Chapter Text
The hot water hit Jon's face, washing away the exhaustion of the day with it. His head throbbed as it heated up, and that was new.
Jon hadn't experienced much pain in his life on Earth- it was hard to be hurt when you're an invulnerable species of alien. Well, half-alien.
He rubbed down his aching muscles, staying awhile over his heart where it was aching with another sort of pain.
I need to stop worrying about my dad.
Damian's apartment was nice, much nicer than most of Gotham he had seen in the past 24 hours. It felt much longer than that since he had arrived. He recapped the day in his head, he realised that Gotham had a way of sweeping you along with it. Hopefully it would sweep him in the direction he needed.
Corruption. Substance abuse. Assault. Even the driver had sped off after it knocked him down, Damian had said. He'd been so lucky. He pressed down on the stitches under the soaked dressing, feeling the pain again. Feeling alive.
He would have to re-apply the dressing on the stitches. He shampooed his hair, lost in thought. Or maybe he could ask Damian to redress it for him? It was an appealing thought.
Jon was running on borrowed time and the knowledge lay heavy on him. Eventually his dad would cool down and come looking for him, if he hadn't already, and then there would be hell to pay.
If Gotham hadn't torn itself apart before then. Jon was very new here, but even he could feel the tension in the air, like the static before a storm.
I'm glad I got to see it before the Regime takes it back, he reflected, squirting out the conditioner into his palm. I hope there's not too much damage in the battle, there's so much history here. He inhaled deeply at the smell of Damian's conditioner, indulging a little in a private fantasy.
He rinsed and browsed the bottles on Damian's shower shelf. He sniffed a few, experimentally. Of course, Damian could afford the best. How much shampoo was produced inside Gotham and its immediate areas? Did he get this on the black market, like the cigarettes?
He forced himself to relax, taking his time and enjoying the hot water while he could. Jon had felt grimy since he entered Jason's bar and he drank in the cleanliness now.
The shower gel smelled similarly expensive and he looked around the steamy bathroom as he lathered his body. It was a big bathroom, as expected for a piece of prime real estate. Like the other rooms, one wall was covered in floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark city.
Daddy Wayne spent a lot of money on his son.
A round mirror hung above a generous basin set in the counter with a tasteful brass faucet. It was slowly fogging as he used the hot water, looking like a misty moon against its soft backlight.
Donning the soft white towel Damian had left out for him, he made his way to the basin. His host had also left him a brand new toothbrush, complete in its cellophane wrapping.
Wow, fancy. The Waynes were rich-rich.
He tore it open with his teeth, noticing that when the mirror had fogged, it revealed four letters someone- presumably Damian- had written with his finger last time it was covered in condensation.
"WWDD," Jon hummed, and brushed his teeth. Weird.
There were three long drawers set under the basin and he cracked one open experimentally, toothbrush in his mouth. He saw sealed bars of soap, bottles and bottles of liquid that looked like hospital disinfectant, and lots of white boxes of dressing.
How many sterile strips and band aids does one nepo baby need?
And how old had Damian even been when the lockdown happened? Jon counted back six years, as he spat the toothpaste foam into the sink. Wasn’t he too young to be a doctor?
The next drawer hosted a few boxes of prescription painkillers and an array of sealed surgical tools.
Well, he is a doctor, after all…
He opened the third drawer a crack and saw a bright red box of condoms. He snapped it shut immediately, guilt flushing his face.
Well, that's what I get for snooping, he thought. It was just so frustrating: from the age of 10 or so, he had been able to see through walls at will with his X-ray vision. Now, every closed door was a tempting mystery.
Damian's toothbrush was lined up perfectly and squared to the edge of the basin. Jon tossed his down next to his host's and re-tied the towel around his waist.
On the back of the door, a black canvas backpack hung. It felt vaguely familiar to Jon and he realised it was the one the doctor had carried with him to The Last Rights last night.
He pressed an ear to the door, and heard kitchen cupboards closing further into the apartment.
It didn't seem like Damian was going to burst into the bathroom and demand to know what he was doing, so he unzipped the bag an inch or two and peered inside. His heart hammered with the thrill of it all.
This is a lot more fun without my powers.
A strong, sulphurous smell hit him first, emanating from an old towel inside the bag. Frowning, he unzipped it further to see what else was there.
"What the hell is this?" He murmured.
The bag dropped from its hook, making a muffled thud on the tiled floor and he froze, waiting for any sign he was going to be discovered raking through Damian's private things and thrown out. His face flushed again with guilt, sorry that he had to resort to this kind of investigation. When Gotham was reunited with the rest of the country, he wouldn't have to with his powers back.
Not that Damian had committed any crimes that he knew of. In fact, he had been the perfect example of a good, law-abiding citizen. Too good.
Rich men always have dirty secrets.
He would plead for leniency for Damian if he found anything untoward, he decided. He had stitched him up and given him a place to stay, after all. And it had absolutely nothing to do with that striking profile. Or those long eyelashes.
Under the towel was an old toiletry bag containing personal grooming items: an open pack of disposable razors, some shaving foam, a pair of sharp scissors, and nail clippers. Not unusual things to keep in a bathroom, so why were they in this bag with the weird wet towel?
Jon still pondered this, raking through the side pockets of the bag when Damian's voice came through the door.
"I've left some clothes out for you," Damian said, mere inches from Jon's head.
Jon physically jumped, almost dropping the bag in shock. On instinct, he sprinted to the far side of the bathroom to yell "Ok, thanks!" As if he had just gotten out of the shower and was not raiding the young doctor's bathroom like a criminal.
