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It's funny the places your brain goes when you're about to die.
It's like it's making up for lost time; gotta visit all the weird places at least once while there's still a chance. Jon's takes him to the public library, trying not to fall asleep on his book. He was helping Kathy revise for the school spelling bee, but it was 11pm, his glasses were cutting into his nose and he'd been staring unseeingly at the same useless word for the last twenty minutes. Now he's surprised he even remembers it.
The dictionary defines defenestration as the act of throwing someone out of a window.
Definitely not his favorite word.
The glass shatters, and Jon's brain kicks into super speed on instinct, a last-ditch attempt to save his life.
Too late.
Everything slows to a crawl; the shards splay lazily outward, ocean spray frozen to ice. Jon can see his own wide eyes reflected in them as they twist in slow motion. Then the toybox city one hundred stories below snaps into focus. Jon looks left, and sees Damian suspended in open air, face caught in an animal snarl.
And his grapnel gun slipping from the tips of his fingers. Out of reach.
Oh my God, Damian's going to die.
The world roars back to life and they're flung far out into abyss; too far to reach the other buildings - oh God Damian's going to -
Jon drops like a stone.
The wind screams greedily in his ears. He tries to open his eyes, but the world is just a whirl of color and noise and force that's trying to peel his face off. Beside him, Damian flaps his cape, trying to catch air and slow his descent. Poor, flightless bird.
Three seconds ...
Jon wonders how much it will hurt. Will he crack like the window? Or split like a banana? For a wild second, he wonders what Kryptonian pancakes tasted like.
Damian screams. Jon didn't know he could do that.
What if he doesn't die? What if he walks it off like Dad always does, and all that's left is a crater and a smear on the sidewalk that used to be his friend?
Two seconds ...
What if he doesn't want to walk away? No, don't do that, Dad says never do that. The good guys always win, Jon, you have to believe that. And if we're losing, we keep fighting until we stop.
Jon forces his eyes open, and watches his best friend tumble to his death in slow motion. He looks like a penguin with its butt on fire. Jon grits his teeth. That does it.
No way he's letting Damian die without getting to make fun of him for how stupid he looks.
One second ...
Jon reaches out, grabs Damian by the cape and draws him close, wrapping his own body round him. It's not hard. He's so small.
Jon closes his eyes and wishes on a star. The ground rushes up to meet them -
And the wind howls in frustration as they shoot sideways, an inch off the floor.
Jon's eyes snap open; one sneaker skids along the sidewalk as pedestrians throw themselves out of the way. He screams and waves the arm that's not wrapped around Damian for people to move. They rocket off at an angle, barely missing an old lady and her shopping; Jon lifts his head to look back and see if she's okay, and it's like he's lit a booster rocket beneath his feet. They arc into the the sky, faster than -
Well, faster than a speeding bullet.
Jon hears Damian scream for the second time in ten seconds.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
Jon can't even breathe. The wind shrieks like an emergency siren in his ears; mayday, mayday...
"I don't know! It just kind of happened, and -"
"No, not that! That's obvious! I'm talking about your technique!"
"What?"
"Your technique is awful - bring your body upright and get a hold of yourself!"
(Stop, OK, stop, there's no way you're letting Damian be better at flying than you. Swing your hips round and -)
They curve off gently, and hang in midair. The roar of the wind drops away to nothing. Cloud curls around Jon's sneakers like cotton candy. Everything is bathed in golden light and peaceful, feather silence; without focusing, all Jon can hear is his own heavy breathing. And Damian's. He's curled into Jon's shoulder like a cat with its claws dug in.
"You OK?" Jon manages. Damian raises his head just enough to glare at him.
"Do I look 'OK'?"
Jon decides it would be safer not to answer this.
"How do you know so much about flying?"
Damian huffs.
"You seem to forget I could fly once too. The son of Batman never forgets a skill. I was a damn sight better at it than you, too."
"Oh, I'm sorry, next time I'll just let you splat on the sidewalk!"
"Speaking of which," Damian says impatiently, "When are we going back down?"
"Oh, right."
