baba had been put on a pedestal so high, not even Ra’s could break it.
The day he finally bested Talia’s test, the day he deemed himself worthy to got to the United States and meet his baba, was the day he allowed a full smile to cross his face for the first time. He’d been trained to be quiet, serious, silent, always prepared and always ready since birth. But that night, as Talia helped him pack, for the first time in his life he chattered on and on about what his baba would be like and what he would do and how he would act. And normally, Talia would silent him with a sharp slap on the cheek or a cuff on the neck. Now, however, she just watched her child with an air of amusement. She was allowed to enjoy his enthusiasm, just for a night.
The trip over to America was wild and hectic, but nothing Damian couldn’t handle, as long as he knew his baba was at the other end of it. He was almost about to meet him, he was this close.
And then Damian met his baba. And the pedestal that he’d been placed so high on came cracking and crumbling down, with no hope of repair. Bruce was cold, stiff, completely unloving towards him. He had no idea Damian existed, and it was dreadfully easy to see he wished to continue with that ignorance. He smiled at Grayson and pleaded with Todd to come home and ruffled Cassandra’s hair and showered praises upon praises at Drake, but for Damian, all his baba spared was a gruff nod and the look of disappointment in his eyes.
Damian didn’t realize how foolish he had been. He’d thought that his baba would see his inimitable combat skills and be proud, see his bravery and firm voice in command and be honored. Damian thought of everything he had imagined he would do with his baba. Come, baba, let’s practice swords together! Baba, I wish to show you my shuriken collection. Can I help you with that case, baba? Don’t worry, baba, leave the Joker to me.
But wen Bruce looked at him with nothing but fear and apprehensiveness in his eyes, and ordered him to do a task he could have completed when he was four, he simply nodded and said. “Yes Father.”
(“Father” was more American anyway. Maybe Bruce would hate him a little less if he used it.)
(And if, after a hard training day with Grayson, where the older man fought against him ruthlessly, using skills Damian was unaware he even possessed, and quite literally wiping the floor with him, after Grayson reached a hand up and hauled him to his feet, with kind words of encouragement and a warm smile on his face instead of disappointment at his failure, after Grayson carried him to bed when he dozed off against the evidence table completely exhausted, after Grayson tucked him into bed with a tired sigh but a comforting hand on his hair, if Damian mumbled good night baba, into the pillow before turning over and burrowing into the sheets, well, Father wasn’t there to witness it.)
“Humor me for a little bit,” Kon said, and he had no idea how his words came out of his mouth so composed, because he was most certainly stumbling over them in his brain. “Say, say for a moment, you’re actually pretty.”
Robin looked away, and for a minute Kon was gripped with panic because those eyes were hidden again, but Kon had only just seen them for the first time and there was no way he could ever stop looking at them. Then, Robin let out a suppressed sound, quiet and real, unlike any laugh he’d ever heard before, and Kon decided he liked the laugh better anyway. Robin turned back to him, those blue eyes sparking, and Kon realized he’d have a difficult time telling which one of the two he liked better.
Robin raised an eyebrow at him, and that smirk hadn’t changed one bit. “You sound surprised.” He gestured around them, to the moon reflecting off the rippling water, to the little wildflowers studding the ground. “Is the lake doing me any favours?” He asked dryly.
“Uh, if anything, you’re doing the lake favours.” Kon knew Robin would laugh at his expense for that, but watching his shoulders shake as he tried to muffle his giggles was worth the other hero making fun of him a thousand times over. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was lying. Moonlight washed over Robin’s face — all of his face — and rippling over long eyelashes Kon had never seen and sharp cheekbones Kon wanted to trace and a chapped, bitten mouth Kon wanted taste.
Robin’s teasing expression was still firmly in place, but his tone was a touch softer when he said, “I thought you didn’t know how to talk to girls? Or, at least, that’s what Cassie said.”
“Well, you’re not a girl,” Kon pointed out, then backpedaled hastily. “I mean, I think...?”
