Chapter Text
Jon buzzed with anticipation as the GPS's ETA continued to shrink. His knee bounced with restless energy, and he couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face.
This was it. His first time at Wayne Manor. Meeting the freaking Waynes.
"You nervous?" He nudged Kon, who sat beside him in the backseat. Jon tried and failed to hide the smile on his face as he asked.
Kon rolled his eyes. "No. Why would I be?"
"Because it's been forever since you've been here, and there's many new jewels to the Wayne name."
Jon leaned closer to his brother, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. "I heard there are two new ones. Both around our age. One of them is supposedly a total nightmare."
"Nightmare how?" Kon raised a brow, clearly skeptical.
"Damian Wayne. Bruce's biological son. Apparently he showed up a few months ago and has been terrorizing everyone ever since." Jon's cheeks started to hurt from how hard he was smiling. "I'm kind of excited to meet him."
Kon snorted. "You're excited to meet someone who'll probably hate you on sight?"
"Hey, I'm charming. I can win anyone over." He shoved his older brother in the arm.
"Your confidence is terrifying."
"Your lack of confidence is sad."
The car came to a stop, rolling to a gentle halt on the gravel road in front of the Wayne Manor gates. Jon pressed his face to the window, his eyes widening.
The mansion was all gothic art deco and colossal to the eye—towering spires, ivy-covered stone, warm light spilling from countless windows. It was absolutely stunning. Like something out of a movie.
"Now, you two better get your act together, we're here," Clark said, looking back at them from the driver's seat with that knowing dad expression.
"Don't embarrass us," Lois added. "Especially you, Kon. I know that look."
Kon's face scrunched in confusion. "What look?"
"The one that says you're about to do something reckless."
Jon snickered. Kon elbowed him.
He pushed the door open and stepped out, his heart hammering with excitement. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of flowers from the manicured gardens.
Some of the Waynes were already waiting out front. Bruce stood at the center, his presence commanding even at a distance. Dick was beside him, warm and welcoming. And next to them stood the two new additions—Tim and Damian.
Jon had read up a lot on the Waynes to make sure he left a good impression. But reading and seeing were two very different things.
The cameras did no justice to Damian's emerald-drowning eyes. They were sharp, intense, and absolutely captivating. The disdain on his face was no joke either—his expression screamed "I'd rather be anywhere else," and somehow, that only made Jon more intrigued.
Jon couldn't help it. He practically ran up to him.
"Hi, I'm J—"
He stuck out his hand for the boy to shake, his grin wide and genuine.
"Jonathan Kent." Damian's voice was clipped, precise, each word delivered like a dismissal. He gave a judgmental sweep of Jon's figure, taking in every detail, and settled on not shaking his hand.
"Damian Wayne." He introduced himself as he examined his nails, like Jon was some sort of afterthought.
Jon’s hand hung in the air for a beat longer before he dropped it. “Uh. Nice to meet you?”
“It is not.”
Jon blinked. Okay. That was…direct.
"Behave yourself," Bruce said, his voice carrying that familiar note of exhausted authority that suggested this wasn't a first-time thing.
Damian's glare shifted to his father. "Yes, father." His response was immediate, but his eyes promised a round two as they swept back to Jon.
Jon felt a shiver run down his spine. But it wasn't entirely unpleasant.
He risked a glance at his brother to see if Kon was as affected by the tension as he was. But Kon was staring at someone else—the other new jewel, a sharp-featured man with crystal eyes and an expression that could curdle milk.
Wow, Jon thought. He’s got it bad.
Bruce turned to the Kents, his expression softening slightly. "Clark, Lois, welcome." He gestured to the people next to him. "You know Dick, of course. And these are our newest additions."
He placed a hand on Damian's shoulder, then gestured to the crystal-eyed man. "And this is Tim. He's been with us for about a year now."
Tim gave a small, polite nod. "Mr. and Mrs. Kent, welcome to Wayne Manor. I hope your stay is pleasant." His voice was smooth, formal, like he was in a business meeting rather than greeting guests.
Clark smiled warmly. "Thank you, Tim. It's good to finally meet you. Bruce has told us so much."