Jon glances down and almost has a heart attack. From this high up, he can put his pinky over the whole of downtown. Sure, he's been flying with Dad before, but that was different. Someone else was in the driver's seat. Now Jon is stuck behind the wheel, and he's very conscious that he doesn't have a license.
"Ahem." Damian coughs pointedly.
Right.
Jon takes a few steadying breaths. He feels like a diver poised on the high board, with everything frozen at the moment before he jumps. How does Dad do it? One arm out in front; that's for steering, like the rudder on the boat they take out for family fishing trips. Jon sticks his arm out experimentally. Damian swears in Arabic and scrambles closer to his chest.
It's getting really hard not to notice how different he smells. Exotic fruits and spices better than anything from a store -
Focus.
Jon makes a tentative jab downward. The descent is choppy; less like an elevator and more like a ride at the fair, but Jon finds he quite likes the tickly feeling in his stomach.
Thirty feet up, ten feet, two feet -
"Here ya go." Jon announces grandly. "Thanks for flying Air Krypton, please remember to take all your belongings and keep your trays in the upright positio ...." He glances up and Damian's breath beats on his face. He's still breathing hard; Jon doesn't need super hearing to feel his heartbeat through his uniform -
When exactly did they get this close?
Their eyes meet, and Damian seems to realize Jon has him in the bridal position the same instant he does. He kicks out and drops to the floor, saying some more colorful things in Arabic.
"Don't ever manhandle me like that again." he warns, "What if someone saw? I have a reputation to maintain!"
Privately, Jon thinks the more damage he can do to Damian's 'reputation' the better. The guy isn't going to make people like him if he's best known for being BFFs with a giant man-bat that uses Killer Croc as a chew toy.
"Stop showing off," Damian snaps, glancing angrily at the empty space between Jon's shoes and the floor like it's paid him personal insult, then way up to the broken window they'd just smashed through, "Intergang is long gone; we need to get to their safe-house in Keystone before the trail goes cold."
Jon is about to drop to the floor and punch him in the shoulder not-too-lightly for being a jerkface, when he runs into a small problem.
"I can't."
He twists in midair so he's hanging upside down, and points an arm at the floor.
Nothing.
Uh-oh.
Jon starts jabbing frantically downward, but all this does is spin him around in circles.
"What do you mean you can't?" Damian scowls.
"I mean I can't, I-" Jon flails his arms and legs, but it's like he's trying to swim through Jell-O, "I can't get to the floor, gravity's gone wrong!" He manages to touch the asphalt with one finger, but all this does is push him upward, and then he keeps going. Jon twists round so he's facing the sky and the sun.
He wonders if he'll just keep floating until he reaches it.
Blind panic engulfs him; he starts kicking wildly but there's nothing to hit, he's drifting away like an astronaut with his tether cut, he's seen this movie way to many times -
Something yanks him back down; he looks and sees Damian with one finger hooked round his shoelace.
"Calm down." he says.
"You calm down!" Jon yells. He's hyperventilating, which Mom's told him is never a good sign, but oh God - "I can't control my powers, I can't switch them off, I'm just gonna float away and -"
"No," says Damian firmly, reeling him in, grabbing his ankle, "you're not."
Jon laughs hysterically.
"But what if I can't ever get down? What if I just -"
"Oh, stop your complaining!" Damian roars, then, more quietly, "I always knew you were a lightweight."
Jon's train of thought derails. Error, error, Damian Wayne + joke, does not compute. System reboot commencing ...
"What?!" he sputters.
"Well, I've been saying for years that you're a complete airhead."
Jon stares at him. He even forgets to panic.
"That was a joke." Damian clarifies, "Grayson says they help when people are stressed." Jon bursts out laughing. Damian can't decide whether to be embarrassed or pleased. "See, it's working."
"No, that's not why I -" Jon gasps for breath and wipes a tear from his eye, "jeez, Damian, take some friendly advice and stick to killing things. Torture really isn't your style."
"You'd be surprised," mutters Damian, in that voice he uses when he's trying to be all broody and misunderstood. Jon's having none of it.
"Well, not anymore it's not." he says firmly, "you won't be able to torture anyone because I'll be too busy teaching you what a joke is."
Damian looks like he's not sure what to do with this.