The towel had slipped down too, and he gathered it at his front in a fist, feeling incredibly vulnerable. Jon hoped fervently that the windows were privacy glass, otherwise he would have made quite a show there.
He felt very exposed right now, completely naked and without his powers.
C'mon Kent, get it together. Stop mooning Gotham.
When the Regime welcomed Gotham back in, he would make sure the hospitals were well-stocked, he plotted. He would be the hero of the people, Gotham's very own Superman. That would be nice. He could help people in ways even Batman, long gone, couldn't dream of.
Damian would be impressed.
Towel firmly gathered round his hips again, he made his way to the spare room Damian had shown him. The apartment was silent again.
His room was sparsely furnished, but looked inviting enough. It was a lot better than Jason's dilapidated couch, and who knew where he could be staying after tonight so he resolved to make the best of it.
On the bed was a pair of perfectly folded pajamas. The grey sweats were slightly too short, and the t-shirt a tiny bit tight, but they fit well enough. He grinned when he caught sight of himself in the mirror- across his chest was splashed the faded yellow of Robin's 'R'.
Was there nothing in Gotham that didn't try and merchandise the superheroes of old? Not that he minded, Robin had always been his secret favourite. And he looked good in the shirt, the tightness emphasizing his chest and biceps, muscles that he barely paid attention to normally. Now, he flexed experimentally in the mirror.
A lamp rested on the bed side table, but the drawers here were empty. Behind the mirror, however, was a walk-in closet. It was empty, too, except for a couple of shoe boxes on the shelves. He hesitated, hand outstretched before sliding the mirrored door closed again. He would have more time tonight, he decided.
He found Damian leaning against the couch in the dark apartment, apparently lost in thought.
He felt Damian's eyes as they ran down the clothes he was wearing and the body underneath.
"It's the best I can do on short notice," he said, turning his head away quickly.
"Robin," Jon said awkwardly, jabbing his chest with his balled-up set of clothes. "I always liked him."
Damian took his dirty clothes from him. To be thrown away, he thought at first since they were ripped, but instead Damian walked to his laundry closet. Jon followed him as if pulled on a string.
"Which one?" Damian said, almost snapped.
Jon shook his head nervously, realising that he wasn't sure he knew how to identify the separate Robins by their insignia alone.
Damian's eyes lingered over his chest and he was suddenly very aware of the tight shirt now. Damian's eyes were fixed on his chest for a beat too long. That was an interesting feeling. He pocketed it for later.
Damian just stared at him, bloody clothes in hand, as if he was somewhere far away, where Jon couldn't reach him.
Something uncomfortable shifted under his skin at Damian's sudden change in mood. Had he heard him searching in the bathroom? Jon's heart beat faster now.
"Are you ok? I feel like I've done something wrong?" He tried.
Damian closed his eyes and shook his head. "No, I'm just…I just need a shower." He stood. "Make yourself at home."
Jon watched him go, realising that if he had had a long day, Damian had had an even longer, more stressful one. Not to mention Jon giving him more work by stitching his forehead up.
He fingered the undressed cut thoughtfully.
A yowl drew his attention and a pair of vivid green eyes stared up at him.
A cat. A real cat.
"Oh my gosh." He breathed, dropping to his knees to see the little guy better. It had been years since he'd seen a real cat up-close. He vaguely remembered the ginger tom they'd kept as a pet in the world before. That felt like a lifetime ago now. He hadn't been allowed to keep pets after that.
He ticked the tuxedo cat experimentally under the chin, glad that he couldn't hurt it in his powerless state now.
"You. Are amazing." He crooned, even as the fish smell of the cat’s dinner wafted up from its mouth. "Oh my god, you're purring."
He heard the shower start up from the bathroom down the hall. Damian would probably be some time, then. He could take a look around the apartment…
Damian found him on the couch, instead, completely enamoured with his new feline friend.
"You didn't tell me you had a cat!" He said excitedly. His cheeks ached from all the grinning. "He's amazing!" Jon scratched the cat all over his little black head, which was returned with a little nuzzle.
"That's Twiggy," Damian said, watching them both with a raised eyebrow. "Careful, one minute he's rubbing all over you and then the next-"
"Ah!" Jon was jerked out of his bliss when Alfred bit him squarely on the nose and batting his face with his paw for good measure before running away again. Jon rubbed it, amazed as the pain quickly ebbed away again.
"What the hell was that?" Jon looked around, wanting to pursue his new friend but he was pretty sure that would make him a bad guest.
"He's annoyed because I left him alone all day." Damian complained, rolling his eyes. Jon watched him standing there in his sleepwear and barefoot, hair still wet. It was the most relaxed he had seen him yet, at ease in his own sanctuary.
Still, the taut lines on his neck said there was something bothering him.
The conversation lulled and Damian shifted from foot to foot.
"I have a TV," the doctor said suddenly. Jon glanced at the 60 inch monstrosity hanging on the wall between them.
Oh my god, really, where?? He thought sarcastically, biting his lip.
"You sure do. Shall we…see what's on it?"
"Sure."
Half an hour later, they were still there and Damian was starting to further relax.
The room was also completely dark now, but Jon didn't mind. Occasionally, he stole glances of the other man, laying down on the couch perpendicular to him with Twiggy settled on his chest, filling the lulls of sound with his purrs.
“You know, you shouldn’t be watching screens if you have a concussion,” Damian said suddenly from the darkness.
“Wow, you really don’t know how to switch off, do you?” Jon chuckled, but the other man just glared at him. “I feel OK, actually, my headache is barely there and no double vision or anything.”
“Hn. Just don’t die in the night or anything. I don’t want to explain a dead body in my bed.”
