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Dick needs to get himself a farm.
The morning breeze picks up, ruffling his hair, and tickling the stalks of grain blanketing hills that rove for miles in every direction. It's Golden Country, like you see in cereal commercials. Somewhere, a songbird calls.
Beside him, Gar's ear twitches, listening. He clears his throat like a soprano at the opera and answers with the exact same notes.
"Showoff," Raven mutters with a fond little smile. Gar shrugs.
"It's not my fault a bird is the most interesting thing here," he swats a fly whining in his ear and looks to Dick, "what are we doing in Hickville again? I thought we were meant to be finding Damian."
"We are."
(It's not actually a bad idea, the farm thing. An eye in the whirlwind of superheroes and wackjobs his life has descended into. He wonders if Shawn is allergic to animals.)
"Yeah," Gar says, "but doesn't sunlight like, turn Damian to ash or something?"
Dick ignores him. It becomes a survival mechanism with Gar after a while.
"Come on."
The three of them pick their way down a dirt track that opens out into a wide yard, dotted with a smattering of buildings and silos. The farmhouse is ahead, long and low and white, as old as the hills that surround it. The postbox reads Smith.
Dick steps onto the porch, and feels fifty years of potential wash over him. In his mind's eye, he sees himself getting old and fat with Shawn, sitting on this porch, watching the sun bake the fields brown. Their daughter comes, plays at their feet, runs around their chairs, then grows, and he blinks and she's gone far too soon.
He can almost feel the ring on his finger.
He raps on the door. It's not that old, but it looks it, peeling white paint and a threshold worn down by the tramp of feet, just to conform to stereotype.
There's no answer. Gar shifts from foot to foot.
"Can't we go join KF and Star?"
"You want to go interrupt their meeting with Superman, be my guest," Dick grins.
"I'm sure you can survive another hour without oogling Starfire," Raven mutters.
"Well, if someone gave me a reason to stay ..."
Dick pounds on the door again; Damian can't leave him out here with them flirting, not again. Even he wouldn't be that cruel -
The door cracks open. An eye the same color as the morning sky stares accusingly at him through the gap.
"Hi Jon-"
"No." Jon says. It's the closest to angry Dick's ever seen him. Until yesterday.
(He remembers the demon flinging Damian across the road like a rag doll. Jon's scream. The flare of red that seemed to outshine the sun, and the demon and half the street being carved into molten slack -)
"Batman needs to debrief him." Dick tries. Behind him, Gar has figured out who's on the other side of the door, and his smile is fanged like the devil's.
"You mean Batman needs to chew him out," Jon retorts. Dick smiles apologetically and shrugs.
"C'mon, Jon, this is Batman we're talking about."
"You say that like it's a excuse," Jon sneers, and Dick is shocked by how much of yesterday's anger still bubbles under the surface.
It doesn't mean the kid is wrong about Bruce, though.
"Civilians got hurt."
"You think he doesn't know that? You know how long it took him to get to sleep? And now you want to throw it back in his face. He's my Robin, and he needs rest."
And that's it. Like he's laying out the law. Every bit his father's son.
"We don't want him to help with cleanup, he won't actually be going into the field -"
Jon snorts.
"C'mon, Dick, this is Damian we're talking about," he mimics, "Of course he'll go into the field. And right now, I'm tapped out, so I couldn't stop him if he did."
It's really hard to argue with someone when you agree with everything they're saying.
"Look," Dick spreads his hands appealingly, trying the same look he uses to coax Jason and Roy away from starting barfights at 3am, "I hate to play devil's advocate here, but either I take him, or he does."
Jon freezes then, and Dick sees it. Underneath the brave face, he's still a little kid afraid of the Big Bad Batman. Sometimes Dick can relate.
Final offer time.
"You can come too," he suggests.
And just like that, Jon's face splits into a wide grin. Kid never could hold a grudge. Every bit his father's son.
"... Dami," he calls behind him, still looking at Dick, "I need you to get up."
Deep in the belly of the house, the Prince of Gotham groans.
"Hang on," Jon sighs, "I'll get him."
He retreats into the cool shade of the house, leaving the door open, which Dick figures is about as close to an invite as they're going to get. The others follow him in, and Gar whistles appreciatively at the mess of popcorn and couch cushions littering the lounge.
"The kiddies had too many e-numbers last night, huh?"
Dick traces the trail of destruction across the hall and up the stairs, and decides to save his innocence.
"Something like that." He traces his hand over a stack of paperbacks; The Color of Magic, War and Peace, The Hunger Games, The Odyssey, (Shawn loves pulp noir novels, all half-full whiskey glasses and sultry stares through cigarette smoke). "Don't touch anything," he warns absently, "this is Superman's house -"
CRASH.
Gar jumps away from the broken vase like there are springs in his feet.
"Wow, these winds here are freaky! You think if we wait long enough we'll be blown all the way to Oz?"
