Archive of Our Own

“Dad, I’m going to Damian’s!”

Clark raised his eyebrows and set down his coffee. By the sound of it, Jon was already out of town. “Get back here, kiddo. Count of three. One—”

Jon dropped to a stop in front of him, blushing sheepishly. “Sorry, Dad.”

Clark folded his arms. “It counts as sneaking off if you don’t tell me or your mom in person that you’re leaving.”

“But you can just—”

“In person,” Clark repeated firmly. “It’s a bad habit, Jon.”

Jon sighed. “Okay, okay.”

“Good.” Clark picked up his mug again.

There was a beat of awkward silence. Jon shifted from one foot to the other. “So can I—”

Clark cracked a grin. “Sure, you can go.”

Jon’s thanks came from half a state away.

Jon copied Damian’s cross-legged position on the mats, then flopped backwards to look up at the rocky ceiling. “Wow, that was fun. I got you pretty good!”

Damian said nothing as he examined a singed mark on one of his gloves, but Jon saw a smile beginning and teased it further with a nudge from his elbow. “Wasn’t it fun, Damian?”

“Tt. You think everything is fun. The training went well, yes.”

“How long does it take you to catch your breath? I want to try that one trick again.”

“Superboy,” Batman interrupted.

Jon shot up again. “Yeah? I mean. . . yes, sir?” Damian snickered. Jon ignored it. Batman is talking to me, squeaked his brain like it did every time Batman talked to him.

Batman—Mr. Wayne, Bruce Wayne, Damian’s dad, Jon still wasn’t sure what to call him—turned to Jon, somehow more unreadable without his cowl covering his eyes. “Have you ever been exposed to kryptonite?”

Jon blinked. Damian sat up a little straighter. “Me? Um. No. Not yet? My dad said it’s probably going to happen eventually, just because of. . .” He cut himself off. “Why?”

“How has your father prepared you?”

“Prepared me?” Batman made it sound like Dad was going to cook Jon for Sunday dinner. “For kryptonite?” Batman didn’t even nod, just waited. Damian stayed quiet. Jon swallowed. “I. . . he’s told me a little about how it feels. That my powers would drain, it would hurt, I could. . . stop moving or breathing. Depends how close it is, and how much of it. And if it gets inside me.” Jon hadn’t liked hearing about it and didn’t enjoy dwelling on the possibility. It scared him. “And I. . .” He paused. “I’ve seen how it hurts him, on TV and stuff, and when he comes home after we know he was hit. . .” Jon trailed off. He remembered suddenly that Batman owned kryptonite; it was no secret. Damian mentioned it often, less frequently now than at the beginning of their friendship.

“Father,” said Damian, seeming to understand now, and sounding interested. “You’ve set a test for Jon?”

“A test?” Jon didn’t like the sound of that. Training was one thing; tests were another—tests were something he did with Dad watching, keeping an eye on him. He wondered what tests meant for Robin. Probably something different.

“Only if you want to, Jon,” Batman was saying, still serious. “You can say no.”

It wasn’t hard to connect the dots. “You’re going to open up your vault of kryptonite and see if I can handle it?” Jon was aware that his voice was starting to shake. Maybe Batman couldn’t tell. Who was he kidding, of course Batman could tell.

And Jon couldn’t say no to Batman even if that was an option. He felt his muscles tensing up, his fight-or-flight instincts rising.

“You can handle it,” said Damian, encouraging, and Jon couldn’t even glare at him to indicate that was the opposite of what he wanted.

“One shard only,” said Batman calmly. “It’s small, two inches long. I will not touch you with it. I will not come any closer than I am now. Ten seconds of exposure.”

“Ten seconds,” Jon repeated, his heart in his throat.

“That’s easy,” confirmed Damian next to him, and maybe it was easy for him; he wasn’t the one about to get radiation poisoning.

“Don’t speak for him, Damian.” Batman looked Jon in the eye. “Is this something you want to try, Jon?”

No. I don’t know. I want my dad. “Okay.” He sounded a whole lot surer than he felt.

It wasn’t like he was going to die or anything. It would be ten seconds of pain and then it would be over. Sure, Dad got sick for hours or even days after encounters with kryptonite, but that was longer exposure. Or stab wounds. Or when it touched his skin.

Batman wouldn’t touch him. The kryptonite wouldn’t touch him. He’d only be near it.

He’d be fine.

Batman took out a lead-lined box and Jon wasted all his few seconds left trying in vain to see into it.

He heard Damian’s heartbeat increase.

Jon shut his eyes against the glow and found himself torn to pieces.

Ten. His body fell useless to the floor, his hands fumbling to press the pain out of his skull. He thought he was screaming but couldn’t hear it over the sound of senseless echoes.

Nine. His blood was volcanic and he was lying in it, boiling alive.

Eight. Damian was there, scared, with words like not breathing and put it away—

Seven—Jon gasped, his eyes flying open to see ceiling—where—

“Ow,” he cried, and Damian said “Shh,” and then Jon realized who else was here.

The cavern boomed. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

Any other time, Clark would have been moved by the courage of Damian to stand in between Batman and Superman. Right now, he was too furious to care.

“What happened to my son?” Clark forced himself to lower his volume out of consideration for the stalactites. “Bruce, tell me it’s not what it looks like.”