Jon’s brain short circuited a little at the clumsy wording. He knew what Damian had meant, and yet…
Stop. As far as I know he’s completely straight, anyway.
Jon quickly flicked through everything he knew about the young doctor’s private life, which amounted to: ‘not much.’
He didn’t react when I mentioned Jay at least. Which was ironic, thinking about what was between him and Jay. I need to tread carefully.
Jon opened his mouth to make a snarky response, but Damian cut him off.
"Don't you need your glasses to watch TV?" Damian said, and Jon stiffened.
Oh. The glasses.
"Oh, um, it's kind of a weird story. I need this special contact lens prescription my dad used to get for me. But they make my eyes itch like hell." It wasn't a lie. Clark had developed contact lenses for his son, crafted from Kryptonian glass. They protected his identity while he was Superboy so he could live anonymously outside of the cape.
They also hurt like hell.
"Are the glasses better?" Damian persisted. Jon's lips pressed together.
"They're more of a …comfort thing to be honest. They don't do anything but I feel stronger having them around." He turned to look at Damian.
The civilian glasses were completely normal glass, something Jon had chosen simply because he liked the look of them, and liked the person he could craft himself into.
Please stop asking about this. Please.
"Is that weird?"
Damian's eyes held onto his for a moment longer before letting it go.
"I've heard stranger things."
Jon said nothing.
"I'm sick of news already," he said eventually "I bet you have all the streaming services, though?"
The news cycles were entertaining for their novel value- nobody in the Regime had such exposure to Gotham as he had now. But he wanted to see what brain rotting TV they were making, too.
"TT," Damian rolled his eyes. "Obviously, they all got blocked when Gotham was put into lockdown. Local only, just like everyone else."
"You're doctor WAYNE. Isn't your dad a millionaire? Are you telling me he doesn't know a guy?'" Jon was grinning. He was just glad the young doctor had dropped the Kryptonian glass issue. He needed to be much more careful than that.
"No." Damian frowned. "That would be highly illegal and immoral. Especially if the dongle was plugged into the HDMI 3 port."
"Right," Jon said, instantly switching the input source. "Totally illega-oh wow! Dude, you have season 3 of Death Ridge?"
He mentally flicked through what he knew about the show- he was pretty sure season 3 had been finished, but a couple of the writers had been jailed by his father for terrorist activity after the Regime was formed. It was rumoured that the show was edited and completed, but the studio canned it in protest, never to see the light of day.
“I thought they cancelled that after the war? Didn’t they destroy all the unreleased footage from Season 3?”
"I know a guy," Damian just said mysteriously, the corner of his mouth crooked up. Jon followed it with his eyes.
Suddenly he thought of another reason Damian might keep a wash bag to spend the night away from his home.
Why he would keep condoms on hand.
He looked him up and down, lying down in his own perfectly fitting sweatpants and shirt. Then Jon looked to the set he was wearing himself, which would have been too big on Damian. And, really, didn't seem like the other man's style at all. Ah.
"Must be some guy," he said, eyes back on the screen and trying not to think about why those words were hard to form.
"Yeah, he's pretty great. Don't ever tell him I said that, though," Damian said, absentmindedly.
An uncomfortable thought formed in Jon's head suddenly: did Damian live with a housemate? Was a girlfriend going to walk through the door? It would be awkward if he had been invited to stay without the other person's permission. Maybe the partner would want to spend some alone time with him? Then he'd be kicked out for sure, the weird, Jon-shaped third wheel.
He glanced at the clothes he was wearing.
A boyfriend? But surely…
"Do you, uh, live alone?" He asked suddenly.
"No, of course not." Damian frowned in the flickering light of the TV. Jon waited. "I live with Twiggy."
"Right," Jon said carefully, frowning.
A couple of more episodes passed and Damian slowly took up more space on the couch. Jon kept stealing glances, wondering if he should wake him if he fell asleep.
Or maybe I could take a look around?
And then, for some unknown reason, he was talking to him again, keeping him from drifting off.
He tugged on the sweatpants Damian had given him.
"So these are way too big for you. Are they your, er, boyfriend's?" The words were carefully casual and spoken without taking his eyes off the TV. He didn't know why he needed to know, but it gnawed at him.
It's not even any of my business, he berated himself, feeling the heat in his face already and pushing that feeling down hard.
"No, my brother's." Damian answered in an oddly stiff way.
"Oh. Jason." Jon forgot to look at the TV.
"No…a different brother," Damian said in the same odd way, stroking Twiggy again. The TV glowed in his staring eyes.
"Right," Jon said. "Is he-"
"He's not here anymore." Jon turned to him, face washed in horror. "Not dead," he said quickly. "Just on the wrong side when the walls came down."
Oh. Another unexpected piece fell into the puzzle that was Damian Wayne.
"That really sucks. I'm sorry."
"…Thanks."
Jon made an excuse to rummage in the cupboard for popcorn while he gathered his thoughts.
Jeez, I need to calm down. He's not going to kick me out, I just need to keep my mouth shut.
He watched the bowl rotate in the microwave, seeing his own morose reflection in the glass.
Calm. Down.
He was still so on edge, his heart beating a little too fast.
Jon returned to the couch, dumping the popcorn bowl on his host's stomach, and smirking at the "Oof!" sound Damian made.
It's not like it was Damian himself who made him nervous. He felt the tips of his ears burn pink as he collapsed back down on the couch, indiscernibly closer to the other man that he had been before.
It's not like he had a crush on him.
He watched the show, trying to banish the feel of Damian's face so close to his as he stitched him up.
He definitely wasn't crushing on the rich, handsome doctor who had come to his rescue.
It was the rescue, that was the problem. He'd spent years praying for someone to rescue him. And someone had. And it had caused the world to fall apart.