Raven slaps her forehead. Dick wishes she'd slap him instead.
"You realize this isn't Kansas -"
"Anymore?" Gar shouts, "I know, right?"
Luckily, at this point a distraction arrives.
"AAAHHHH!"
Damian rockets down the stairs on a gust of super breath like they're a super slide and scoots along the floor on his backside, landing in a very ungainly heap of twisted limbs and bedclothes at Dick's feet. At the top of the stairs, Jon beams, and gives Dick and pleased little wink before disappearing to get changed.
Dick peers down interestedly at his younger brother.
"Oh, good. You're up," he thrusts The Collected Works of Aristotle under Damian's nose, "is this yours?"
"Yes." Damian sniffs, picking himself up and trying to look dignified (this is rather difficult wearing one of Jon's old shirts with 'Yo, Yo, Yo, Mr. Sunshine!' emblazoned on the front), “I'm teaching Jon how to read."
"I know how to read!" Jon yells downstairs in a 'we've had this argument a million times and God help me if we'll have it a million more' voice.
"Diary of a Wimpy Kid is not reading, it's brain rot!" Damian yells back disgustedly, moving over to the refrigerator.
Dick notices he's very careful to only take food from Jon's private 'growing superhero' snack compartment, so Lois doesn't notice food has gone missing, and start asking awkward questions. He doesn't have the heart to tell Damian she's known about his 'secret' visits for about three months now.
"You never complain about Diary when it's my turn to read at night!" Jon yells. Gar snickers.
"You guys read each other bedtime stories?"
"Logan." Damian says by way of greeting, regarding him contemptuously, like something nasty on the underside of his shoe. But Dick gets it. It's not the words that matter, it's the person speaking them. He imagines crawling into bed after patrol with Shawn warm beside him, and her voice weaving him tales of backalley bars and forbidden romances.
Sometimes a little brain rot is good for you, if it shuts everything else out.
"Sup, boss," Gar sprawls on the couch, "nice undies."
Damian flushes crimson.
"Silence before I mount you on my wall, you-"
"So, what are you teaching Jon to read?" Dick interrupts. He really doesn't want to subject Raven to the sight of Damian trying to throttle her not-boyfriend in his underwear.
"I'm coaching him on Ptolemy," Damian replies, tearing his glare away from Gar and busying himself with the coffee pot. Dick winces.
"Jesus, Damian, that's got to be worse than kryptonite."
"It's OK," Jon calls down, super hearing letting him participate in the conversation through two walls and a ceiling, "I think I've developed a new power."
"You have?" Damian asks, surprised.
"Yup. Super-napping. Ptolemy is the most effective bedtime story ever."
"Ugh," Damian groans, "will you please stop being such a simpleton?"
"You're a simple-toon." Jon pouts. Damian growls in frustration.
"Remind me again why I tolerate you?" (but somehow he's actually smiling. Damn, Dick really needs to get himself a farm.)
"Because you lurve me." Jon sing-songs in a sickly-sweet voice. Gar chokes on thin air.
"Yes," Damian admits with a resigned sigh, "I must have developed a fault."
Gar looks like he's going to faint from the shock of realizing the obvious,
"OK, if you guys don't calm down I'm gonna have to go throw up," Dick jokes, saving the poor thing from any more flirting before his heart gives out. Damian sticks out his tongue and sips his coffee.
Jon bounds downstairs in a t-shirt and some boxers, flings a pair of Damian's jeans at his face (which he artfully dodges) and starts ferreting around all the nooks and crannies in the lounge
"What's your favorite kind of book?" he asks over his shoulder, his arm jammed underneath the couch as he looks for something.
"Gothic Horror," Raven says, "the old Victorian stuff."
Damian hums approvingly. Gar pops a stale popcorn kernel into his mouth.
"Reading isn't really my thing. Why have your head stuck in a book when you could be out there, painting the night green and throwing another awesome, 24 hour-"
"He likes the Just So Stories." Raven supplies.
"And you, Dick?" Jon asks, glancing up hopefully at the light fixtures. Whatever he's looking for, it seems to be well hidden. Dick shrugs.
"Oh, y'know. I don't get much time to read, but I like sci fi. so, something really fast and maybe a little alien? But I can never really make up my mind."
"Your literary taste sounds disturbingly like your sex life." Damian says into his cup.
"Yeah," Dick agrees absently. Then his brain short-circuits. "Wait, WHAT? What do you know about my sex life?!"
Damian's eyes sparkle like a pixie's over the rim of his cup.
"A drunk Tamarinian is a thing of beauty."
Dick whips round to face the others, but they both suddenly seem very interested in the carpet. Dick would very much like to disappear now. If the earth would like to open up and swallow him, that would be swell.
"OK. Throwing up. Now. "
"Nothing more than you deserve." Damian waves a hand dismissively, "You know you disturbed Jon from his power recharge?"