He saw the nearly imperceptible twitch of Bruce’s hand toward the now-closed box. Clark couldn’t see inside but it was obvious what it contained.

“Damian,” said Bruce evenly. “Upstairs.”

Damian’s gaze flitted quickly from Bruce to Clark to Jon. “I’m not leaving.”

“He won’t hurt me. Go.”

Clark could almost hear the unspoken It’s not you I’m worried about, but Damian stepped aside. He did not go upstairs.

“Dad?” Jon was trying to get up, and in a flash Clark had his boy in his arms. No mark of contact, no open wound, but there was cellular damage on a microscopic level to muscles and tissue and skin; nothing that would last, but excruciating now. Jon's breath was hitching; his small movements shuddered. Clark had been fifteen when he'd first felt the effects of kryptonite, and it had been brutal. Jon was barely eleven.

“Bruce,” Clark said again, all his muscles tense. “What. Have. You. Done.”

“It was only a test. He said he’d never been exposed—”

“So you poisoned him?” Clark allowed sharpness into his voice; his anger wouldn’t kill anyone if it only slipped into his words. “My son is not your experiment, Bruce!”

Batman didn’t flinch, though there was a shift in his heartbeat and his near-silent grunt was almost one of taken offense. Clark hoped he was misinterpreting.

An awful thought occurred to Clark. “Is this the sort of thing you put your own kids through?”

Damian’s spine stiffened. Bruce didn’t answer the question. “Your son’s invulnerable, Clark—”

“And you’d take that away from him?”

“He consented to it.”

Clark turned to his son. “Jon?”

Jon’s face was pale with pain. “I—I did, but—”

Clark didn’t know how to feel anymore, but his emotions were a hurricane all the same; he could feel heat behind his eyes, and he had to get out of here before he wrecked something expensive or punched Bruce Wayne in the gut. “We’re going home.” And to Bruce: “I’m not finished with you.”

With his child curled up in his arms, Superman flew.

Damian spoke first. His face was carefully guarded: no emotion in his tone but disapproval. “You shouldn’t have done it.”

As if Bruce didn’t know, as if he hadn’t been horrified watching Clark’s son collapse like a sack of lead, the way Jon’s small chest had struggled to breathe beneath the symbol he wore—and all Bruce could feel when talking to Clark was inexcusable self-defense, repulsive stubbornness and. . . yes, and fear, of receiving from Superman the justice he deserved.

“I don’t think Jon fully understood,” continued Damian, “when he agreed.” Neither did I, was the underlying meaning, and Bruce couldn’t say that he himself hadn’t known either, because if he had only considered the idea a few minutes longer before suggesting it out loud—if he had only—

He couldn’t stand it. Not right now. “That’s enough, Damian.” Bruce forced a finality into the statement that he knew full well was unfair.

Damian looked at him long enough for it to be uncomfortable before turning stiffly and silently toward the stairs. Bruce would address all that later.

The kryptonite’s effects had stayed even after the rock was safely stowed away. Jon was still hurt. Bruce’s hand had gone to his face now, unconsciously, his palm hard against his skin. The kid was so small. Whatever healing factor he possessed was no viable moral argument. It didn’t change the fact that Batman had intentionally caused harm to an innocent child.

Clark’s child.

Bruce sat down heavily in his chair. What have I done?

“It hurt a lot,” Jon whispered, and Clark heard the words even as the wind took them. “But I knew it would hurt.”

How was he supposed to be honest without showing how badly his heart was breaking? With effort, Clark kept his voice steady. “I never wanted you to know that. Not by your own experience, as long as I could protect you.”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” The words stuttered and cracked; Jon should not have been saying them. 

He was still feverish and shivering. Clark hugged him closer. “It wasn’t your fault. We’ll discuss it later, Jon.”

Jon hesitated. “It wasn't all Batman’s fault. I did say yes.”

The wind whistled. Clark didn’t trust himself to speak.

“We can talk about Batman later too, right? And Damian?”

Did Damian have anything to do with this? Clark shook the thought away. “Yeah, bud, all of it. When I’m not—when it’s a better time, okay?”

Jon nodded and shut his eyes, his weak fingers curling tighter.

Lois paced by the window, watching for a blue streak in the sky. Clark had rushed out earlier in a panicked whirlwind with no explanation except “Jon—!”

Lois had heard nothing since then; it hadn’t even been ten minutes yet, but of course she was worrying. If Jon was in some kind of danger bad enough for Clark to get involved, who knows the state her boys would be in when they came home. And it was when, she thought firmly, not if.

The front door slammed open loudly. Lois flinched at the sound and at the dent the knob had made in the wall. Clark also winced. “Sorry, Lois,” he said, his eyebrows drawn together.  Jon was cradled in his arms.

That more than anything raised Lois’s concern. Ever since Jon had developed flight like his father, he’d fought being carried. But Clark was holding him like he was fragile, and Jon hardly reacted at all to being laid on the couch. Lois placed her hand to her son's forehead. Warm.

“What happened to him?” she asked, even as the pieces started to fall into place. Jon had been in Gotham, and now he was sick or hurt, when almost nothing out there could hurt him. The clues pointed toward an answer that Lois desperately hoped wasn’t the case.