But when Damian saved him, something seemed to click together.
Hm.
But that doesn't mean I like him or anything.
Jon casually slung an arm over Damian's ankle, who didn't react one way or another.
It definitely wasn't like that.
"Hey, hey wake up." Jon shook Damian's leg, who jerked as Jon's thumb brushed the fine hair between his sock and sweatpants like he'd just jammed a live wire into him.
"Whoa, it's just me, the stranger you picked up at the bar!" Jon laughed. The apartment was completely dark now, the show finished. "I don't know where the light is and you look like you're ready for bed."
Not being able to see in the dark was certainly taking some getting used to, and it set Jon on edge, even in the relative safety of Damian's apartment.
Damian, who had immediately dropped his hand under the couch when he jerked awake, brought it back up to his head and ran it through his dark hair.
"Ok. Right," he stated, rubbing his eyes.
"Are you? Ok?"
Then, after a tiny pause: "Yes." Damian stood, stretching almost begrudgingly. "I have trouble sleeping sometimes. I'm surprised I fell asleep now, actually."
Jon stood too. "Oh, maybe I should have let you sleep then?" He grimaced, running his fingers through his own mess of wavy hair.
"Don't worry about it, I have things I need to do anyway," Damian said, already walking away from him and down the hallway to the bedrooms.
"I have my alarm set for 5:30 tomorrow, I'll make sure you don't sleep in too."
Jon blinked. Was he going to kick him out then?
Damian seemed to read his mind, however. "You're going to work with me at the hospital tomorrow," he said slowly, as if talking to a small child. "And I can make inquiries about your boyfriend and somewhere for you to stay."
"Oh. Right. Uh, thanks again for-"
But Damian just waved him away.
"Your headache's still gone?"
"Yep, all good. Still promise not to die in your bed."
Damian just blinked slowly at him.
"Jon a concussion is-"
"No, seriously. I feel fine. I'm fine!"
Jon quickly retreated back to his own room before he could embarrass himself further. He stood with his back against the door, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars.
Get. A. GRIP!
Then, later than it should have, he heard the sound Damian's door made when it closed.
A few deep breaths later, and Jon was glad he was alone. He didn't have his phone or access to a clock, but it felt late.
I should sleep…
20 minutes later, when he was sure he wouldn't be disturbed, Jon discovered what was inside the secret box in the closet. It was, in fact, full of memories.
He sincerely hoped Damian hadn't stacked them in any particular order, because now they were strewn all over the rug on Jon's floor.
Most of them were of other people, and he wondered if that meant Damian had been behind the camera. Some of them he recognised- Bruce Wayne, for example. And several other dark-haired men, and sometimes a dark haired woman, present in rare family group photos. Were these his siblings?
He held one such photo up for scrutiny, where he guessed Damian was about 16.
"Jason?" Jon said, scowling in surprise at the burly man standing to the side of the group.
There was very little family resemblance between the two brothers- Jason had the face of a true Gothamite, down to his frown lines and stubborn jaw. Damian, however, was built differently: slighter than both Bruce Wayne and Jason, with eyes strikingly different both in shape and colour. The dramatic brows could have been copy and pasted from his father, though.
He scanned the rest of the faces. Was Damian's favourite brother here, too?
Humming, he flicked uninterestedly through the stack of people he didn't know until he caught the next picture featuring Damian.
"Ah." Here, Damian was a lot younger, maybe 12 or so. He stood, tall and proud in a white button-down shirt beside a tall woman who looked so similar, she couldn't be anyone but his mother.
Damian's skin was darker against the shirt there and another little puzzle piece clicked into place. Jon had thought Damian might have some Arab ancestry, but now he saw its source clearly. His mother really was shockingly beautiful, with a poised fierce pride Bruce Wayne had obviously admired.
Beside her, Damian's skin was the same golden brown, rich against their white clothes. They had matching sunshades perched on top of their heads. Jon smiled. He could practically smell the ozone.
Gotham had obviously robbed him of his colour.
Jon missed flying, suddenly.
More photos: Bruce Wayne smiling over a bonfire of a birthday cake and surrounded by his family. One of the blue-eyed brothers had an arm hooked around the youngest Wayne's shoulders, coaxing a smile from him, too.
For one terrible second, he was reminded of similar photos he and his own brother had taken. Jon, so shy and Kon repeating the goofiest jokes until he laughed for the camera. Where was that photo now? Undoubtedly it must be destroyed.
Jon carefully closed the lid of the shoe box and replaced it on the closet shelf.
Lost in thought, he clicked off the table lamp and slid under the bed covers. The sheets were fresh and unslept in, sterile with a faint pleasant hint of laundry detergent. He stared uselessly at the ceiling, wondering why he was feeling so churned up.
There was something about Damian that pulled at the corner of his mind.
Maybe he was just your regular sad rich kid. He thought of the young Wayne in the photos, surrounded by his family and even smiling sometimes. How many times had he seen Damian smile since he met him? Not many.
The image blurred in his memory. He wanted to see Damian smile again, to remind himself.
Jon hid his face behind his hands. His cheeks burned. What was he going to do when they tracked Jay down? When he inevitably faced his dad again?
He just needed to stop crushing on Damian Wayne, find Jay and get out of here.
Oh, he was in trouble.
Damian woke him the next morning, already showered and dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Jon answered the door in only his sleep pants, having thrown off the too-tight shirt in the night. The sensation of being restricted, especially in sleep, made him panic.
Damian glanced down at his body once before staring at his face, frowning.
"You need to get showered and dressed. We're leaving in 40 minutes."