"Has he." Tim's voice was flat, with a hint of mild disinterest.
Kon stepped forward, his smile bright. "I'm Conner Kent. It's great to meet you—" And then his eyes swept over Tim in a way that was probably too obvious. "—beautiful."
Jon winced. Oh, Kon. You absolute disaster.
Tim's expression shifted in an instant. The neutral mask cracked, replaced by something cold and sharp. His jaw tightened. His eyes, those crystal-clear eyes, turned to ice.
"Well, that's just it, isn't it?"
Tim stepped closer, and Jon watched Kon's smile falter. He'd never seen his brother so caught off guard.
"I'm beautiful," Tim said, each word clipped and precise, "but what else?"
Kon blinked. "What?"
Tim jabbed a ginger into his chest, hard enough to make him stumble back half a step. "What else is appealing? You don't know anything about me.“
"Tim!" Bruce's voice was sharp, his hand already pressing against his nose bridge like a headache threatened to arise.
Tim didn't seem to hear him. His eyes were locked on Kon's, burning with something that looked dangerously close to pain.
"You saw a pretty face," Tim continued, his voice quieter now, but somehow more cutting. "And that's all you'll ever see. Because that's all anyone ever sees."
A beat of silence.
Then Tim turned to the Kents, his posture shifting into something formal and controlled once more. "Mr. and Mrs. Kent, you have my sincerest welcome." He gave a small, polite bow. "Jon." He nodded to Jon, his expression briefly softening before it hardened back into the neutral mask he'd worn at the start of their interaction.
And then he spun on his heel and stormed back into the manor, the door slamming behind him with a sharp crack.
Silence descended on the group.
"Well," Lois said mildly, breaking the tension. "That was eventful."
"Mom!" Jon groaned.
"What? I'm just saying."
Dick stepped forward, his expression apologetic. "Sorry, Kon. Tim's... been through a lot. People haven't been kind to him. Especially about his jewel."
Jon watched his brother's face. Kon looked stunned. Flustered. And—if Jon wasn't mistaken—absolutely smitten.
"Courting him isn't the best move for either of you," Dick continued, his hand warm on Kon's shoulder. "Give him some space, yeah?"
Courting. Jon filed that word away for later.
“Your brother’s quite interesting,” Jon noted.
“My brother is none of your concern,” Damian scowled but didn’t look at Jon.
Jon's eyes drifted over Damian's face, taking in every detail. The sharp lines of his jaw. The way his eyes narrowed with barely concealed annoyance. The flush of color that crept up his neck.
Damian caught him staring. “Stop staring,” he snapped.
“You started it,” he hadn’t. Jon knew that, but he figured he’d get a rile out of the boy.
“I did not!”
“You’re right. I like staring, it’s my hobby.”
“Staring isn’t a hobby.”
“Fine. It’s my passion.“
“I’m going to—“
"Okay, okay." Dick stepped in, his voice warm. "Let's all take a breath. We'll get settled in, and then we can figure out the rest."
Jon nodded, but his eyes didn't leave Damian.
Damian, for his part, looked like he wanted to disappear into the ground.
Jon smiled. "See you around, Damian."
Damian's jaw tightened. "I hope not."
“See you.” Jon reiterated before he followed his family into the manor, leaving Damian standing on the steps, his expression sour and his hands clenched into fists.
Jon felt a thrill run through him.
This was going to be fun.
***
To say Damian was irritated was a major understatement.
He could be doing so much right now. Painting, for instance. Or perhaps sparring with Drake. Anything other than playing tour guide for the overly cheerful Kent boy who had invaded his home.
Damian's jaw tightened as he glanced at Jon from the corner of his eye. The taller boy was practically bouncing with excitement, his head swiveling in every direction as they walked through the manor's grand halls.
Insufferable, Damian thought. Absolutely insufferable.
"Who's that?" Jon asked, leaning toward him.
Damian scowled at his proximity. The boy had no sense of personal space. "That is my father's great-great-grandfather, the co-founder of Wayne Enterprises."
A portrait sat large on the wall to their right—a stern-faced man in old-fashioned attire, his eyes seeming to follow them as they passed.