Clark hadn't even touched the ground. “Keep him in the sun while it's still up. He’ll be okay, it shouldn't get worse, just. . . take care of him.”

She took his arm. “Clark, what happened?”

“Batman,” he said shortly. “I’m going out for a while. I’m sorry. I can’t think, I’m so—”

“Okay,” said Lois immediately. “Go. As far as you need to. I’ve got Jon.”

She watched his eyes. The look in them told her so much, emotions threatening to explode—the list of safe actions he could take right now growing ever shorter.

“Go,” she repeated, and added “I love you,” in case he needed the affirmation.

Clark bent down to kiss her cheek, then disappeared.

“He’s so mad,” whispered Jon without opening his eyes.

Lois didn’t deny it. “You’re not scared, are you?” she asked gently, sitting down next to him.

Jon turned his head, eyes open now. “No. He won’t hurt anybody.” He returned her squeeze on his hand. “I just. . . I don’t like it when people get mad at their friends. ‘Specially Dad.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She pulled him even closer towards her. “He’s not going to stay mad.”

Jon hummed a little doubtfully. “You haven't even asked what Batman did to me.”

Lois knew the signs of kryptonite exposure, and she was already boiling under the surface, even without the entire story. “I have some theories. But I don’t think you want me mad at Batman either right now.”

He snuggled sleepily into her side. “‘Kay. You can be mad tomorrow.”

This kid. “Yeah, honey. Okay.” He’d be in bed anyway by the time Lois would get all the information from Clark. And, if she could get her metaphorical or physical hands on him, Bruce Wayne.

Gone to see Jon. Will return. Father may track me if he wishes. I will not make it difficult.

Damian

There was a faint sound at the window, annoyingly familiar. Jon groaned a little. “My dad can tell you're here, Damian.” The moon was so bright, he noticed miserably when he cracked open his eyes. He squinted. Ow.

A maskless Robin dropped from the windowsill into Jon's room. “I know.” There was no nonchalance about it; he had come with intention.

Jon stuffed his aching head down into his pillow. “How come you're here?”

“Are you okay?” Damian asked simply, and the earnest question snuffed out all the snarky responses Jon was getting ready.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I'm okay.” Damian made an affirmative sound. Jon could almost feel the concerned weight of his observing. His eyes were getting heavy again. “You can stay if you want,” he mumbled. “It's fine.”

He wasn't awake long enough to know if Damian did.

Clark stepped into the doorway of Jon’s room. “Hello, Damian.”

Robin stood in the middle of the floor, back straight, arms folded. “Superman.”

Clark debated doing a casual lean against the wall and decided against it. “Won't they miss you in Gotham?”

Damian shrugged. His voice was even and careful. He did not make eye contact. “They'll live for a night.”

So would Jon, Clark thought, but a tender twinge of appreciation snuck into his heart.  He hadn’t harbored any resentment against Damian today for long; even if there had been any peer pressure, Clark wasn’t keen on placing blame on children when a responsible adult was also involved. Speaking of. . . “Does your dad know you left?”

“No. But I left a note for Pennyworth.”

So yes.  “Right.” Clark cleared his throat. At least Bruce wouldn’t have to wonder where his son was. Damian was here now, and it was too late (by most standards) to send him back. And if he wanted to stay, Clark had no issue with it. “There’s a sleeping bag in the back of the closet. If you didn't bring other clothes with you, you know where to find them.” Damian turned his head a little in surprise, then nodded.

Clark straightened. “Let Jon sleep as long as he needs. It might be a while. I’ll see you both in the morning.”

“Thank you.” It came across as automatic and was probably nothing more, but Clark accepted it regardless.

“Goodnight, Damian.”

Clark half expected Damian to be gone in the morning (all of Gotham’s vigilantes were experts at disappearing), but when he came down for breakfast Damian was already there, methodically spreading butter on toast. Maybe it should have felt more threatening, but Clark was glad to see he was making himself at home.

Seeing Damian alone at the table stung more than Clark expected. The boys had never had a sleepover before where Jon hadn’t been the first downstairs the following day.

Damian looked up from his plate and tilted his head in acknowledgment.

“Jon still asleep?” asked Clark as he pulled the sticky note off a cabinet that read, I called you in sick today. Told Damian to help himself. Text me when Jon’s up. Love you both, Lois.

Damian put the knife down. “Yes.” Clark was painfully aware he was making it awkward with the small talk, especially by asking things he already knew.

Unexpectedly, Damian saved him. “You want to know about yesterday.”

Okay then. “Well, good morning to you too.”

“Don’t joke.”

His tone, sharp and serious, stopped Clark in his tracks. He changed his demeanor immediately, ignoring the coffee brewing on the counter to face the kid at the table. “Sorry,” he said, and he meant it. “You sure you want to talk about this right now?”

“I am.” Damian hesitated. “I don’t want Jon to listen.”

“He’s not listening right now. And we can stop at any point.”

“And not a word of this will reach my father?”

That was harder to promise. If Damian revealed anything alarming Clark might have to bring it up, but chances were he could get the same information from Bruce himself later. Damian was asking him to conduct a confidential interview, Clark realized. And he was plenty good at interviewing, if he did say so himself.

Clark sat down, almost raising a hand to push up glasses he wasn’t wearing. “What you say here will not leave this room.”