He handed Jon his own clothes back, freshly laundered and folded into perfect rectangles.
"Oh, thanks. I didn't bring any spares."
"I know. There's a donation centre at the outpatient wing, we'll see if anything fits you there before you go home, or wherever."
"Before I go home. Right."
Home. Was his dad worried about him? Of course he was. The last time Jon had properly disappeared, it hadn't ended very well for anyone. He swallowed.
Damian turned to walk away, but stopped. He seemed to hesitate, then pulled a small item out of his jeans pocket.
Jon stared down at the thing in Damian's hand. It was an action figure.
Oh no.
"This was left in the dryer. I know Jason threatens to castrate someone for stealing his fries. But, honestly, he would be really annoyed if he caught someone stealing from his bar."
Jon bit his lips.
"I am so, so sorry. I really am- I don't even remember taking it, I was so drunk. I'll take it back today."
But Damian just shook his head.
"It'll make him angrier if you bring it back now. Just try not to piss off the people trying to help you."
"Right. Sure. Sorry, again."
Damian tipped the small figure into Jon's hands and disappeared into the apartment again.
Jon turned it over in his hands.
The fully articulate Robin figure was Robin no more. The base plastic colours had survived, but the heat of Damian's expensive washing machine and dryer had stripped it of the face paint and details of the uniform. Now, it could have been any Robin.
It was a sad thought.
Jon had also lied to his host: he remembered seeing the little figure sitting on a crowded shelf with its comrades when Damian took a bathroom break at Jason's bar.
He remembered grinning when he saw it was his favourite Robin, too- the one with the sword and the attitude. This kind of hero merchandise was banned in the Regime. He remembered slipping it into his pocket, as if he could show Kon one day.
He showered again quickly, shaking his wet hair in the bathroom like a dog.
What's dad up to right now? His eyes scanned the horizon of Gotham City, as if he would see him levitating out there, watching him. He was, ironically, in the last place on Earth Clark would go. But then, that was exactly why Jon had chosen Gotham City.
He dressed, not missing how the rips in his clothes from his car accident yesterday had been repaired. He touched his forehead. The same tiny, painstakingly careful stitches that Damian had used on his jeans.
In the kitchen, Damian was packing lunchboxes into his bag.
"I've made us lunch for today, I doubt we'll be able to leave for a while once we're there. It's all vegetarian, I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind at all, I'm not picky." He entertained himself by committing the apartment to memory now he could see it clearly in the daylight. "Do you grow your own food?" He asked, nodding at the poly tunnels on the balcony.
"No, those are medicinal plants for the hospital, mostly," Damian said. He had finished packing the bag and was choosing a ripe apple from the fruit bowl.
"You grow your own medicine for the hospital?" Jon's eyebrows rose and Damian sighed.
"Just the basic stuff. Antiseptic, natural blood clotting agents, that kind of thing. Like I said, supplies are short."
Damian offered him the fruit bowl, but Jon prompted for last night's leftover burrito.
"You really need to re-heat that rice." Damian warned him, just as he was about to bite into it gratefully.
"I guess," Jon said. Leftover rice had never made him sick before, but he was invulnerable before. He stared at the wrapped foil package, engaging his laser eyes. Except…
"Uh, the microwave is over there…"
"Right. Right."
Fifteen minutes later, they were moving through the sleepy streets.
"I really am sorry about the Robin thing." Jon tried again. He had gallantly shouldered Damian's bag and was surprised how heavy it had been. Now his stupidly fragile mortal muscles were aching.
Damian stiffened, before relaxing again. "Don't worry about it. It was Jason's least favourite one, anyway." Damian glanced away. "He won't be missed."
Jon didn't exactly know what to say to that, so he kept his mouth shut for once.
At the hospital, Damian cut a path through the busy waiting room and buzzed them in with his keycard.
Jon smirked at Wendy the receptionist as he passed with Damian.
Suck it, Wendy.
When they reached the locker rooms, Damian handed him a set of grey scrubs. They were faded and worn-through in places, but they fit at least.
Damian changed into his own scrubs, as well as clipping on his ID badge and slinging a stethoscope around his neck.
"You'll be working with the porters, just stick with Laz and she'll tell you what to do. If anyone questions you, tell them I'll vouch for you."
"Oh, OK. Uh…"
"What is it?" Damian folded his arms.
Jon squirmed. He'd done so much for him already, but…
"I guess I just thought I'd be sticking with you, today?"
Damian blinked.
"You're not…they need bodies to do the vital day to day stuff. I may not be technically licensed, but I'm still allowed to-"
Jon pointed to his doctor's badge. "Wait, you're not licensed? You're not a doctor?"
Damian's jaw clenched and Jon didn't need super powers to see the muscle twitch there.
"I passed the exam a week before Gotham was cut off. I sent off for my medical license, but it was lost in the chaos. Then when the dust had settled, the infrastructure had completely changed," he said stiffly. It was obviously a sore spot.
"But doesn't Gotham have its own licensing board? Why can't they give you your license now?"
"Because." Damian continued coldly as he walked through the corridors and Jon followed close behind, fascinated. "The current Gotham Medical Board is ran by one Professor Lazlo Valentin Pyg."
"No relation." Laz chipped in, suddenly appearing at Damian's elbow.
"Pyg? Pyg….oh! I know that one! Oh. Wow, yeah I guess he wouldn't like the Wayne family with all the financing your dad gave the Batman's gang-"
"Batman never had a gang-" Damian snapped.
"Oh, yeah. Uh." Jon struggled.
"Laz, Jon's volunteered to help for the next couple of days. Show him the ropes, would you?"
Lazlo looked at Jon, then Damian, then back again at Jon.