And oh, Robin was going to give him hell for this later. For now, he seemed to settle for stepping closer, footsteps soft but audible, crossing his arms over his chest and suddenly it was just another one of their verbal matches, the kind they’ve had a thousand times over. “Oh? What am I then? A tree?”
“Well you’re certainly skinny enough,” Kon said. “But not that tall. Hm, maybe a tree stump? A tree branch?”
Robin’s playful smirk turning into a playful glare, and he stepped close to swat Kon on the arm, but Kon reeled the other boy in, hands hooking around hips. And just like they’d done a thousand times before, lifting Robin off the ground for a flight, catching Robin falling through the air, pulling Robin away from a villain, the other boy looped his arms around Kon’s neck.
“I wasn’t lying,” Kon’s voice was soft, his eyes drinking in every part of Robin’s face. He lifted a hand to rest at the boy’s cheek, tracing the cheekbone gently. “Pretty,” he murmured.
Those ethereal features twisted in displeasure, and Robin’s lips fell into a frown. “But am I only pretty because you can see all of me, now?”
And that? That was a worry best swept away quickly. “No,” Kon said, no hesitation. “You were always pretty. Except for the times you were badass. And the times you were tired and sleep deprived, you just turned into cute.”
Robin wrinkled his nose, and in a tone Kon knew extremely well, protested “I’m not cute!”
But then Kon leaned down and kissed Robin, sweeter and softer than he’d ever imagined, but since when has Robin ever been what Kon expected. The look of breathless shock and a hint of awe could not be described as anything other than adorable, so Kon whispered against Robin’s lips, “Liar.”
where are they? what’s going on? is tim revealing his identity? [hand wavey motions] who knows.
tim could hear the pounding bass coming from under his feet. the ceiling of the club wasn’t exactly soundproof, and the steady hum of people was a constant background noise. tim crept along the roof, aware of where he was. he tended to melt into the shadows on instinct, but he was taking extra care to remain hidden this time, given his decidedly not weapon-filled and bulletproof clothing.
peering over the edge of the building, he scanned the alley for a certain figure. there was a nondescript couple pressed against one of the walls, and a grimy man at the head of the alley watching them, but not what tim was looking for. letting out the quietest of frustrated sounds, tim slipped away from the edge of the roof, scurrying over to the center again.
near another edge, there was a wall of concrete, probably where the boiler was. it was there that tim leaned against the hard surface, head tipped back, just breathing in the air. he was trying not to be impatient, he really was.
then, a voice from behind. “looks like someone’s a little restless.” it was low, but with an undercurrent of teasing that made tim shiver. he whipped around just in time to see kon land on the roof with a sort of graceful ease tim didn’t think he got nearly enough credit for. hut just as he was about to stride up to the man, probably to smack him for making him wait, but kon stalked forward instead, backing tim against the concrete. “changed my mind,” kon’s eyes raked down tim. “you don’t look restless, you look darling.”
that brought a flush to tim’s cheeks, because he himself was scanning every inch of kon, and kon looked the furthest thing from darling one could possibly imagine. the bodysuit and leather jacket were an easy familiarity. the jeans he had on top were tight, the chains looped around kon’s belt clinking. tim was the one who’d dared kon to buy those chains a couple months ago, laughing. he wasn’t exactly laughing now. kon’s hair was windswept, his piercings were glinting, his eyeliner was dark, and as he pressed close to tim, the fingerless gloves that tilted his chin up were rough.
“look at you,” kon whispered, which tim thought was unfair. he wanted to argue back look at me? no, look at you kon, but somehow his attention wandered to tracing kon’s lips with his eyes instead. robin could pull a confident and reckless smirk easy, it coming to tim as second nature as he pulled superboy down to meet his lips. even to tim drake, dressed in ratty old t-shirts he thought looked cool and winking at girls he knew looked cool. but tonight, comfortable with his best friend and boyfriend, he couldn’t bring his classic cheekiness up to the surface. instead, as kon moved closer and closer, tim found himself unconsciously tilting his head up, lips parting, baring his throat.
still, he wasn’t just going to roll over, so his hands came up to tug the zipper on kon’s sleeve, and he managed a snort. “i’m not darling.”