“All right,” agreed Damian, finally meeting Clark’s eyes. “So ask.” He said it like a dare, but there was the tiniest waver. Guilt, maybe. Clark wouldn’t know until he asked.

He plunged into the biggest question he had for Damian, the most important. “Did you know ahead of time that what happened yesterday would happen? The test, with the kryptonite?”

“No.”

“Were you okay with it?”

“I trusted my father. I do trust him.” Clark couldn’t hold that against him. “And Jon. I thought. . .” He looked down at the table. “He’s my friend. And I. . . care for him.” The admission was soft but fierce. “To see him fall like that by anyone's hand was wrong. I regret letting it happen.”

Clark exhaled in relief. He had thought as much, especially since Damian had come all this way last night just to see Jon, but to hear it confirmed aloud was reassuring. Jon had a good best friend. “You’re here to say sorry?”

“It’s my father’s business whether he chooses to ruin his own friendships. He has no say in mine.”

Jon had a great best friend. “If your father’s got even half your integrity,” Clark said firmly, “there won’t be any friendships ruined today.”

Damian’s eyes widened a fraction, almost startled at the praise.

Clark wasn’t planning on asking Damian for a detailed account; he’d save those questions for Bruce. But he still wanted to know one more thing. “You didn’t know how bad it would be, did you?”

“I. . . no.”

Bruce had known, though. Hadn’t he? He had seen many times how kryptonite affected Superman. How controlled had yesterday’s experiment been?

Damian continued, and Clark refocused. “I knew kryptonite was a weakness of yours. I knew it would hurt Jon somewhat. I thought of it as—as a weapon. I have had the opportunity of training against countless types of weapon; Jon never needed to.”

Clark remembered what he’d yelled at Bruce. Is this the sort of thing you put your own kids through? “Batman had you train against what could hurt you.”

“Yes. But kryptonite is not merely a weapon, is it? You shouted it in the cave. It was poison.”

Clark was beginning to understand. “And Batman wouldn’t test you against poison.”

“No. He wouldn’t.” 

Did it hurt Damian, then, that Bruce would do something like that to Jon?

But Damian’s next words introduced a completely different train of thought that Clark wasn’t prepared for. “In my grandfather's training—” Damian shut his mouth before the sentence was complete, clearly wishing he could take it back, but Clark had heard, and it was all he could do to keep his face in a semi-neutral expression.

Clark didn’t even know the half of Damian’s early childhood, but he knew enough of Talia al Ghul and her father to be intensely relieved that Damian was no longer with them. Bruce had given Clark a bullet-points backstory back when Damian and Jon were first introduced to each other, and he knew a little of Damian’s character from the days when Dick was Batman. Words like assassin and demon still clung to Damian’s reputation, though faintly. And it was heartbreakingly obvious that from a young age he was no stranger to death and blood.

“Damian,” Clark prompted gently. “Is this something you should talk to your dad about?”

Damian bristled. “I don't need to talk to anyone. I'm only addressing your concerns for—” 

“Hang on.” The bed creaked upstairs, and Clark heard a bemused oh, probably due to Damian's things on the floor. “Jon's up,” he said. “Is there anything else. . .?”

“One thing. I don't know if my father will defend his actions,” said Damian. “But you should know at least that he explained the terms first. The test was supposed to last ten seconds. He sealed the kryptonite after three.”

Clark knew how to read between the lines. Bruce had regretted it too.

Jon felt the sunlight before he saw it. Every cell seemed to stretch itself awake before he even opened his eyes. Jon braced himself for pain, not fully knowing why until the memory of yesterday came back in an unpleasant rush.

Right. Batman. Kryptonite. His heart jolted fast for a second. He took a deep breath. I’m okay, he told himself. I’m okay now.

He sat up and kicked aside the covers. There was a sleeping bag on the floor that hadn’t been there before, but it was empty. Jon was willing to bet that the lump tucked inside it out of sight was Robin’s folded uniform. He remembered Damian’s visit now, too. Well, half-remembered. His head hadn’t exactly been all the way clear last night.

Jon thought about super-speeding or flying down the stairs, but his body still felt a little unsettled, like the life had been vacuumed out of him, chopped up, and then fed back in. Regular gravity and motion were probably safer.

He called out before reaching the last step. “Dad?”

Dad’s smile was brighter than the sun had been through Jon’s window. “Morning, kiddo. C’mere.”

Jon found himself suddenly wrapped in a hug only Superman could give. “Dad!” he protested. “Let go!”

Dad released him, and Jon found his feet back on the floor. “Feeling better?”

“So much better.”

“One hundred percent?”

“Well, I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

Dad laughed. “Let me take care of that.” He returned to the counter where a pan was hissing on the stove.

“Thanks.” Jon plopped himself in the chair next to Damian. “Hi, D.”

“Good morning.” It was hard to read Damian’s face, but Jon was hungry and not trying too hard. “You didn’t sleep in as long as I thought you would.”

“I did! It’s like—” Jon looked at the kitchen clock. “It’s like eight thirty! That’s late!”

“The way you were acting last night I was sure it’d be at least noon.”

“Well, the way you were acting last night—” Jon stopped. “Wait, you came through my window.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, farm boy.”