"Sure," she said finally, with a wicked glint in her eye. "Lesson 1, Green Bean: how to scrub a bed pan."
It was mid day and Jon was tired in both body and soul. How did people do this every day without super powers? Mopping, scrubbing, wrestling hallucinating patients back into their beds so they could be sedated…the work was endless.
He wheeled a body to the morgue. That was a first. He almost thought Lazlo was joking when she asked him to do it. But the doctor had signed off on it, completed the necessary paperwork and now it and the deceased patient needed to be taken to the hospital morgue.
It made sense now he thought about it, someone had to do it. But back home there had always been someone else to clean up the bodies after…
He had expected Lazlo to tease him more, but she was oddly quiet and lost in thought when he questioned something. They silently stripped the bed and laid out the fresh linen together. Jon had to be shown how to do that, too, much to the scornful bemusement of the other porters.
The next patient was wheeled in even before they were finished, the beds were in so high demand.
Jon huffed out a breath and leaned his forehead against the abandoned corridor wall. They had been working for 6 hours and Jon was hungry. That morning's burritos, rat or otherwise, had long been digested.
The work was good for keeping unwanted thoughts at a safe distance, but still…
What am I even doing here?
Slowly, he rotated his forehead so that the pressure was over the laceration Damian had stitched the previous day. He let the pain radiate out like a sweet ache.
A shadow fell over him.
"Jon?"
Damian stood watching him, his arms crossed. His scrubs, which had been flawlessly clean that morning, were covered in the evidence of a hard shift.
"Tired?" He asked. Jon followed the eyebrow as it raised up before settling on the other doctor's eyes. Jon couldn’t help it. They really were beautiful eyes.
"Just hungry, I guess."
"I can help with that. Follow me." Jon fell into step with him through the dimmed hospital corridors.
"So. If you're not officially licensed, how can you work here?" Jon asked, picking right where they left off.
"Every hospital runs independently here. Dr. Bashar is the chief here. I trained under him, before. And he trusts my judgement." Damian looked a little coy. "It doesn't help that my father is funding half of the medical insurance in the city, I suppose. It comes in handy when there's a big outbreak like the measles epidemic we had last year."
Damian said it casually, like Jon had been here in Gotham, too, struggling through it with them.
"You're a great doctor." Jon protested.
The young doctor scoffed. "How would you know?" He caught the way Damian's eyes flicked to Jon's hand, above their heads and holding the door open for him.
"You fixed me up." He pressed down on the stitches again with his free hand.
"Stop that." Damian slapped Jon's arm down from his head, his fingers brushing the skin and causing the hair on the back of his arm to rise pleasantly.
"Make me." Jon laughed, pushing him gently.
Damian laughed, but his eyes were wide like the next line of the play he'd rehearsed had changed suddenly without his knowledge.
"I left the food in the staff kitchen," he said a little awkwardly. He looked down at his dirty scrubs. "I should probably change, too."
Jon sat on the bench in the changing room and very determinedly didn't look at Damian's back as he changed his scrubs. He resolutely didn't look at the scars that criss-crossed his body. And he steadfastly averted his eyes to the way his slight but toned waist tapered down to-
"Ok, let's go."
There had been so many scars. Damian wasn't joking, Gotham was a warzone.
They sat on the roof. The tarmac was warm under the sun, but it was bearable as they sat with their backs against the outside wall that led upwards.
The sky above them was clear and smooth as glass and Jon closed his eyes, soaking it in.
Damian had found time that morning - somehow - to make them a vegetarian curry, complete with home-made naan breads.
Jon had ran downstairs, with money Damian had given him, to get a couple of cokes and Paydays from the vending machine. The food was spread out before them, on the roof of the hospital the makings of the world's oddest picnic.
Maybe it was a Gotham thing. All he knew was: he liked it.
"I don't think I've ever been on a picnic." Jon volunteered, breaking off a piece of naan and using it to ferry more curry into his watering mouth.
"Really?" Damian sounded genuinely surprised. He snatched the remaining naan from Jon's hand and took a bite out of it directly. "You seem very much the picnic-y type."
Jon's grin was full of sweet potato and peanut curry. "My dad was. At least, he used to talk about being outdoors a lot when he was a kid. He was adopted when he was 10, he grew up on a farm."
That was safe enough, surely. Damian was a doctor, not a detective, after all.
"But you didn't?" Damian cracked open a bottle of coke, head cocked as he regarded Jon's expression.
"I dunno. I went to live with a, uh, relative for a couple of years. But it was…my dad’s kind of protective over me.”
"That's…well, it sounds like he loves you a lot, in his way," Damian said with lowered eyes, but his remark was cut short by a giant bark of laughter from Jon.
If only you knew…
"What about the great Doctor Damian Wayne?" He snatched the naan bread back from Damian's hand and took a bite. The edge was still wet from the other man's mouth. "Your dad is a millionaire. I bet this is your 100th picnic. I bet your dad bought you a picnic basket factory for your 10th birthday."
He was grinning again and Damian joined him. "My 10th birthday…not exactly." There was an inside joke he didn't understand there and he hungered to know more about the mysterious Dr. Wayne, Prince of Gotham.
"What, no picnic? No parade?" Jon teased, scandalised. He leaned back playfully, weight supported on one arm.
Damian weighed him up, eyes lingering over Jon's body as he moved position. "My father is a billionaire actually. And that means he was a very busy man. And he has- had- a lot of children to keep an eye on."
"Oh." That's not at all what I had in my head. Jon admitted to himself. "Your parents are divorced, right? You said you divided time with your mother, too?"
