Chapter Text
As much as Jon liked Damian, their ideas of ‘fun’ were very different. When Jon texted his friend asking to do something together that night, he was hoping Damian would say literally anything other than Let’s go on patrol. They had gone on patrol together last week. If Jon had to listen to one more speech about justice and the never-ending battle, he was going to find the nearest chunk of kryptonite and gouge his eyes out.
Not that Jon hated fighting crime. Obviously, he didn’t, or he wouldn’t be Superboy, which would probably let his parents sleep easier at night. It was just that most of the time, parading around the city was boring. They would stop a mugger here and there, but it was on rarer occasions when they actually had a major operation to bust, probably because Batman had already made sure there wasn’t anything too dangerous for the two to stop. And Jon thought his parents were overbearing. Maybe the old bat just didn’t want to get a talking-to from Supes if Jon ended up hurt somehow (Hello? Invulnerability ring a bell?). It got real old, real fast for Jon’s hyper personality. He wanted to do something, not just punch someone’s lights out in a second and move on. Maybe it was a little selfish, but he kind of wished criminals would do something interesting so Jon could get in a real fight.
Now, Jon lazily floated on his back a few feet above the rooftop where Robin was slinking around, doing his best imitation of a shadow. Jon stared up at the basically non-existent stars, wondering if Gotham had always been this grimy. The layers and layers of filth seemed practically ingrained in the streets. The city was oddly beautiful at night, though. The towering buildings gleaming with bright light despite the late hour of the evening almost allowed Jon to forget about the suffocating stench of smog and pollution filling his nostrils.
Almost.
“Remind me again why we’re sulking up here instead of watching a movie or playing video games?” Jon said, turning onto his stomach so he could actually look at Damian. “Not that I don’t enjoy cosplaying a gargoyle with you.”
“Tt,” Damian scoffed. “Father informed me earlier today that a drug deal is occurring tonight, supposedly in an alley on 1st Avenue. Father would have accompanied us, but he is preoccupied with Joker. I should be there with him right now, but…” Robin trailed off, leaning his back against a doorway leading into the building they stood/floated on.
Jon knew what was left unsaid. Something along the lines of the-big-bad-bat-said-it-was-too-dangerous-and-forced-me-to-stay-back.
He couldn’t exactly blame Damian’s dad. The Joker was one scary dude. All the mind games and theatrics… yeah, Jon would rather not run into him. Damian, on the other hand, seemed morose he didn’t have a chance to face the clown. Damian always did have more confidence in his abilities than Jon. He was so sure he could take on an army with nothing but a few batarangs and his katana. And honestly, Jon was convinced he would have a fighting chance, at the very least. His friend was an absolute unit in combat.
“Who needs him, anyways?” Jon said brightly. “We’ve got this handled completely.” Maybe today was going to be different than the typical patrol. Damian hadn’t told him they were following a lead. His first drug bust! Not exactly on every 10 year old’s wish list, but hey! He wasn’t every 10 year old.
“It is child’s play, Superboy. Batcow could do it.”
“Yeah, well. We are children, so…”
“Tt. Besides the point. Come, we’re almost there.”
They continued to move, Jon occasionally trying to strike up conversation, with Damian shushing him shamelessly every time.
“It messes with my concentration, Kent,” he had said once, arms crossed in his trademark grumpy cat stance.
Jon had laughed at that. “Yeah, right. You were Robin when Nightwing became Batman. You did just fine.”
Damian had harrumphed and rolled his eyes, but Jon could’ve sworn he saw a smile somewhere. That was progress, right?
Jon was flying along, low to the ground, and maybe putting his arms out like his dad did and humming a theme song when he felt a sudden tug on his cape that sent him falling to the floor.
“Ow!” he hissed, rubbing his head. “Thanks a lot, Dami.”
“Shh!” his friend replied, before turning to frown at him. No names in the field, he mouthed, giving Jon a pointed look.
Jon put his hands up in surrender, peeking over the rooftop railing as Robin pointed.