“No, I mean—you knew I couldn’t go anywhere with you last night.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“But you came anyway. Were you that worried about me? Or are you just mad at your dad?” A thought struck him. “You're not, like, living here now, are you?” Jon hoped not. Bad enough that Dad was mad at Batman, he didn't need to split up Damian and his father too.

“Tt. Of course not. I seem to recall you extending the invitation to stay the night.”

“Oh. So it was a. . . one of those things you do to be polite.” Jon didn’t believe him in the slightest.

“A courtesy. Sure.”

“Sure.” Jon grinned, leaning over to elbow Damian. “Are you gonna finish that?”

“No stealing, Jon.” Dad appeared with two hot plates of scrambled eggs. “Pancakes coming up next.”

Jon said thank you with his mouth full.

Breakfast helped a lot. It was morning, and Jon felt great; it was perfect until he asked about the day ahead and Dad said, “I’m heading to Gotham later.”

Jon felt an uneasy feeling wash over him. “To talk to Batman?”

“To talk to Bruce. Yes.”

“Do I have to go too?” Jon blurted, unsure why the thought froze him to his chair. Damian stopped chewing for a fraction of a second.

Dad looked at Jon almost with pity. “No. In fact, I’d rather you stay here.”

“Why? What are you going to do to him?”

“Nothing, Jon. Just talk.”

“You said you’d discuss this with me,” Jon remembered aloud. “Did you really mean that?”

“I did. I was just waiting for you to wake up and finish eating.”

Jon put his fork down and pushed his plate away. “I'm done.”

Dad looked at the half a pancake left over. He didn't comment on it. “Damian,” he said instead, “could you give us the room for a couple minutes?”

Damian was already standing. He could eavesdrop easily, they all knew it, but it was the principle of the thing.

Clark hadn’t meant for this conversation to start out so uncomfortably. He spoke first. “Do you understand why I have to talk to Bruce?”

“Because you’re mad he hurt me?”

“Yes. And because I need to know. . . certain things from him.”

“I was there. I can tell you.”

“Jon—”

“You wouldn't believe me?”

“Jonathan. I do. But I need all the sides to the story, you know that.”

Jon fidgeted. “He asked if I knew what it felt like and I said no, and then he asked if I wanted to try it, and I said yes. That's it.”

“Did he tell you why he was offering to do it?”

“. . . No. But—”

“Did he give you time to think about it?”

Jon wouldn't meet his eyes. “A little bit.”

Come on, Bruce, really? Clark sat up a little straighter. “Don't excuse him, Jon.”

“But what if he thought. . .”

“I'm going to talk to him so he has the chance, if he chooses it, to give me his reasons. I don't want you to come up with them, and I don't need to hear them from you. Whatever they are, they are not your responsibility.”

“Why not?”

“Do you trust me to be fair?”

“Yes. But it wasn't all his fault.”

“Maybe not.” That hurt to say. “But the fact is that Bat—” Clark corrected himself, “—that Bruce is a grown-up and you are a kid. Correct?”

Jon folded his arms and didn't answer.

“You didn’t want him to do it.” It wasn't a guess. Clark knew his son.

Jon’s voice trembled. “I said it was okay.”

“But you were scared, Jon, and you weren’t ready, were you?”

Jon shook his head slowly.

“Then it wasn’t okay. Simple as that.”

“I’m okay now.”

“No. Jon, that's not—” Clark stopped. How was he supposed to make Jon understand? He couldn't dismiss it as an adult thing that Jon would understand when he was older. Nor could he say he was doing this for himself and not for Jon, even if that was partly true. This was important.

“Let's back up,” he said instead, holding back his frustration. “Would you rather I let this go? Pretend it never happened?”

Jon, to Clark's pride, thought before answering. “I don't know. Not if it's still going to bother you.”

“I think it still would,” Clark had to admit. “I'm sorry, but this isn't something I'm comfortable letting go yet. Not when it hurt you so badly.”

Jon slumped in his chair. “I wish it was fixed.”

“But you don't want me to fix it?”

“No,” Jon agreed, something fragile appearing suddenly in his voice. “I don't want you to fix it. I think you. . .” His breath was coming in small gasps, and he rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Sorry.”

Clark wished they were having this conversation in the living room where he could pull Jon into his side.

Jon turned his whole face away when he continued, his voice still wobbly. “I think you just love me too much.”

Those words hurt worse than any kryptonite. Clark actually flinched. “What?”

“You don't forgive people if they hurt me.”

Clark's heart twisted. “I really won't do anything to Bruce.”

“You always say words hurt too. And. . . feelings.”

He's Batman, Clark almost caught himself protesting, before he berated himself. He of all people should know better. Bruce was far from emotionless. He was probably a wreck right now. Who knows what the criminals of Gotham had had to fear last night? Even Robin had left Batman to himself.

Feelings did hurt. Jon was in tears. It hadn't even been fifteen hours since the incident, Jon’s hair was still bedhead-messy, and here Clark was, trying to force his eleven-year-old to grasp the concept of informed consent in an almost unique situation.

For the first time, Clark caught a glimpse of what this whole mess was doing to Jon. He was worrying about his son's physical safety yet, still seeing in his mind’s eye Jon's crumpled body and labored breathing, but all Jon considered was that he wasn't hurt anymore. The fear when Jon had asked if he needed to come along was brief, tearing at Clark but probably barely registering to Jon. As much as it killed Clark to admit it, it wasn't an immediate problem.