kon’s chuckle vibrated through him. “yes you are. you’re wearing a sweater vest and your hair is adorable and you blush so pretty, rob.” well. that just made tim turn red even more. “and you’re wearing glasses.” kon’s fingers came up to trace the rims, but instead of pulling away, that large hand cradled his jaw rough and forced it up.
he kissed tim fierce, just the way tim had been imagining since he saw kon that night. his other hand went to tim’s hip in a bruising grip, which the fucker took as invitation to slip his tongue into tim’s mouth. for a second, tim poised to fight back, to tangle their tongues together in the messy way tim knew kon loved, to move out of kon’s hold and push him hard against the wall, to put some bite into the kiss.
then, kon sucked on his tongue, and tim decided nah, fuck that, instead practically melting into the his boyfriend in front of him. just as tim let out a soft noise at the feeling of metal on the roof of his mouth, kon pulled back. the boy raised his eyebrows in a confused little expression, surprised at how docile tim was acting.
tim just shrugged in response.
“alright then,” kon said, his gaze switching back to hunger so fast it made tim wonder whether or not he was really surprised. “i don’t wanna spend our entire night on this stupid roof. let’s have a little fun first.”
“oh yeah? got any ideas?”
kon raised an eyebrow, then looked pointedly at the ceiling they were standing on. “we could always go downstairs.” the beat of the song had changed, but it was no less deep, no less pounding. the vibrations made their way through the concrete and tim, who was still leaning against the wall, shuddered.
kon’s voice was as deep as the bass when he held out his hand and asked tim, “well?” it wasn’t like he was subtle, he was giving tim a choice. kon could either fly tim to wherever struck their fancy that night, and have it be another one of their lovely little dates. tim took a second to remember how kon would always tangle their feet together, his eyes mischievous yet soft as he looked at tim. then he thought about tonight, how much fun it was to have kon pinning him against something, how the way kon was acting tonight took his breath away.
tim reached out to grab the outstretched hand and tucked himself against his boyfriend’s side. he pushed himself up to his toes and whispered in kon’s ear, “i’m game. let’s go downstairs.”
This fic was inspired by those two amazing works of art up there. Tim’s by @hains-mae , and Kon’s by @daddyschlongleg and i love their works of art an unhealthy amount.
Damian brought it up unexpectedly, eyes still trained on the security camera he was dismantling.
“What?” Jon was sifting through the footage, using superspeed to catch every little detail of last night, but at Damian’s voice, he paused the recording and looked up.
Damian was still digging inside the camera, having removed the back panel and a good chunk of wires, and was now sifting through the piece of tech with a pair of tweezers. Nonetheless, he continued the conversation. “A name. You’re not going to be Superboy forever, are you?”
“Um,” Jon could honestly say he’d never thought about it. He’d always been Superboy, ever since he could remember. He wasn’t one to place much thought into birthrights or heritage, not like Damian, but he also wasn’t overlooking the fact that his father was Superman. What exactly did that make him? Superboy was the obvious answer. “I don’t think I can be anything else, Damian.”
“You have an older brother who also goes by Superboy.”
Jon shrugged. “We share.”
“Still. You’re graduating high school in just a few months, Jon. Though it’s surprising to say, you’ve outgrown the title.”
Jon’s lips instantly turned upward in a smirk. “I’ve outgrown the title, huh?”
At that, Damian turned to glare at him. Pointing a finger, he said, “I will taze you. Shut up.”
“Whatever you say, short stack.” Jon chuckled at Damian’s little growl. “But honestly, what else am I supposed to be? Everyone knows me as ‘Superman’s Son.’ I mean, Dad’s name is so big in the League, I don’t think I’ll ever separate myself from it.” And if he was honest, Jon didn’t know if he wanted to separate himself from it.
Damian hummed. “Not true. Look at Richard.”
“Dick? What about him?”
“Well,” Damian paused to move the tweezers to his other hand, “Richard started out as the first child hero, working under Batman. And unlike the other early proteges, he didn’t simply work as his mentor’s sidekick. He created his own legacy. And then he became Nightwing.”