Five men stood menacingly in the alley below, dankly lit by a single lamppost on the other side of the street. They wore suits, varying in color, with their hands clasped in front of them. Behind them there was a nondescript white van with tinted windows and a huge, rather intricate, electronic lock on the back door. They all wore strange masks of various creatures or monsters twisted into cruel smiles hiding their true faces. Jon also didn’t miss the tell-tale bulge in their jackets, surely disguising a gun.
“The False Facers,” Damian whispered. “Black Mask’s cronies.”
Jon had no clue who that was, but he went along with it anyways.
Another man stood across from them, wearing shabby clothes that looked very out of place amongst the dressed-up men. He was thin and not particularly athletic from the looks of him, his stick legs and arms probably not having much muscle behind them. He carried a single metal briefcase, prompting Jon to immediately put his powers to good use. He glanced through the contents, seeing stacks of bills neatly placed inside of the case, primmed and perfectly ready for exchange. Jon didn’t think he had ever seen so much money in his life.
Jon tried to use his x-ray vision to look through the van behind the False Facers, but, just his luck—lead coated the inside.
What a coincidence, he thought bitterly.
“I can’t see into the van,” Jon whispered back. “Lead on the inside.”
His friend cursed under his breath.
“Is…is five people really necessary?” the skinny man said, voice quavering a little.
“Black Mask wants to be assured he gets what he bargained for,” one of the suits said with a deep New Jersey accent. “No funny business, alright?”
“O-okay, okay. Sorry. I have the money.”
“Here’s the plan,” Robin said, grabbing Jon’s shoulder and twisting him around so they were face-to-face. “I take care of the suits, you sneak around to the back of the van and unlock it. Here, take this,” he continued, reaching into his utility belt and coming out with a small black device with several buttons. “It’s a decoder. Shouldn’t take long. Attach it onto the lock, press the red button on the top, and wait for it to do its magic.”
Jon knew better than to argue with Damian on who got to beat up the bad guys. His friend relished in violence. Concerning? Maybe. Jon didn’t particularly care. Even if he was itching for some action, five people would’ve been a piece of cake for the Super Sons.
“Can’t I just, you know—” Jon mimed grabbing something and throwing it, “—rip the doors off?”
“Are you an idiot? Black Mask doesn’t only deal in drugs. There could be explosives or another trap in place. They wouldn’t put a lock that convoluted on the door if there was only a measly crate of Joker venom!” he said, tone snide and sharp.
Jon’s temper sparked slightly, and an overwhelming desire to start a yelling match with Damian filtered through his thoughts. Jon took a deep breath and tried to restrain himself from choking his best friend. “What if it shorts out?”
“You have super-speed, do you not? Just try every combination. I do not wish to linger here. They could have backup.”
“Just try every combination? That’s your backup plan? What if it has a limit to how many wrong codes you can enter before it, I don’t know, explodes?”
“I know this type of lock. It will not explode, as you so delicately put it,” Damian replied, sniffing haughtily.
Sometimes Jon wondered how they could be such good friends and yet get on each other’s nerves so easily. There were times when Jon was this close to tossing him into orbit. Five seconds later, of course, they were best friends again. Opposites attract, he supposed.
Jon rolled his eyes in an attempt to stifle his frustration with Damian and said, “Isn’t backup a little bit overkill? He’s already got five guys.”
“Black Mask tends to be rather dramatic.”
Jon focused back on the scene below him.
“Do you take us for dunces, Crowe? This isn’t enough,” a man with a goblin mask growled, emphasizing each word with a poke to the so-called Crowe’s chest, sending him backtracking.
“This is what we agreed to! I swear!”
The goon pushed him to the ground and planted a foot on the other man’s head. He pulled out his gun, cocking it and aiming it at his face.
“Is it?” he said as his coworkers pulled out their own guns.
Damian quickly signaled Jon to get going with a very clear push to his shoulder. Jon flew away as quickly and silently as he could, gripping the decoder in his fist. He could only pray that no one would notice the bright colors of his hoodie and jeans. The cape probably didn’t help with stealth either. Then again, if all the Robins could make it work, then he could too.
Jon landed lightly, hoping to channel his inner ballerina and not make any sound. He delicately placed the device on the fancy lock, pressing it against the door so it would stick. He punched in the red button, just like Damian said. Immediately, a small light lit up on the interface. Numbers flashed by, so quick that Jon would have to be moving at super-speed to see it properly.