Damian just shook his head, waving the question away. "Our relationship is strained, I suppose. I love her, and I know she loves me, but it's complicated." He looked away to the distance, over Gotham Bay.
"My…your father keeps you close because he loves you. My mother keeps away because she loves me," he said finally, and with such an air of sadness that it made Jon's heart ache for him.
Jon let the silence hang, taking in the new information. He looked upwards, looking for the right words to comfort his new friend. Somewhere up there, were the kryptonite drones that covered the whole city in an anti-super zone.
His time was running out.
"We should get goin-"
"So are you sing-"
They spoke at the same time and their words reverberated in the awkward silence that followed.
"It's, uh, almost time to go back," Damian said, brushing crumbs from his clean scrubs as he stood.
"Right. Right," Jon said, face hidden as he helped tidy up their plastic tubs.
"There's somebody I want you to meet before we get back to work," Damian said as he stowed their things back into his locker.
Jon swallowed, knowing that now he was about to meet Damian's partner, the phantom he had painted in his own head.
Jon followed Damian through the bowels of the hospital again, this time to the paediatrics department.
The room was a single, the first Jon had seen in his time here. The walls were painted with old-fashioned but harmless looking woodland creatures. In the centre of the room, in a mess of wires and tubes, was a little body.
"Hi, Emma," the doctor said gently, lowering himself into a seat beside the bed. The little girl, Emma, looked up. "This is my new friend, Jon. I just wanted to swing by and introduce him to you."
Emma looked about 8, she was very thin, and wore a pink beanie that seemed hand-knitted. Her smile was watery and weak, but it was there.
Oh.
"Hi, Jon." She managed, and her little smile was genuine.
"Um, hi, Emma," Jon said softly, and a little quietly. Emma was very obviously and very seriously sick. He looked at her pitifully thin arms on top of the hospital sheets. He took the seat on the other side of her bed.
Jon had been around dying people before, but usually they had only spent a few seconds actively dying. And then, someone had cleaned up the mess as he'd flown away. This was…a lot.
His eyes flickered between the small girl and her doctor, completely at a loss at what to say or do.
He wanted to run.
Damian, by comparison, seemed completely at ease.
"Sorry I didn't come round yesterday, Emma. Some idiot threw himself in front of a car and I had to stitch him up," he said with a smirk.
Oh wow. Deserved, but still…
"That's ok, Doctor Damian." Her voice was as thin as her arms.
Damian folded his arms in mock-seriousness. "I've told you, It's Damian to my friends. Aren't we friends?"
She grinned, and her teeth seemed too big in her small skull.
Jon shifted uncomfortably.
They spent the next 20 minutes playing with a battered game of snakes and ladders. Jon lost almost immediately, and Damian joined him gracefully a little while longer.
"Damn, you just keep getting better." Damian chuckled, and leaned over to put another tally on the whiteboard above Emma's bed. They had been keeping score for a while now- with Emma winning twice as many games as Damian. "We'll have to keep practising for next time. Right Jon?"
Jon blinked. "Yeah. Sure. Right."
Damian brought out the Payday from his pocket. "To the winner go the spoils." He shared a grin with the little girl. "Tomorrow we're playing chess. I hope you've been practising. See you tomorrow, Emma."
In the hallway outside, Jon folded his arms, rubbing them in a self-soothing motion.
"Man, that's hard to see." He admitted in a murmur.
Damian just nodded, his face unreadable.
"Is it cancer?"
"Leukaemia."
"Damn. That's- wow, I'm sorry. How's the treatment going?"
"It's not. We don't have the right drugs." Damian strode on ahead.
"What do you mean? What were all those wires and things then?" Jon spluttered, perplexed.
"How can we treat her if we don't have the right meds? We can only monitor her and keep her comfortable." The muscle was jumping in Damian's jaw again.
"But-" Jon started. But she's so young. He wanted to say. Kids can't die that young!
"But what?" Damian snapped, wheeling around to face him.
"Can't your dad do something? He's a billionaire." He tried, desperately. He grasped Damian's shoulder, as if the answer was in their connection.
"Yes, you keep pointing that out. But there are some things money can't buy. There are some things the Regime will not sell to us."
Jon swallowed guiltily. "I-I'm sorry." I am so sorry.
Damian breathed out a shaky breath, obviously trying to keep his temper in check "No, it's me. I apologise. I shouldn't be taking this out on you." He breathed in, and out again deeply. "It's just so frustrating."
Jon's thumb had been making soothing circles on Damian's shoulder, and soon his whole hand was moving round to rub the young doctor's back.
"I'm sorry." Jon murmured. Damian looked up at him through his eyelashes.
"I'm just tired." He sighed, and then Jon was embracing him.
Damian's warm breath spread out pleasantly over his chest and he could smell the familiar shampoo. He bent his head closer, inviting it in. Jon's hand spread out over the middle of his back and Damian wasn't pulling away. He stood stiffly at first, and Jon almost let him go. But then he was surrendering, one muscle at a time and leaning into Jon's embrace.
He could feel Damian's heartbeat faintly between their bodies. He wanted to hear it, too.
"Damian, I-" Jon started.
"Damian?"
It was Lazlo.
The doctor pulled back immediately, like he was trying to distance himself from the scene of a crime.
Damian left with Lazlo and Jon finished the rest of his shift alone, doing whatever work was in front of him.
When, eventually, the long day was over, Damian met him at the entrance and their walk back to Damian's apartment was stiff with awkward tension.
"There's whatever you want for dinner in the kitchen, help yourself," Damian said, rinsing off the dirty lunch boxes from their rooftop picnic. "And feel free to watch TV or whatever."
"You're not staying?" Jon said, disappointed. He had been looking forward to another night on the sofa. He had been looking forward to…he didn't know what, but he was disappointed.