“But Nightwing was already a thing,” Jon pointed out. “It’s a Kryptonian legend.”
“Yes, but there hasn’t actually been a Nightwing, has there? Even if there was one on Krypton, Richard was the first Nightwing on Earth. You wouldn’t call him a sidekick, would you?”
“What, no!” Jon’s reaction was immediate. “Nightwing’s, like, one of the most well-known guys out there. Literally everyone knows him, and literally everyone trusts him. He’s not a sidekick.”
Damian turned to smile at him. “Some would say he was. Do you understand my point?”
Jon pouted, took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. I don’t know, I’m not even sure how to go about doing that.”
“Well, to start off, find a new name.” Damian hunched over the camera even more, suddenly focusing in on something.
“I guess so. You got any ideas?” At Damian’s lack of response, Jon asked again, “Damian?”
Damian straightened, holding up the tweezers. Clasped tightly between the tongs was a miniscule data chip. “Here’s the footage we’re looking for.”
Jon stared at him, eyes wide. “How did you even know that was there?”
Damian shrugged. “Simple matter of deductive reasoning.”
“Tim told you, didn’t he.”
A pause. Then, “Drake may have mentioned a while back that a certain trafficking ring was hiding the data chips inside the cameras, and that others were catching on to the trick. I simply tested out his theory.” Damian looked physically pained, and Jon laughed.
“Cool. Put it in, I’ll look through the footage.”
Damian handed the chip over, then laced his his fingers together, put his arms above his head to stretch. Jon, still holding the chip, stared at the line of Damian’s muscles. When Damian quirked an eyebrow, Jon quickly cleared his throat and took the old data chip out of the computer, replacing it with the new one. “So, any ideas?”
“For your name? A couple,” Damian said. “Of course, you need to have an idea for what you’re thinking of.”
Jon nodded absently, pressing rewind on the footage. “I’m not sure if I want to separate from the Super name entirely, though.”
“You don’t want to, or are you scared to?”
Jon snorted. “You probably know the answer to that better than I do. I think I got a name, it’s on the side of the truck.” He zoomed into the footage. “Yeah, it looks we were right. The pharmaceutical company’s related somehow. There’s that stupid gremlin looking thing again.’
“The griffin?” Damian asked, peering over his shoulder. He made a contemplative noise, brows furrowed
“Is that what that thing’s called? Looks like a half drowned bird.”
Damian laughed, and batted Jon’s hands aside. “That’s not what an actual griffin looks like. Here.” He pulled up a couple pictures on his phone.
Jon swiped through a couple pictures, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, those are a lot more impressive. What are they though?”
“Mythological creatures from a variety of different places. They have the body of a lion and the wings and head of an eagle. They’re quite majestic.”
Jon squinted his eyes at him. “You’re implying something. I know you’re implying something.”
In response, Damian nodded his head towards the phone.
“What?” Jon asked.
“Griffin! It’s a perfect name.”
Jon raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Oh yeah. Because I’m part cat and part bird. Perfect analogy.”
Damian slapped his hand lightly. “No, you moron. It doesn’t have anything to do with the eagle or the lion.”
“Then?”
“Your dual heritage.” At Jon’s uncomprehensive look, Damian sighed. “You’re half-Kryptonian, half-human. And it shows. When you fight, you’re fierce and unafraid, much like your father. At the same time, though, you’re endlessly curious and inquisitive, like your mother. God knows I’ve been on the end of that far too often.”
“Oh. That, huh. That actually makes sense.”
Damian shrugged. “I’m just saying. It would be a good homage to your roots, and you’re honoring your parents, without being too overt.”
Jon looked down at the phone again. The lion part was strong, muscled, steady. The bird’s head was curved and fierce, wings spread majestically.
“Griffin. You know what? I kinda like it.”