Kids were resilient, Jon superhumanly so. Clark still didn't think he was overreacting, but Jon's feelings mattered too. There was time.

“Dad?” Jon's small voice shook Clark from his thoughts.

“Okay,” he said. “Here's what's going to happen. I'm still going to visit Bruce today. I'm still going to talk to him.”

Jon bit his lip.

“I won't lie to you, there might be some arguing, but I will do my absolute best to stay calm and listen, no matter what he says.” He paused, but Jon stayed quiet. “As soon as I'm confident you're safe with him in the future, I'll forgive him for yesterday.”

Jon turned to face him all the way. “You will?”

“I will.”

Jon hesitated. “You really think he might do it again?”

Clark had thought about that question all night. The whole reason he had been so angry in the first place was because he'd considered Bruce's actions unthinkable. Could the unthinkable happen twice? In theory, yes, but Clark had the privilege of knowing Batman. He was not an evil man. He certainly didn't stew in his cave thinking up cruel and unusual ways to hurt children. In his heart, Clark still did trust his friend.

For Damian not to know about yesterday's test, it had to have been something spur-of-the-moment. Batman never (well, rarely) made the same mistake twice.

“No,” said Clark finally. “Honestly, I don't. But I still need to hear it from him.” It was the journalist in him, probably. Lois would do the same, insist on proof.

Jon’s next question caught him off guard. “Will you tell him that I forgive him too?”

Clark blinked. “You do?”

“Yeah.” There was a weight to the word, and Clark's doubts about how much Jon understood began to melt a little.

He swallowed. “I'll tell him.”

Jon moved his chair away from the table. “Are we done now?”

Clark nodded, still a little shaken.

Jon paused. “I can go with Damian today, right? Like, out?”

Today was a day to pick his battles, and Clark didn't feel like fighting this one. “Sure. But don't push yourself, you were sick last night. And try to stay in this dimension.”

“Got it.” Jon's smile returned to his eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”

Clark reached to clear the plates, but Jon reclaimed his sheepishly. “Actually, can I finish?”

Clark returned the smile. “Of course, bud.” He left the room to find Damian, who, as expected, hadn’t gone far.

“I won’t need a ride later,” said Damian before Clark could ask. “I’ll go home when I want to.”

“Fine by me.”

Damian hesitated. “Jon seems to be fully recovered. Is he really?”

“He’s better,” said Clark, and he meant it. “I don’t think there’s anything left to worry about.” Physically, anyway.

Damian relaxed minutely. “Good. As I expected.”

It took actual effort on Clark’s part not to comment that Damian wouldn’t have asked had he known for sure. “I’ll leave you boys to it, then. Call if you need anything.”

“Tt. We won’t.”

“Won’t need anything or won’t call?”

Damian pretended not to hear as he went back into the kitchen. Clark let him go.

He pulled out his phone. Lois answered on the first ring. “Hey. How’s the home front?”

“Jon’s okay. Wide awake before nine.”

Lois huffed a laugh. “Of course he was. Have you talked to him?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Clark rubbed a hand over his face. “Last night scared him bad, but he wants to move on from it. He’s more scared that I wouldn’t make up with Bruce. He’s such a good kid, Lo. I don’t know what we did to deserve him.”

“Don’t sell us short, Clark,” she said with a hint of fond amusement. “We must have done something right. Can you put him on the phone?”

“Damian hasn’t left yet. They’re going to hang out. Probably get into some trouble, hopefully not too much.”

“Oh?”

“I talked to Damian too. He’s sorry. He didn’t know.”

“Was he there? Did he see Jon get hurt?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s only what, thirteen? I’m going to strangle Bruce.”

Her concern was touching, Clark admitted. “Please don’t.”

“I already tried his phone. Both numbers. He’s definitely avoiding me.”

“Because he’s a smart man, and you’re downright terrifying.”

“Ha, ha.” She paused, and he could imagine her squeezing a ballpoint pen in her fist. “Seriously, Clark. Set him straight.”

“I plan to.”

Clark didn’t dress as Superman, and they didn’t meet in the cave. Bruce resisted the urge to shift in his chair. This meeting wasn't between heroes, and Bruce wasn't sure if it was even between friends. It was the parent of one child meeting with the parent of another, concerning an incident. Bruce had had conversations of this variety before (he'd raised so many troublemakers) but it felt different with Clark. The whole scenario was different. It felt a whole lot worse.

There was little small talk beyond hello. Bruce asked how Jon was (recovering well); Clark confirmed Damian was indeed at his house. Alfred brought out tea and coffee and left the room. Bruce envied him.

“All right,” Clark began after a minute, setting down his cup. Bruce couldn't read his eyes. “Talk. I'm listening.”

Bruce had been waiting for the order but still found himself unprepared. He steeled himself and recited the words with a sense of dread. They weren't enough, he knew they weren't, but they were all he had in his defense; he couldn't not say them. “I didn’t anticipate ten seconds causing the reaction it did. I’ve seen you face worse.”

“Jon’s not me,” said Clark.

Bruce felt a headache hovering behind his eyebrows. He wanted this over. “I know.”

Clark let the pause linger for a couple seconds. “Keep going.”