Jon, being impatient, decided to anxiously tap his foot while he peeked around the van to watch Damian’s progress. Robin landed in a crouch, face shrouded in shadow, so the only thing you could see of him was the faint outline of his hair, his skirt (Yes, Jon liked making fun of him for it. It is not a skirt, Damian insisted. It is an homage to where I came from and protection. It is called a pteruge. Look it up.), and the glint of his metal katana. He had to admit; his friend could be pretty scary when he wanted to be. Nevertheless, Jon didn’t think he would ever be able to be actually intimidated by Damian now that he knew the older boy. He was about as frightening as a chihuahua. Not that Jon would ever tell him that. Damian would probably murder him in his sleep.
“You don’t want to do that,” Damian said, his voice cutting through the atmosphere like ice.
One of the men whirled around, gun pointing wildly around. Damian took a step forward.
“It’s Robin,” the suit said, fear creeping into his voice.
Damian smiled coldly, and before anyone could react, he ran forward, brandishing his sword. He cut a thin line of flesh below the man’s sternum, some of the blood sticking to his katana. The four other suits turned around, now pointing their guns at Robin instead of the skinny man lying on the floor, clutching his briefcase for dear life.
Sounds of gunfire rattled the alley, and a spray of bullets headed straight for Damian. He flipped out of the way, pausing for a moment to knock the briefcase man out with the hilt of his sword. Crowe crumpled, and Damian was off again. Jon idly watched as his friend flipped and slashed, disappearing into the dark every so often to surprise his opponents. Jon wished he could fight at the same level as him. He usually relied on his powers to get him out of messes. Not that he was incompetent, or anything—Damian sparred with him sometimes and had even taught him a few of his more impressive moves—but his friend was a different level of warrior. The three year age difference also probably contributed to that.
Despite all of Damian’s expertise, the men were still putting up a good fight. They dodged his sword without much effort, and bullets just barely grazed past Robin. If he was a second slower, he would’ve gotten hit. They had him outnumbered and outgunned—literally. Swords could only do so much against firearms, and his opponents were surprisingly skilled at hand-to-hand combat from the looks of it. Maybe Jon should go and help, just in case—
Jon glanced back at the decoder, and his eyes widened when he realized it had glitched out while he had been watching Damian fight the suits. The screen was black again, no numbers racing across the interface. Jon started to panic, hearing the sounds of fighting several yards away from him. He ripped the device off, discarding it onto the ground. He still thought it would be much easier to just tear the doors off, but Robin was right. There could be traps set just in case someone tried to use brute force.
He couldn’t believe he was actually going to have to use Damian’s stupid backup plan. Great, he thought. Just great. He won’t let me live this down.
Annoyed and irritated that there was no better way, Jon started punching in numbers as quickly as he could. 0000, 0001, 0002, et cetera. Everything slowed down around him. A bird flying above him started to glide overhead like it was clawing through syrup. The air seemed to become thicker. The sounds of the fight became more muffled and much, much slower. Despite being so young and only recently having discovered he was freaking half-alien, Jon had quickly adapted to his powers. He spent almost all his free time testing his limits (Which he discovered he unfortunately did have), because it wasn’t every day you found out that your dad was Superman and you inherited his powers. So. Cool.
He was so focused on keeping track of each combination he inputted into the lock, that he didn’t even notice something was wrong for a few seconds. Which, at the speed he was going, was more like a few minutes.
Halfway through typing in 1939, Jon realized something was different. He had been subconsciously listening in to Damian’s heartbeat. It was a natural thing for him to do, now. He was a worry wart, okay? The steady thumping of his partners heart assured him everything was going according to plan. Despite that, all of Jon’s concentration was focused on getting the combination right so they could leave and do something else with their time. Like play Cheese Viking, for instance.
That was why he didn’t notice for a precious few seconds that his friend’s heartbeat had slowed and was beating at an irregular pace.
Thump.
…
Thump.
Thump.
The sound of it made Jon’s own heart skip a beat. Now with his attention focused on Damian, the next thing Jon heard was a loud clap of gunfire, and the sound of a bullet ripping through flesh.
No.