"I need to finish some things in my room," Damian simply said, turning towards the bathroom.
"Wait! I, uh, could you check my stitches again, please?"
10 minutes later and Damian was tutting, 3 inches from his face.
"You've pulled out 3 of these, what the hell have you been doing?" Damian was scowling, but Jon stared intently up at him unashamedly.
They were in Damian's bathroom, his medical equipment and tools scattered over the disinfected bathroom counter.
Jon kept his head carefully bent so that Damian could focus on his work.
"I don't know, I just couldn't stop touching it."
"TT. Idiot. Why would you do this?" Damian's face was so close now, but angled towards Jon's forehead.
"I just…couldn't help myself." Jon's eyes landed on Damian's, who resolutely didn't meet his gaze.
"Didn't it hurt?" There was a twinge as Damian threaded the hook through with more force than might have been necessary.
"I guess. But maybe it was nice to feel something?" It was softly said, and punctuated by the snip as Damian finished the last stitch.
But he didn't move his face away from Jon's, instead sliding his eyes down to meet his gaze. Jon froze, conscious that one wrong move would scare him away.
"Sometimes it's better not to feel at all," Damian said, and the breath of his whisper touched Jon's lips.
"I disagree. I think it might just be worth the pain."
It was the right thing to say.
It was Damian who bent his mouth to Jon's and pressed their lips together. Softly but surely, as if he was following through on a decision already made. And then, when Jon's hand brushed the short hair at the back of Damian's head, he surrendered into the kiss fully.
It was slow, and languorous. Jon cradled the other man's head between his long fingers as if it was made of glass.
Damian's fingers traced the waistline of his sweats, angling upwards under his shirt.
Jon felt the hair on his belly raise in response, like he was sensing an upcoming thunderstorm. How long had he gone without human contact before coming to Gotham?
Damian's free hand twisted over his shoulder, holding himself close.
I don't have my super powers anymore. Jon was only semi-conscious of the thought, but it tipped the kiss into something more urgent, knowing he couldn’t easily hurt him. He prised the other's man's lips on with his own and Damian surrendered further, their tongues brushing against each other with a soft moan.
His taste was intoxicating. He wanted more, and by the way the other man was crushing him closer, the feeling was mutual.
On impulse, Jon broke the kiss to lift the young doctor by his thighs.
"Jon-"
But Jon had sat him on the bathroom counter. Damian now looked down on him, the back-lit mirror behind him haloing his head like a saint.
Jon pulled him down onto his mouth again, more desperate and needy than he had ever been in his life. The wet sounds of their kissing increased with Jon's urgency and echoed off the bathroom tiles.
He hooked his hands under Damian's thighs again, pulling him to the edge of the counter and crushing him against his own body. They were both wearing jeans, but he could feel both of their bodies respond and it was maddening. He wanted- he needed-
There was a clatter as the surgical instruments and dressings were scattered over the counter and floor with the movement. All at once, the spell was broken.
Suddenly, there was a palm bracing against Jon's collarbone: wait.
Jon froze and their heated breath mingled between them.
Damian was breathing hard. His eyes, half lidded, battled some internal struggle as he looked down on him.
"Jay…"
"He's nothing." Jon moaned, moving forward to hide his face in Damian's neck, but the hand kept him at bay. The throbbing heat where their hips met was unbearable.
"You might…I don't do this, Jon. This isn't right."
Jon sighed in frustration.
"Do you have a boyfriend, Damian? Girlfriend?"
"No. But you do." Damian was frowning now and Jon cursed himself for ever uttering that stupid lie.
Jon flung his head back in frustration.
"It's not like that." He muttered through clenched teeth. "I know I said that we were together but it wasn't…he's more of an ex, really."
It wasn’t like Jon could tell him the truth.
But Damian was already angling his body backwards, away from Jon. His eyes were cold, and assessing the mess they'd made on the counter and floor.
"I don't need a messy love life. My life is complicated enough right now." Damian said, turning his head away from him.
"Damian..." Jon protested, hesitating before moving backwards to let him down from the counter.
"I'm going to bed. Put some antiseptic on that before the dressing. I'll find you a new place to stay tomorrow," he simply said, before slipping away into the apartment.
"Damian." He repeated to the empty room.
Jon stood alone and numb. Damian was gone, but the tension still filled him, flooding the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long while before he bent to tidy the equipment.
Later, alone in bed, Jon lay awake and confused. He'd made such a mess of everything. The argument with his dad, the whole Jay situation. Why had he even mentioned Jay to Jason? It had seemed such a clever way to hit 2 birds with 1 stone at the time.
And now he was developing a huge crush on someone he couldn't have.
Or could he? Gotham's time would be limited, but Damian would still be there.
Would he hate him when he found out?
He turned to the side, where the bed touched the wall between the two bedrooms.
He reached out his fingers to brush the smooth wall.
He was vaguely aware of murmurs from next door, as if Damian were on the phone with someone.
Not for the first time, he ached for his superpowers again.
Jon yawned, drifting. I'm glad he doesn't have a partner. I would hate to hear them through the wall. He stared at the plaster as if he could burn a hole through it.
Would someone hear us? Would we be loud or-?
Jon pulled himself out of his fantasy as quickly as he pulled his hand from his boxers. He flipped onto his back again, folding an arm over his eyes to block out the vision of Damian staring down at him like that.
He couldn't have him.
But wanted to, so so badly.
The sun set on the room. Jon's eyes remained open, staring. Fantasising. Plotting.
The room darkened to a dusky blue and two small red, flickering pinpricks remained.
He would find a way.
To keep him.