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Flying through Gotham is always a bit of a crapshoot . See, on one hand, it’s like if the Riddler and the Joker had a serious discussion about architecture and birthed a city and then wrapped in a nice blanket of smog, but on the other hand the cityscape is stunning if you catch it at the right time of night.
So, like, Jon totally has a reason for accidentally tripping off the top of a skyscraper. It’s certainly not ‘cause a lucky shot with a kryptonite bullet skimmed one of his ribs.
Nope.
His recovery is spectacular and totally smooth, he only winces twice in view of a camera flash before reorienting himself back into something resembling controlled flight. Jon will pretend he’s flying out of the city for an additional two seconds (he’s not going to contemplate the psych essay he needs to write or his encroaching math test) before doing a straight shot towards Wayne Manor.
(...It’s probably too late to contemplate Batman having some sort of anti-Supe artillery, isn’t it.)
See, the thing is, Jon might have a teeny tiny little bullet wound in his side, but his bone-deep craving for Mr. Pennyworth’s chocolate chip cookies is currently winning out against every other instinct he possesses.
But, in the ultimate act of betrayal, the jar (and whoa, Jon blinked and he managed to get to the Manor kitchen, wild ) is empty.
“Uh–Jonno?” Oh, Connor is here! That’s neat. He’s dressed in a shirt that’s definitely Tim’s. Um. Less neat. Jon doesn’t need to be thinking about any of the implications of that. It’s–mostly jealousy. Damian keeps a wardrobe of the rich kid he is, and Jon would honestly feel terrible if he scuffed up any of it. But . But. One day Jon will succeed in swiping Damian’s nightwing hoodie. It is the softest piece of clothing in existence and it would be worth it before Damian chases him down.
Jon blinks up at Connor. “Hi!” Jon waves, or tries to, his arm is doing an impressive snake motion that’s more likely to smack anyone nearby instead of giving a nice midwest hello. But Connor dodges it because he's cool like that, gently tucking Jon’s hand back at his sides.
Black edges into Jon’s vision. Ugh. Maybe he needs to sit on the floor? Floor time is nice and Connor definitely won’t judge him for taking a bit of floor time. Not when there’s no cookies and no Damian (sleep steady heart; Jon refuses to wake him up) and his side is still aching.
It turns out he doesn’t have to make any decisions about the floor though, because Jon feels the exact moment his knees decide to clock out for the night and the floor becomes the only option.
“Whoa,” Connor says, catching Jon before he slams down face first, then easing him down to the kitchen tile.
Jon pats his cheek. “Thanks,” he says earnestly.
Connor’s eyebrows furrow, and Jon frowns, because he never wants to make Connor look worried. He’s distracted from asking about it when the fuzzy static of TTK brushes against his sides, a proverbial poke at his ribs. Jon doesn’t hold back a reflexive hiss. He’s invulnerable till he’s not, and-and that sucks. He wears a symbol that means he’s not supposed to fall. Fucking kryptonite. Jon’s gonna cobble together a tier list of piece-of-shit rocks and kryptonite will sit at the top of it.
“I’ll help,” Connor murmurs, easing Jon up off the floor and into his arms. Connor will help with the list, that’s nice!
Wait.
“Talking aloud?” Jon asks, eyes drooping. His head hits Connor’s shoulder with a soft thunk . He feels light as a feather. It’s-it’s different from when Dad carries him. Dad is like the safety of an anchor or a safe harbor during a storm, but Kon is like this tornado of possibility; a crooked smile and an outstretched hand asking don’t you want to see?
A sharp tap against his cheek. “Stay awake, bud.”
Jon wrinkles his nose. “Awake,” he insists. Though he had maybe, maybe been matching his breathing to Damian’s, and Damian is asleep. He completely gets why Connor would think he was falling asleep.
“What’s wrong with him?” That’s–that’s Tim. Jon didn’t hear him approaching at all. (House. Full. Of. Ninjas.)
Connor says something back.
And—Tim responds? He’s insistent about whatever he’s saying. All the Bats get stubborn in similar ways, it’s hilarious.
Jon’s head is heavy, knocking it against Connor’s shoulder is an annoying chore. “Too quiet,” Jon complains.
But they don’t get louder. Just more mumbles. They’re walking somewhere, Jon catches flashes of different wallpaper patterns, but keeping his eyes open is difficult enough that Jon is roughly thirty-two seconds away from keeping them shut and trusting that Connor isn’t gonna drop him in a lava pit.
He settles into Connor’s arm with a tiny, tired sigh. It’s fine. Damian would save him from the lava pit, eventually.
“— Jon? ” Lilted, slightly worried, is the last thing he hears before succumbing to the pull of the dark.
— — —
Waking is nicer.
Jon’s head is a bit cotton-y, and there’s a weight on his chest, but he feels a squabillion (he likes saying fake numbers just to see Damian twitch) times better already. The ache at his side is as close to being a cloudy memory as possible, and the warmth permeating his bones makes him feel like a happy cat in the sun.
He blinks once, twice. The weight on his chest is Damian , his ear resting on Jon’s heart. (Make that feeling squabillion times two. )
“Hi,” Jon breathes out, smiling when Damian lifts his head and scowls up at him.
When Damian shifts up to Jon’s pillow, Jon notes that he’s in the Batcave infirmary. No lava pit. Awesome! On second thought, there probably is a lava pit. Bats and their contingency plans, and all; Jon wouldn’t put it past them to have one stashed away somewhere.
Shifting to set up is met with an arm wrapped firmly around his chest, Damian’s eyes flashing. “Idiots who cannot dodge kryptonite bullets,” Damian hisses, only truly settling when Jon settles back against the pillow, “have lost the privilege of being vertical.”
Jon probably has a death wish, because he’s smiling so hard he can feel a happy-ache in his cheeks. Damian is peering at him like he’s the one with x-ray vision. He’s in the type of clothing he likes to sleep in. Soft. Comfortable. An indulgence he allows himself in the sanctuary of his own space. There’s something fluttering in Jon’s chest (not bullet related) at seeing Damian like this. His hair all sleep messy and a small smear of charcoal on his cheek.
Jon lifts a hand over Damian’s cheek, rubbing lightly at the smear with his thumb, purring approval when Damian’s eyes slip shut and he ever-so-slightly leans into the touch. “Were you working on a project?”
Damian’s affirmative noise is soft. “Yes,” he says, voice soft enough to carry to Jon and no further, “portraiture.”
Jon slips his hand down until he’s mirroring Damian’s hold. They’re curved together like a parentheses pair, an entire world between them.
“Who’d you draw?”
Damian mumbles an answer Jon can’t quite catch in the hazy-comfy-safe bubble he’s floating in. Jon arches an eyebrow. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
Damian sighs. “Drake,” he bites out.
Jon chortles. “You love your brother,” he sing-songs.
Damian’s cheeks turn red. “Shut up,” he snaps, turning his face into the pillow like he’d rather smother himself than continue this conversation.
Jon hugs him closely, as gently as he knows how, as gently as Damian will allow. He tilts his head forward until its resting against Damian’s, losing himself in the consistent beat of Damian’s heart.
There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.