OKAY SO THIS WASN’T ACTUALLY MY IDEA i read a damijon fic a while back on ao3 where the author had jon’s name as griffin and i thought that was so so cool so i wrote a thing and i tried to find it again to give them credit but i couldn’t find it!!! so if anyone knows the fic i’m talking about, or if you yourself wrote the fic, please let me know so i can link you in the thing. it really was an incredible idea.
tag list: @comicsandhoney @birdy-bat-writes @elles-shitposts-personified @subtleappreciation @yesboopityboop @dangerduckjpeg @astroherogirl
and i know you’re not actually on my tag list so sorry for bothering you with this but @iamwhelmed i thought you would appreciate this
@detectivedamian your birthday gift is a damijon ficlet. enjoy.
For the life of him, Jon couldn’t really understand why Damian liked football. Jon himself had grown up with the game, playing with Clark and Kon. Clark had laughed loud and bright as he tossed the ball around in the farm. Kon had challenged Jon to a high-stakes game that combined four different games using the football in the air. (Jon suspected Kon’s game was secretly a training exercise. The guy had been spending too much time around Tim.) He was on the team in middle school, and he’d been the captain of the high school team for the past three years. The training, the drills, the thrill of the game, the feeling of team: these were things that Jon lived for. Other than fighting, nothing else quite made his blood sing.
But Damian? Jon had never expected Damian to take to it the way he did. Damian had scoffed at most American traditions and values, insulted people to their face, and complained about the school system enough times that Jon had the lecture memorized. (He was ahead in almost every class due to Damian’s passive-aggressive tutoring, though, so he’s not exactly complaining.)
Maybe it was the strategy behind it, the different plays and plans Coach had lined up. Tim was the best at that kind of stuff, Jon knew that firsthand, but most people seemed to forget Damian had been trained in strategy and war games in the league. And “war games” was exactly how Damian seem to take this. Ever since Jon had let Damian watch one of his football practices and Damian had stopped the team in the middle of a play to plot out three different holes in their offense, Damian had practically become an honorary team member. Unless it was calculated, the team hadn’t lost a single game. And Damian was determined to keep it that way.
Tonight, just before the final game of the season, Jon’s team was facing off against Central City. (Which? How did they even get to finals in the first place? Central was known for their all-star track team, spanning generations of Allens and Wests, but football? That was a new one.) Damian had given the coach a particularly loathesome glare, and the other team looked terrified without even starting the game. Sometimes Jon forgot how scary Damian was, but it situations like this, it was useful. They had their game plan mapped out, Damian had given each one of them a talking to, Johansson don’t you dare leave your place, Zizka we’ve been running drills so don’t lose your speed, Williamson stop hesitating, you’re on offense for a reason.
Jon had come up to him cheekily and asked what he needed to do. Damian had raised an eyebrow and said “Don’t suck as much as you usually do, Kent.” His lips were in a half smirk, though, and his tongue curled viciously around Jon’s last name and Jon had to swallow and take a step back.
Regardless, here they were. The big game. Either they won this, and Jon left senior year a happy man, or Damian would never ever let him live it down. There was really only one option here. Jon made eye contact with Damian, who nodded, once. Then, the whistle blew and the game was on.
Things were going good. No, that’s an understatement, things were going great. They ripped apart the opposing team’s strategy like paper, leaving the shredded pieces on the ground as they went through play after successful play. Jon could practically feel the other team’s hopelessness, could taste the sweet, sweet victory in the air. Halftime came and Jon’s team was soaring high. Don’t get overconfident, Damian warned them, but a proud grin was tugging at the edge of his lips.
The third quarter is when it all went wrong. Williamson went down, hard. Jon heard the crack from across the field, and hoped the injury wasn’t too bad as he chased after the ball, desperate to keep it out of enemy hands. It was too late, though, the other team was in possession. He could feel Damian’s furious scowl, see his dad’s worried eyes fixed on the game even as his mom shouted in Central’s general direction. The third quarter ticked by, losing most of the ground they had gained.
The fourth and final quarter came, the team abiding by Damian’s quickly thought out plan, hesitantly regaining their footing. But it was too little, too late. They weren’t going to make it. The clock swallowed up seconds, and Central gained the lead, though Jon’s team clawed and fought their way to make sure it was only by a little. There were thirteen seconds left on the clock, and Central was 5 points ahead. The play was at the far end of the field.