“I asked his permission. I gave him an out. He consented. I would have stopped immediately if he had said no.”

Clark bent forward like he'd been waiting for this one. “He's eleven. You asked him in front of his friend, who didn't know better than to encourage him. And you asked him as Batman. Bruce, who can comfortably say no to something Batman thinks is okay?”

Bruce could think of more than a few people, but he knew that wasn't Clark's point. He found himself desperately trying to think of anything that might deflect the ever-growing sense of shame. 

“And it wasn't okay,” Clark continued. “You have to know that. If not then, then now.” Bruce failed to respond. “He told me,” Clark said softly, “you didn't tell him why. You left it up to him to read between the lines.”

Bruce inhaled, trying and failing to release the tension in his hands. What was wrong with him, that the next words out of his mouth weren't an apology but another excuse? “Kryptonite is one of the few things that can damage you. If Jon’s first experience with it was in a life or death situation, I didn’t think it wise for him to be underprepared.”

Clark didn't yell at him. Bruce for the life of him had no idea why. “I understand that. Why did you not talk to me about it?”

“You allowed him to train with me alongside Damian. My own children have trained in similar ways.”

“That’s a whole other can of worms.” Clark sighed. “Bruce, I’m not here to argue about your training methods. Not exactly.”

That caught Bruce off guard. “I thought that was the issue.”

Clark looked down, then back up. He took a deep breath, his eyes piercing. “If Damian had come my way and you found out that I had shot him—”

Bruce flinched. “Clark—”

“—that I’d used resources that you’d entrusted to me to hurt your kid—”

“Kal,” Bruce pleaded.

Clark’s voice broke. “Bruce, wouldn’t you—?”

Bruce fell silent.

“It doesn’t matter how temporary it was or that you offered him an out or that he’s forgiven you—Bruce, you hurt my son. You. And I had to find out by hearing him scream.”

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. The words stuck in his throat. Bruce cleared it.  “He's. . . forgiven me?”

Clark leaned back in his chair. “Yes. He told me to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Because he wanted to, Bruce. I want to.  Just. . . tell me you know it was wrong. Tell me you believe that.”

“I know.” Bruce forced himself to look his friend in the eye, feeling like a criminal on trial. “Clark, I. . .” His hesitation was illogical. Clark wasn't going to record his confession or reject it.

“I can tell you’ve lost sleep over this,” said Clark. It wasn't a joke, just an observation. Bruce didn't deny it. “Could it happen again?” Can I trust you, was what he meant.

Bruce answered immediately. “No.”

“That’s it? No exceptions, no conditions?”

“I caused Jon intentional harm.  It was without a doubt unacceptable. I would never expose you to kryptonite unnecessarily, yet I did it to your son.”

“Unnecessary? What about all your justifications?”

Bruce grimaced. “Forget them. I'm sorry.”

Clark's shoulders relaxed visibly. Bruce could have sworn the temperature of the room cooled in relief. “Apology accepted.”

“If you require any additional measures, I can—”

Clark stopped him with a shake of his head. “Your word is enough, Bruce.”

Bruce didn't fight the hand that pulled him upright or the hug that followed, not that he could have even if he wanted to.

“You're too good a man, Clark,” he said as they let go.

“You didn't see what I did to Pluto last night. It’s still in one piece, but. . .” He cleared his throat. “Never mind.”

“Never mind,” Bruce echoed, choosing not to concern himself with the fate of Pluto. “Where are the boys?”

Clark listened for a second. “Metropolis. They’re fine.”

Bruce lifted his cup again for something to do with his hands, hoping his next question wouldn’t come out too pathetic. “Did Damian say when he’ll be home?”

“You can ask him yourself,” said Clark, not unkindly. “I don’t think he’s gone no-contact.”

“He’s run away for less before,” Bruce admitted.

“Talk to him. He’s got things to say to you too. Last night was rough for everybody.”

“Sorry,” said Bruce again, and it was a little easier to say the second time.

Clark’s smile was reassuringly Superman. “Don’t worry. We’re good.” It should have erased all the mess in Bruce, but it didn’t. Not quite.

Not yet. He hadn’t atoned.

“You should call Lois back, though.”

That was almost punishment enough.

“I don’t understand you.”

Jon’s feet dangled comfortably over the edge of the roof where he sat. It was windy up here; his hair was blowing in his eyes. His cape was spread behind him, a little damp yet from earlier clouds. He looked up at Robin standing beside him. “What do you mean?”

Damian continued scanning the street far below, his colors bright in the sunlight. “You don’t seem to realize when you’re lying.”

“What?” Jon shook away his hair again. “I’m not lying.”

“You said you’re not afraid, but you are. I saw the way you reacted when you heard your father was going to Gotham.”

Jon sighed, probably longer than necessary. “Damian, I’m fine.”

“You don’t want to see him.”

“My dad said I don’t have to.”

“And you’re glad to have the excuse,” Damian fired back. “I won’t think any less of you if you admit it, you know”

“I don’t care what you think of me,” Jon scoffed.

“I see.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “No—D, wait, I’m sorry.”

Damian’s mouth quirked slightly upwards. “So quick to apologize.”

“Hey!” Jon shot up again just to be taller than his friend. Damian didn’t even blink at the draft.