(Dick remembers the red light searing into his retinas, Jon giving the demon everything he had until his well ran dry. Superman explaining to him that solar radiation wasn't infinite, and it would take at least a day for him to be anything more than human. Jon had honestly looked more thrilled than anything -)
Superman.
Dick releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Lois might know about Jon and Damian's little arrangement (at least the parts that wouldn't get them both grounded for life) but squeaky-clean Clark would not approve of his boy curling up with a reformed serial killer whenever he could.
So, Dick is safe. He just needs to figure out how to breach the exes conversation with his girlfriend before Damian came out to Bruce.
Damian has reached the same conclusion.; he smirks as they regard each other over the kitchen counter.
The race is on, little bro.
"I'm fine, stop worrying about me," Jon is complaining, "in case you hadn't noticed, I just saved your life for the bazillionth time-"
"My life isn't worth yours." Damian snaps, glancing away from Dick.
"Who are you to decide that?"
"OK," Dick steps in, before things get heated, "Damian, trust me, Jon won't be struck dead the moment he leaves the house. He'll live."
"Hrmph," Damian crosses his arms, "know that if he doesn't, neither will you -"
"Damian," Jon interrupts, finally giving up on his search, "where are my pants?"
Damian's arms fall slack at his sides.
"How should I know?"
"You had them last." Jon points out. Gar gapes at him with a look of dawning realization.
Penny in the air.
"I threw them in the corner." Damian says dismissively.
"Gee, thanks for that really specific bit of information," Jon says, looking around, "y'know there are like fifty corners in this house?"
"Well, I don't know where I put them, I was distracted." Damian says defensively, "It's your fault."
"How is this my fault?"
"You were the one distracting me." Damian says superiorly. Gar goes bug eyed.
And the penny drops. Dick can't hold back a snigger.
Jon's face comes over very serious and tragic.
"Oh no. I distract you? That sounds dangerous. If I do that in the field it could get you killed." He shakes his head sadly, "I guess it's my duty as a responsible partner to make sure I never distract you again."
Damian's coffee cup pauses halfway to his lips.
"You wouldn't dare -"
"Ever." Jon says with the finality of a nail in a coffin. They stare each other down for a few seconds. Dick is reminded of an old Spaghetti Western.
Finally, Damian gives a long-suffering sigh.
"Why can't you hurry up and develop x-ray vision?"
Jon rolls his eyes.
"Oh, so that's your advice? Pull a Jessica and stay in the house for a couple of years until my powers develop?"
"At least it would shut you up." Damian agrees. "Have you at least looked under the bed?"
Jon freezes. Then he gives a sheepish grin and pelts back upstairs. Now its Damian's turn to roll his eyes.
"It's a good thing I'm the son of the world's greatest detective," he drawls after him, "because there's no way you could have found them on your own!"
"Shut up." Jon calls half-heartedly, but when he comes back down (fully clothed) he's wearing a bashful smile.
Gar is still staring disbelievingly at the spot he'd been standing in two minutes ago.
The two of them file out of the house, bickering, and head for the T jet resting on a nearby slope. Raven sighs, takes Gar by the hand and guides him up and towards the jet. He's still staring blankly, like a firecracker just went off in his face.
"Did they just - they're - like, together?"
"Yup. The Team had a pool on how long it would take you to cotton on. Wally owes me twenty dollars."
"I - oh. But seriously, they - um, uh -"
First contact with the force of nature that is Jon and Damian as a couple illicits similar reactions in most people.
Dick clears up the vase and turns to close the door. His eyes sweep over the kitchen, infused with light from the steadily rising sun. The books. The popcorn. Even the coffee machine. Who'd have thought that out of all the family, Damian would be the one with the strongest anchor to reality?
Maybe it's because he needed one the most.
Dick won't be getting a farm. He won't be stealing his brother's paradise, when it fits him so well, and he's worked so hard for it. Dick is starting his own family now. That means new traditions. New paradise. He needs to clear himself an eye in the storm, and maybe he could learn a thing or two from his youngest brother.
Huh. The student becomes the master. All those years of trying to domesticate Damian, and along comes Jonathan Kent, son of Superman, whose greatest act of heroism was taming the kid.
Dick closes the door without touching the popcorn or the cushions (no need to make things too easy for them after all), and crosses the yard.
This time when he looks back at the porch, he can imagine the silhouettes of two strong old men sitting there, bickering like schoolchildren, and all is right.
...
Damian and Jon reach the jet before the others, Damian in front, leading him by the hand, when Jon's breath makes the skin on the back of Damian's neck prickle.
"By the way," he whispers as he passes him into the cockpit, "when I do develop x-ray vision, believe me, you'll be the first to know."
He disappears. A second later, the others mount the boarding ramp.
"Please stop," Garfield complains, "you give me nightmares when you smile like that. What could possibly make you so happy?
Damian only grins wider.