The only way for them to win was for someone to run across most of the length of the field and score a touchdown. And as the ball came hurtling towards Jon, time slowed down, and he contemplated doing just that.
He could make it, he knew he could make it. A touch of superspeed, a hint of strength when pushing the other players out of the way, and they’d win the game. And Jon was only using his own talents, right? But that felt wrong, it felt so wrong. It felt like cheating. Abruptly, Jon remembered all the drills Damian had put him through, for both football and hero-ing, how he had told Jon you can’t always rely on your powers. He remembered the determination in every line of Damian’s body, whether it was in the sidelines of one of Jon’s games or standing back-to-back with Superboy as Robin, facing down impossible odds yet again. Damian had trained him for this. He had trained for this. He could do this.
Jon dropped his invulnerability, tapped out of his strength, tapped out of his superspeed. Time returned to normal. This was it.
The ball flew into Jon’s outstretched hands like it was meant to be there, and the minute it made contact, Jon took off running. Feet pounding the grass, heartbeat thumping in his ears, the bright lights overlooking the fields. Jon ducked and weaved through the other players, pushing himself to go faster, faster. The people in the stands were building up a roar. The clock was ticking down. He just ran and ran and ran until-
Jon crossed the end zone line and slammed the football on the ground with every bit of normal strength he had. The buzzer went off: time was up, the scores were in.
They won the game.
The crowd was bursting up and cheering. Jon could hear his mom’s screams, his dad’s wolf whistles. The team crowded around Jon, yelling and jumping, their faces overflowing with joy as they clustered around him. Coach had the trophy, and he held it above his head, pumping it up and down, whooping his pleasure. He handed it over to Jon, and wow. It felt solid, heavy, almost unreal. Jon held it up so everyone on the team could put their hand around it.
Then, for some reason the crowd around Jon parted. Jon was confused, because there was practically nothing that could separate the team at a time like this. Then he looked up, and understood. Damian stood there, a wild and reckless grin on his face, and Jon’s breath caught. He was wearing Jon’s football jacket, the fabric clinging to his shoulders over his tight black turtleneck and proclaiming a statement as bold as night. He walked over to Jon, confident and sure, and looked up at Jon, pride in his eyes.
“You won.”
“Yeah, we did.” Jon’s voice was breathless.
Damian’s grin widened. “Congratulations.”
And then he was pulling Jon in for a kiss, hard and fierce and unforgiving. Startling for just a second, Jon drew Damian in, surprised but pleased when he came willingly. He kissed back with the same passion that had his feet pounding the ground, the same fervor that had his blood singing all throughout the game, reveling in the feeling of Damian pulling him to the ground, biting his lips, claiming him.
He drew back and gasped in air, wide-eyed and lighter than air, as the whoops and catcalls of the team around him filtered into Jon’s brain.
“I-you, you kissed me.”
“You deserved it.” Something in Damian’s tone let Jon knew that Damian knew. He knew what Jon was thinking on the field, knew he was about to use his powers, and knew that he ultimately decided against it. He knew that Jon put every ounce of his determination to win this game by himself, and Damian was proud.
Yeah, football brought out the best in Jon. And maybe that was why Damian enjoyed it so much.
This was cheesy as FUCK oh my GOD. I have no knowledge of how football works, don’t hold it against me. Once again, happy birthday Whelm!
tag list: @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan @comicsandhoney @yesboopityboop @dangerduckjpeg @thebatsandbirdsofgotham @astroherogirl @subtleappreciation
@woahjaybird happy holidays ris!!!!!!!!!! i admit, i was a bit confused, bc you signed up for a ship fic exchange and requested platonic bros, but whatever. i hope you like it!
To be honest, it was something Damian said a lot.
Jon heard those words practically every time Damian opened his mouth: in the middle of a mission, when they were baking pies with Ma Kent, during a stakeout, on a rooftop eating takeout.
They used to be annoying. God, sometimes Jon just wanted to drop his restraint and punch Damian in the face, full-force. Especially when he said those words, again and again and again. Over time, though, Jon grew used to them, and after a while, they just began to amused him.