Only Jon was allowed to make threats against Damian’s well-being. And Tim got a free pass, too.
Anger exploded inside of Jon, the lock all but forgotten. He clenched his fists, and felt his body become rapidly warmer. An itching sensation started in his eyes, and he knew that his laser vision was this close to bursting out without Jon’s permission. He heard the men laughing raucously, reloading their guns. The simmering rage reached its boiling point, and Jon took a step forward, eyes growing hotter and itchier every second. He jumped upwards, letting himself soar off the ground. He saw Damian on his knees, trying to stand back up. He groaned and struggled, but his legs collapsed under him every time he tried to get back on his feet.
Jon’s heart swelled, already feeling terrible for letting Robin get hurt, but also smothered by the fury he felt towards the men that had just shot his best friend.
The suits were still laughing, saying to each other how they were about to kill the legendary Robin.
That’s it. I won’t be sorry, Jon thought as he landed between Damian and the men, making sure his body was blocking Damian from the line of fire. The Facers stopped laughing, no doubt seeing Jon’s glowing red eyes and expression twisted into a deep frown.
“Who is that kid?” one with a wolf mask whispered.
“I… I think it’s Superman’s son,” said the goblin, fear evident in his voice.
“Oh sh—”
Jon didn’t let him finish. He dived forward, fist ready to punch the nearest suit into next week. He flew straight into the guy, balled hand catching him right in the face. The mask cracked and broke off, and his gun fell out of his hand. Jon kicked him where it counts. The man stumbled backwards, groaning and falling onto the ground. Jon whirled around, facing the next person.
He kicked him hard in the stomach, and the goon let out a wheeze of breath. Jon tore the mask right off his face, grabbing his undershirt to hold him place on the ground and proceeding to punch him until his eyes rolled back into his head. Another man tried to shoot him, but the bullets bounced off of him harmlessly.
The last three tried to gang up on him. One attempted to grab his arm and take him into a chokehold while the others kicked and/or punched, but Jon latched onto the arm and threw him, bashing him into the floor and taking out the second thug with him. They both laid in a heap, but they were still moving.
Jon’s anger wasn’t diminished. Every time he dealt out a punch or kick that Damian had taught him to properly throw, he just saw his friend lying on the ground, bleeding out in his mind’s eye. It fueled his rage, making him fight harder than he possibly ever had, despite these guys only being street thugs and nothing he couldn’t handle. He was just so angry that these guys had the audacity to hurt his friend. No one got away with messing with the people he loved. He lost himself in his rage, tunnel vision at its strongest. One punch after another after another after another, until he heard a small cough behind him. He knew that sound.
Jon sat down hard, breathing heavily and staring at the incapacitated False Facers around him. He wondered dimly if he had really done that much damage. He shook himself out of his stupor and sprinted over to Damian, who had managed to crawl away to a wall that he was propped up against. His head was tilted backwards, gasping for air, while his right arm was wrapped around his torso, desperately trying to stop blood from pouring out. Red stained the asphalt around him. Jon skidded to a stop, getting down onto his knees, doing his best to ignore the pool of metallic blood around him. He grabbed Damian’s left hand, the one that wasn’t busy suppressing his wound.
“Dami? Damian! Are you alright? Please, please, please…” Jon said, scrambling to do something that would be helpful. Fear consumed his every thought.
Damian finally seemed to notice Jon was there, and he lowered his head so he could look at him.
“No… names in the field… Kent,” Damian managed to get out before coughing again.
Jon almost wanted to laugh, tears starting to form in his eyes. He was okay. He was going to be okay.
Jon bent down, ripping a piece of denim off of his scruffy jeans, enough so that Damian could stop the bleeding on both of his wounds. He pulled Damian’s arm away from his torso, cringing as he felt his friend's hand and forearm, sticky and tainted red with blood. He looked down at the gunshot, trying to determine how bad it was. The bullets were still in there, that was for sure. Blood seeped out of his angry red flesh, pouring out quickly. Jon pressed the piece of his jeans against the injuries, leading Damian to hiss in pain and try to wrestle himself away from Jon. Jon restrained him as gently as he could and grabbed his arm again, forcing him to hold the fabric in place. It was the best he could do with no bandages at his disposal.