“Why aren’t you angry at Batman the way your father is? It wouldn’t be irrational.”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want to be scared. So I’m not.”

“So you’d be fine with flying to Gotham right now?”

Dread shot through his heart at the thought. “Look, if my dad isn’t going to drop it, can’t you?”

Damian didn’t answer or look at him for a moment. Then he pulled out his grappling hook and said calmly, “Jewelry store robbery, Gunn Street.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “No way you can see that far.”

“Let’s go,” said Damian, ignoring the comment.

“Robin?” Jon began.

But Damian was already swinging downwards, correctly assuming Jon would hear his reply. “No need to thank me, Kent.”

The sun was bright and warm and invigorating. “Thank you,” said Jon anyway before following, taking off into the wind.

EPILOGUE

The night was clear, his workload relatively light, at least so far. He was alone on patrol this time; Damian had gone to visit Dick for a few days. Batman stopped for a minute on the top of a skyscraper and looked up at the rare sight of more than one star visible in the sky.

“Hi, Batman,” said a voice behind him.

Bruce spun on high alert, then relaxed infinitesimally. “What are you doing here?”

Superboy hovered, his arms crossed in an attempt to look tough, though his expression was as young as ever. “Just wanted to see you.”

Batman made sure his hands were visible and nowhere near that pocket. “You came alone?” He wasn’t sure why that worried him; this boy was bulletproof and then some.

Jon nodded once. “I told my dad before I left. But yeah, it’s just me.”

Batman waited, but Jon stayed where he was, still not touching the roof or coming any closer. “Robin’s not with me tonight,” Bruce said at last, because the silence was palpably heavy.

“I know. I’m not looking for Robin.”

“I know,” Bruce echoed, because Jon could have easily found Damian had he wanted to. “Is this about what happened last week?”

“The kryptonite thing,” Jon affirmed. “Yeah.”

Bruce could have guessed this conversation would happen eventually. Clark’s insistence that Jon had forgiven him had seemed a little too good to be true, even for the son of Superman. He forced himself to keep his voice low and even. “Why now, Jon?”

Jon started a little at the use of his name. “I. . . I guess I finally felt brave enough. I didn’t want to waste it.”

Bruce understood the feeling. “You’ve always been brave.”

“Thanks,” said Jon. “For the compliment, I mean.” He took a breath and let it out slowly, stalling before his next sentence. “I’m a little scared of you now. I wasn’t before.”

The small admission made Bruce’s eyes sting, but he kept his tone steady. “I’m sorry. That was never my intention.” He prayed the words didn’t sound as hollow as they felt.

Jon’s gaze faltered. “You said you were going to prepare me. And you kind of did. I’ll know what to expect next time I get near kryptonite. I don’t think I can ever forget it.”

Bruce wanted to cut him off, but he didn’t, every word hitting like a rock thrown at his armor.

“Dad said you apologized and you meant it, and I think he needed it more than I did.” Jon hesitated. “But I still. . . I’m still scared. I don’t want to be, and I’m not mad at you, but even coming here was scary, because I know I’m not technically, like, allowed in Gotham—”

Bruce interrupted for the sake of clarification. “You and your father are both welcome. You’re friends.”

Jon didn’t look reassured. “Okay.” His cape fluttered around him. “Thanks.”

Bruce could tell he was making him nervous; he might leave at any moment, fly away so fast Bruce wouldn’t see him go. “I can’t say I expected you tonight, but I’m not going to chase you away.”

Jon laughed a little. “Okay.”

“I owe you an apology. I’m. . . very sorry for hurting you.” Bruce hated how strange the words felt and hoped he’d never have cause to say them again. “What did you want to say to me?”

Jon sighed and finally landed, his feet noiseless on the paved roof. “I dunno. I don’t ever really say much to you anyway. But you did hurt me, and if I’m going to stay friends with Damian and like, be a superhero, I have to be okay with being around you.”

In other words, Jon had come to face his fear. “And you chose to come on your own?”

“Yes.” There was almost a bite in the word, as if Jon was offended Bruce would think otherwise. “I wanted to.”

“Is it helping?”

Jon looked him up and down. Bruce bore it uncomfortably. “I think so.”

“Good.” What else was he supposed to say?

Jon stood next to him and watched the city for a moment, and Bruce wondered what Gotham looked like through his eyes that were young and idealistic and less innocent than before. “Dad said I forgave you, right?”

“He did.”

“Good. Just checking.” Now that his feet were on the ground, Bruce could see the tiredness in Jon’s posture, the slump of his shoulders. He wondered how many sleepless nights Jon had suffered because of him.

“It’s past one,” Bruce mentioned offhandedly when Jon stifled a yawn.

“Wow.” Jon stretched. “Yeah, I should go.” 

Wordlessly, Bruce held out his hand for a handshake, and Jon shook it without hesitation.

This child wasn’t his to be proud of; all the same, Bruce found himself amazed. To willingly return to the person who had caused pain, to forgive before receiving an apology, to desire the reparation of broken trust, however hard an obstacle—it was more than most people could do.

He should say something. He cleared his throat. “Stay safe, Jon.”

Jon’s smile was sudden, bright, and real. “You too, Batman. Goodnight.”

His departure ruffled Bruce’s cape and left him looking once again up at the stars.

Good night, indeed.