You should be afraid of me.
Because Jon never understood those words. What was there to be scared of?
The two of them were sitting on a rooftop in Metropolis, Jon with his long legs dangling over the side of the building, Damian cross-legged next to him. Taking a long slurp of his smoothie, Jon glanced over at Damian, who was outlining their plan of attack for tomorrow-- a mission to take down an arms dealer who had been working out of Metropolis for months. With Dad stretched thin over League, international, and intergalactic affairs, criminals were becoming a little less hesitant to step foot into the city. Superboy and Robin would be taking care of that soon.
Jon was listening, he really was. The battle plans were definitely lodging themselves somewhere in Jon’s subconsciousness. But he had to admit, most of his attention was fixed firmly on Damian himself.
Jon remembered the days the prickly young boy would throw his nose up haughtily in the air, state he’d been intelligent enough to have a doctorate at seven years old, and miff at anyone who insinuated otherwise. It was a far sight from when Damian had curled himself up on Jon’s bed, and under the guise of watching a movie, told Jon about his acceptance into the most prestigious art schools in Gotham.
And that was the reason behind Jon’s inattention, wasn’t it? Damian was eighteen, now. Their age difference didn’t seem like much when they were ten and thirteen and going against the world with all the confidence of a couple boys playing pretend. Now, Damian had a weariness in his shoulders, but lips that quirked up into a smile far too often, skin layered in scars but hands gentler than Jon ever thought he was capable of. Jon himself was a fumbling, awkward fifteen year old with jeans that were always too short, hair that was always too messy. And Jon used to think he was over feeling inferior to his best friend.
He’d miss him. Jon would miss Damian so much. Sure, Damian would probably try and keep their visits somewhat consistent, but work would pile up, and a curator would probably see Damian’s talents and whisk him away to the world of the famous artists, and Damian would forget he ever had a friend named Jon and would go on to become a household name while Jon spent the rest of his life living in his parents’ house and updating his mediocre blog that he started because of a dare.
No, he wasn’t being dramatic, thank you very much.
Unfortunately, Damian seemed to catch onto his lack of attention and snapped his fingers underneath Jon’s nose, startling him back to focus.
Never one to sugarcoat, Damian said, “You look miserable.”
“What? No, I’m fine!” Jon didn’t know why he even tried to play it off, he’d never been able to lie to Damian.
“Right. My mistake. Someone who was fine would definitely spend the past hour drinking out of a smoothie cup that’s already empty.”
Huh. Jon hadn’t even realized he’d finished the drink. He put it to the side and shook his head. “Really, it’s not a pro-oblem.” Oh, goddamnit.
“Your voice cracks are ridiculous,” Damian informed him. Why had Jon ever thought he’d changed? That smug voice was as irritating as ever.
“Yeah, they’re hilarious, thanks.”
“I don’t understand why you’re upset.” Apparently, this matter was serious enough for Damian to put his map down. Wasn’t that comforting?
But Jon had never liked to keep things from his best friend. “That. That’s what’s bothering me.”
“Your voice cracks?” Now Damian just sounded confused.
“Yes! No, I don’t know. I just don’t like them.” Jon crossed his arms in frustration.
When he looked over at Damian, the other boy’s eyes were wide, and in that stupidly deep and non-cracking voice, he said, “This conversation has gone well past the point of understanding and I’m going to continue with the plan now.”
Jon sighed. “No, Damian, it’s not that.”
“Then?”
Searching for the right words, Jon drummed his fingers together. “You...you’re going off to that fancy art school soon. You’re all grown up. And here I am with my stupid video games and voice cracks.”
Jon wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting. Damian could never be called a master of social interaction, and his basic settings were sarcastic, condescending, or incredulous. Still, Jon expected something a bit kinder than:
“You’re such a moron, Jonathan.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Jon stared at Damian for a moment, blinking stupidly. “So I tell you about the problem that’s been eating me up for weeks, and all you say is that I’m a moron? Thank you so much for that.”
“I’m telling you you’re a moron because you’re worrying about something so inconsequential.”