“C’mon, Dami, just stay with me, okay? Don’t pass out. Can you walk?”
Damian started to say something, mumbling incoherently, but Jon interrupted him. “Never mind. It’ll be faster if I carry you.”
Damian glared at him under his domino mask, but didn’t seem able to muster up much malice. “Don’t… I am perfectly capable of… walking.”
Jon ignored him and quickly scooped him into his arms, bridal style, launching into the night sky towards Wayne Manor. He didn’t want to fly too fast—it would risk jostling and hurting Damian. The older boy cursed when Jon moved him, but didn’t try to fight, which he was grateful for. The last thing he needed was Damian trying to claw his way out of his arms and end up harming himself more. Damian slung his left arm over Jon’s shoulder to give himself some level of control.
“Please don’t pass out please don’t pass out please—” Jon muttered, partly to Damian, but also for his own assurance.
“Moron… contact… Alfred. Tell him we’re coming,” Damian said, resting his head against Jon’s chest, arm still thankfully holding the denim in place.
“Right! Yeah.” Jon had nearly forgotten about the comm he had so excitedly accepted earlier at the Bat Cave. He adjusted his hold on Damian, at which the older boy whimpered (Jon had certainly never heard him whimper) and turned on the comm device in his ear with one hand.
“Agent A? Mr. Pennyworth? Uh, Robin got hurt… two bullet wounds, I think? I-I’m carrying him back to the cave now. He’s still awake.”
“I see. Thank you for telling me, Mr. Kent. Please hurry. I do not wish to operate on a dead man,” Alfred’s posh British voice said through his earpiece.
“O-okay. I’m trying, Mr. Pennyworth.”
“I will contact Batman in the meantime.” How could the elderly man be so calm? Damian was probably dying, and yet his butler didn’t seem worried at all. Maybe he had gone through this sort of thing enough times that he was sure Robin would be fine.
That didn’t exactly stop Jon from being anxious for his friend’s safety.
Jon could only assume that Damian had somehow turned his own comm on, because he coughed into the boy, his body convulsing slightly, and said, “No… don’t.”
“I insist, Master Damian. We must recover Black Mask’s merchandise. We may be able to predict what he will do next.”
“But… Batman is… busy. I failed. Tell Grayson, if you must. Not… Father.”
Jon’s heart squeezed, feeling terribly sad for his friend. He knew Damian had a… strained relationship with his father, but he just couldn’t imagine being in his position. Jon loved his dad. He was understanding, kind, and always comforted Jon when he felt bad about one thing or another. He seemed to know just what to say to cheer him up. He was Superman, after all. He was infallible. Always there when Jon needed him most. Batman, on the other hand… well, Jon was pretty sure he wasn’t great with feelings.
“You have failed no one, young sir. Your father will understand,” Alfred replied, warmth seeping through his tone.
Damian sighed in response, clutching his wound tighter and nestling his head further into Jon’s chest. The arm around Jon’s shoulder sagged and loosened, making Jon grip onto his friend all the more tighter.
“Shhh, Dami. It’s gonna be okay,” Jon said, worry creeping into his voice.
“I know,” Damian said quietly, reaching to deactivate the lenses on his mask. His eyes looked tired beyond belief as he stared at Jon with an amount of trust he had never seen from the teen. “I know.” His eyes started to close, the glassy sheen on them becoming more prominent.
“No no no no no no no—” exclaimed Jon, not knowing what to do.
Damian looked at him one more time, breathlessly saying the word sorry before his eyes slid shut and his arms and head went limp.
“Master Damian, are you still there?” Alfred asked, possibly trying to keep his cadence even.
“He… he passed out.” Jon paused for a moment, desperately listening to his heartbeat and breath. He nearly wept from relief when he heard the faint, weak beating of Damian’s heart and tiny pants of air from his mouth. “He’s still alive. Thank God.”
“Post haste, Mr. Kent. Please. I must contact Master Bruce.” A slight panic seeped into the older man’s voice. Maybe he had just been trying to keep Damian calm. Now that he was out cold, he didn’t need to put up pretenses.
Jon didn’t need to be convinced to hurry. He put on another huge spur of speed, trying to not think about how Damian was so weak in his arms.