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It was a normal November night at the Kent property, save for the dirtbike outside and Damian curled up on Jon’s bedroom floor. That meant that the fields were turned, Jon was snoring, the barn owl was hunting, the box turtle was digging a brunation den, and Clark was awake. He had a lot of writing to catch up on, and he only really needed three hours of sleep anyway.
Jon needed a lot more sleep as his body geared up for puberty- which, if Clark’s own experience was any indication, was going to be rough. Consider his human hormones as well, and Jon was definitely in for a doozy these next few years.
Clark sipped his coffee calmly, expanding his awareness from his computer screen to listen to the entire house. Damian had moved. His heartbeat, the even meter of a martial arts master, was now halfway down the stairs, paused as he reached the steps that creaked consistently. To overcome that, Damian just hopped up and braced himself between the banister and the wall, then climbed down like a spider and leapt down to the first floor, landing silently on his feet like a cat.
“You need something, kiddo?” He set his mug down softly on the coaster and turned to look at Damian’s unimpressed face.
“Water, or if you have it, non-caffeinated tea.”
And Damian was dressed in the PJs Jon kept around for him, sleep shorts and long sleeves. His usually neatly combed tuft of hair was deflated, spilling over his undercut as only bed-hair can. He was wearing Jon’s chapstick.
“I think we’ve got some peppermint tea in the cabinet, if you like.”
“Water will suffice then.” Damian always spoke like his was going to be the final word. It was adorable, really.
“Something against peppermint?”
Damian knew where the glasses were, and got down one of Jon’s old plastic Justice League cups- Batman, of course. “It is a good tea for stomach aches and pregnant women, but not for midnight hydration.”
Clark checked his computer’s clock, and sure enough it was 11:53. “Water it is, now don’t-”
When Damian went to get water from the fridge dispenser, it- as Clark was trying to warn- spit water everywhere. The spigot on the door dispenser was split or something- just another part of this old house he had yet to fix. Damian froze, soaked mostly on his chest and face.
“Sorry about that, I was trying to warn you.”
“It is no matter, I will just have to find a dry shirt when I head back upstairs.” Damian set his glass down and peeled his shirt off over his head, wiping his face off with the dry back of the shirt once he did.
Before Clark could chuckle about the ridiculous circumstance, all laughter died in his chest and his eyes focused on Damian’s chest.
It was easy to forget that this kid had been impaled when he hid his scars so well.
Not that his other scars were more acceptable or easier to accept, but they were more believable than the pale diamond that split Damian from sternum to well below his navel. Clark balled his fist and rested it against his lower lip to stop from saying something about it.
“I’m sure Jon has some extra tee-shirts or something he doesn’t mind me borrowing, I’ll just have to raid his dresser before I get back to sleep.” Damian continued chatting, folding the shirt up loosely and setting it aside before retrieving his Batman cup. He noticed Clark’s staring, “If you’d like to ask about it, you may.”
“I know all Batman’s reported about the incident, it’s just a lot more immediate to see your scar. And all your other scars! Why do you have so many?”
“The same reasons Batman does, as well as torture training and the like.”
Clark took that as invitation to theorize about the others: Bullet here, blade there. There were whip marks, animal bites, taser burns, intentionally-spaced cigarette burns, a friction abrasion or two, razor cuts along one wrist, and someone had definitely carved ‘Demon’ into his arm.
“I’m guessing these were from lessons, mostly?”
“Yes, a lot of torture methods intentionally leave lasting scars as reminders to the subject. Part of the horror of being tortured is knowing that you’ll never forget this moment. It is a very effective element to torture. To learn to resist those methods, I had to be subjected to them, so my trainer taught me to resist torture using every method he could come up with without seriously maiming me. Mother did end up killing him for marring my skin, though.”
Clark nodded, then sipped his coffee.
Not much was known about Thalia’s parenting, and that was probably a good thing for everyone’s mental health, but it was definitely a good sign that Damian was opening up to people more and more.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, you know.”
“I do know. I also expected you to have known about my scars much earlier than this. You have x-ray vision and you could probably listen in on all the conversations I’ve had with my family or yours.” He filled his cup up at the sink.
“Privacy is still a human right, I don’t listen in on anything I shouldn’t, and I want you to tell me about things when you feel comfortable enough to tell me. I’m happy to learn more about your past if you like.”
“Do you know how I got Goliath?”
“I do. Your father explained it to me after I first met your friend.”
Damian sat at the table to sip his water calmly, but got quiet again.
“I’m proud of you for sparing his life, even if it was as a trophy at first. He’s smart enough that he wouldn’t be loyal to you if he held any resentment.”
“You don’t have to reassure me of that. I…” Damian paused, still thinking through his words, so Clark just waited. “I do not have any of the scars I got from his family.”
“Pit?”
“Yes. Mother killed me after the Year of Blood. I lost all traces of that time until I reopened the vault myself. I can only hope I made enough amends to their memories by freeing him and returning the artifacts.”
“I don’t know a thing about their culture or moral system, but if I were killed for my cape and Jon was kept in servitude for years, I think my ghost would be- if not content, then appeased, at the notion of someone draping the cape over my grave and making sure Jon was a free man.”
“You make a good point there.”
“Now, I think that whatever you’ve done in your past is no longer relevant so long as you continue to do better. I can see things very black and white at times, I get it honestly, but you’re not just some weapon, you’re a fifteen year old kid. Not only that, but you’re a hero. You stop the kinds of pain you once caused and I respect that. It’s easy for a saint to remain without sin from ivory towers and moral highgrounds, but it is very hard to accept that you are not a saint, and decide to do good works anyway.”
“Ma Kent?”
“Some philosopher they mentioned in Media Ethics in college, actually.”
“Thank you.” Damian finally looked up from his cup.
“I’m Superman, I reserve the right to give stupid speeches about forgiveness and morality.” Clark shrugged.
That got a slight smile and a firm exhale, which was as good as actual laughter for a Wayne. Damian acted a lot like Batman acted under the cowl, securely grim and focused, so any amount of amusement was a lot.
“Now get to bed, kiddo, and borrow a shirt from his second drawer, that’s where he keeps his tees and casual shirts.”
Damian finished his water and loaded the cup into the dishwasher, then scaled the wall again to avoid the creaky step. The movement there raised thin cords of scar tissue across his back and within his impalement scar, like gooseflesh of the thinner scar tissues. Clark shook his head.
The house was quiet, save for Jon’s snoring and Clark’s typing. It was comfortably cool outside, and snow had begun to fall. Damian would go home in the morning, and Jon would begin pestering to get Damian to stay the night again soon.
Clark smiled into his coffee mug.