“Oh please, do elaborate.”
Damian paused, then let out a tired sigh, turning to face Jon. This was going to be a serious conversation, then.
“Jonathan. I have told you time and time again. You should be scared of me-”
“Oh my god,” Jon interrupted. “This stuff, again?” He was laughing now. “I know, I know. You should be horrified, cower in terror underneath my ruthlessness, blah blah blah. You say it all the time, I get it. I should be scared of you.”
Damian stared at him. “Are you done?” he said with a raised eyebrow.
“I’m tired of you bringing up the same thing over and over, Damian.”
“And in saying that, you just proved my point.”
Jon frowned in confusion. “What?”
“I’ve always said that you should be afraid of me. But you never have been, not since the moment we met.”
“Like there’s anything to be scared of.”
“Yes, Jonathan. There is.” Damian looked Jon in the eye, his gaze sharp and serious.
Damian’s honesty was strange, something Jon wasn’t used to, so he tried to play it off with a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, assassin training’s tough-”
“When I was six years old, I murdered a man in front of his daughter.”
Jon fell silent.
“I used to command an entire legion in my grandfather’s army. We completely destroyed and took down three different countries.”
“Damian, I-”
“Once, Grandfather put me in a straightjacket and wrapped me in chains, surrounded by trained guards, with no instruction other than to escape. And I did.”
Hesitantly, Jon said, “I never knew.”
“Because I never told you. That, and so much more, is why everybody I ever know has been scared of me.”
“Even Nightwing?”
“Nightwing grew out of it eventually,” Damian admitted. “But everyone else. The rest of the bats. Father. Even Mother. There’s fear in their eyes when they look at me.”
“Oh. Uh,” Jon shrugged. “That sucks.”
“That sucks?” Damian said, dry but amused.
“I didn’t know what else to say!” Jon defended.
“See? That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
Jon furrowed his eyebrows. “You’ve been trying to tell me it sucks? Because I already knew it sucks.”
“Jonathan…” Damian trailed off, then grabbed Jon’s wrists with his own hands.
“Hey!” Jon protested, though only out of surprise. Because Damain’s hands were warm and his thumb was pressing down on Jon’s pulse point and Jon could honestly say he had no objection to this.
Damian’s face showed nothing but piercing intensity: brows furred and eyes locked on Jon’s own. “Jon. Look me in the eyes, and tell me you’re scared of me.”
“But I’m not?”
“I just told you things that would have grown men running away from me in terror. Tell me at least some of that scares you.”
“No,” Jon shook his head and gripped the other’s boy’s wrists back. “No. I’m not scared of you.”
Letting out a breath, Damian moved away. For a moment, Jon found himself chasing that warmth.
“You are the only person who’s ever thought that.” Damian turned, shifting to mirror Jon’s position. Staring out over the city, a billboard washed colours over Damian’s face. He looked like a work of art, and Jon had no idea how anybody could ever fear him.
“You’re my best friend, Damian.” Jon shrugged, despite the fact that Damian couldn’t see him. “I’ve seen you scream at a machine for losing at Cheese Viking. I’ve seen you befriend a little squirrel you found on Ma’s farm. So how exactly am I supposed to be afraid of you?”
Damian nodded, as if that solidified something. “If you really think that I would leave the only person that isn’t scared of me, if you think that I would stop being friends with someone who has always thought of me as a human first and a weapon second just because I’m going to a university, then you are the biggest moron to ever walk the face of the earth.”
Stunned, Jon moved to sit next to Damian. “Oh.”
Jon had always been aware of their height difference, made plenty of jokes about it, but it really struck him how much smaller Damian was when the older boy turned to look up and smile at him. “So stop worrying, okay Kent? It’s unbecoming.”
“Whatever you say,” Jon acquiesced.
Damian wasn’t leaving for good. Damian, with his burning green eyes and molten beauty, still wanted to be friends with him.
With a smile on his face, Jon turned to look out at the city, letting the quiet wash over him. At his side, Damian did the same.
A huge thank you to @iamwhelmed for organizing the secret santa this year!!
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