Damian had been tasked with showing this idiot around the manor since it was Jon's first time here. Apparently, being the only one closest in age to Jon made him the "obvious choice." Damian had argued. Bruce had insisted. Damian had lost.
Father will pay for this, he thought darkly.
They continued walking, Damian's footsteps sharp and deliberate against the marble floors. Jon's were heavier, more casual, like he had all the time in the world.
"So," Jon said, his voice far too cheerful, "do you play any games?"
"Chess." Damian didn't bother looking at him.
"I meant video games."
"Those are for the less intelligent."
Jon gasped, and Damian stopped walking. He turned, raising an eyebrow at the taller boy's indignant expression.
Jon stood at least a head taller than him, forcing Damian to look up to meet his eye. It was inconvenient. And slightly annoying. And certainly not something he planned to acknowledge.
"What's that supposed to mean?!" Jon frowned, his brows furrowing.
Damian tilted his head, letting a slow, condescending smile spread across his face. "Simple. Video games rot the brain."
"No they don't!" Jon's voice rose, his cheeks flushing with indignation.
"Then why are we on such different mental stages?" Damian's tone was sweet, innocent—the kind of innocent that was anything but.
Jon raised a challenging brow, his lips parting like he was about to argue. Then he sighed, the fight draining out of him. "Let's keep moving," he ushered, gesturing down the hall.
Damian felt a flicker of satisfaction. That's right. I win.
They continued down the halls and different floors, Damian offering only brief explanations for certain objects and paintings. He kept his answers short, clipped, unwilling to give Jon any more attention than absolutely necessary.
"A portrait of my grandmother." Keep walking.
"A vase from the Ming Dynasty." Don't touch it.
"A clock that belonged to my great-grandfather." It's not a toy.
Jon asked questions anyway. Endless, exhausting questions. Damian answered each one with the bare minimum, his patience wearing thinner with every step.
"And finally," Damian said, stopping in front of a door, "here is your bedroom, as Grayson showed you earlier." He gestured dismissively toward the room. "That is mine." He pointed to the room at the end of the hallway. "If you need anything, don't come knocking on my door."
He turned on his heel, already heading for his own bedroom. He could feel Jon's eyes on his back, could practically hear the boy's thoughts forming into another obnoxious question.
"Wait!"
Damian halted. He closed his eyes briefly, counting to three. Then he looked back, his expression carefully unamused. "What?"
"So you've never played video games, right?" Jon's voice was hopeful, eager. "Try some of mine. I'll show you."
Damian stared at him. "I would like to spend no more extra time with you outside of when I have to."
Jon's lips twitched. "You know, you've got quite an attitude." A smirk played at his lips.
Damian's eye twitched. "Your point being?"
"I heard jewels were dainty folk."
Damian's jaw dropped. His brain short-circuited for a moment, unable to process the sheer audacity of what Jon had just said.
"Whoever told you that," Damian said, his voice dangerously low, "has clearly never met a jewel."
"Goodbye, Jonathan."
Damian spun on his heel and walked away. This time, he didn't stop. He didn't look back. He heard Jon's voice calling after him, but he ignored it.
He reached his bedroom, slammed the door behind him, and locked it.
"Dainty folk," he repeated to himself, a short, sharp laugh escaping his lips.
If Damian was anything, he was not dainty. His mother had worked hard to make sure of that. She'd trained him, honed him, shaped him into a tool. Every scar on his body was a testament to his strength. Every skill he possessed was earned through blood and sweat.
And yet—
And yet this ridiculous, infuriating boy had just called him dainty.
He shook his head, forcing the thought away.
It didn't matter. Jon Kent was nothing to him. Just another irritating guest who would leave in a few days.
Damian stripped off his jacket and threw it over a chair. He crossed to his desk, pulling out his sketchbook. He needed to focus on something else. Anything else.
But as he lifted his pencil to the paper, his hand faltered.
The only image coming to mind was that farm boy’s face.
He tried thinking of something else. Anything.
Nothing.
"Oh, for the love of—"
He slammed the sketchbook shut and shoved it into his desk drawer.
This was going to be a very long week.