"Are you insulting my sense of humor?"
"I would be, if there was anything there to insult."
"Well, I could just let go..."
Jon twists like an eel and grabs a fistful of Damian's hair (another Arabic curse), then his shoulders, pulling himself so close their foreheads press together. The smirk drops off Damian's face and his eyes go impossibly wide, but for once Jon meets his gaze head-on (don't blush, don't blush, don't blush -) because anything is better than looking up, at the blue void yawning cold and empty beneath his feet.
"Don't. You. Dare." he growls. Damian's pupils go to pinpricks. There's some black, flecked in with the green of his irises, like a forest canopy at midnight. Jon's never been close enough to notice.
Damian forces a cocky smile.
"Only if you promise to behave like a good little Superboy."
He offers Jon his left forearm, which he takes gratefully, allowing himself to drift away so they're no longer close enough to share breaths. With his free hand, Damian fishes a communicator from his belt and puts it on speaker. He dials Dick, who picks up second ring.
"Sup, Big D?"
Jon snorts. Damian pinches the bridge of his nose.
"First, a plea for you to never call me that again."
"That's fine, I've got plenty more Jon hasn't heard yet."
They both go rigid.
"How do you know he's - never mind, I called because we've just lost Intergang in Metropolis," he taps a button on the communicator, "I'm sending you the coordinates of their other safe-houses."
"Received. OK, nearest one's in Keystone; I'll wrangle up the Titans. You want in? 'Cause we'll have to move fast now they know you're on to them."
Damian glances up at Jon with indecision in his eyes, and he knows what's going to happen. What always happens. With Damian, the mission always comes first.
No excuses.
Jon imagines himself tethered to a fire hydrant by some bat-rope, like a lost puppy. He manages to meet Damian’s eyes and nods, trying not to let the nerves show, because now it feels like the gravity inside his body has betrayed him too, and everything in his stomach is floating around in a liquid ball like you see in space movies -
(OK, you're rambling, you can stop rambling now.)
Damian's still watching him, calculating. It's hard to tell.
"It's OK. You can go." Jon says, and then wishes he hadn't because he sounds like a scared kid.
He is. He forgets that sometimes, when he's with Damian.
Blue never seemed like such an icy color, even in sunshine. He can feel the open maw waiting beneath his feet.
"Damian?" Dick asks, and finally Damian smirks, that same smirk Jon can never decide belongs in nightmares or daydreams.
"I'm afraid I can't, Grayson. Personal crisis. I'll have to trust you and your team," he lingers on the word (two brothers, two super teams, sibling rivalry, it's a thing.) "not to screw it up."
Dick is only surprised for a second.
"O ... K," he says smoothly, "Honored, I'm sure."
"Oh, you should be. Keep me informed."
He signs off, and now it's Jon's turn not to know what do with the silence.
"Uh ... Thanks."
Damian’s eyes sparkle, and green never seemed like such a warm color.
"Well," he says brusquely, "I can't have you floating off into the nether. Much as I'm loathe to admit it, you are my chief asset."
Heat floods Jon's cheeks.
"I'm your chief what?"
It takes a second for Damian to cotton on, then his mouth drops in horror.
"NO! Not like that, you - it's a technical term!"
Jon is seriously considering letting go of Damian's arm just to escape.
"Sure it is."
"Well I'm sorry if they haven't got around to teaching you what 'asset' means in kindergarten yet -" Damian blurts, looking very flustered. Jon is actually starting to enjoy himself, but he can't let him know that.
"If it's only a technical term, then why are you blushing?" he asks accusingly, and is delighted when Damian's cheeks flare up even further.
"Because I'm embarrassed to be associated with such an uneducated hick!"
"Just because I haven't swallowed the dictionary whole -"
"Do you think you'll float straight up, or drift with the wind?" Damian wonders. His grip slips just a little.
"Oh, go on, I dare you ..."
...
Joe Shuster has been selling ice cream in Metropolis for twenty years. It's not what you'd expect when you hear the words 'steady business', but Joe is proud of his little cart, standing on the corner of Siegel and Donner Avenue, come rain or shine. He likes to think he's part of the furniture, that there's a little corner of local history with Shuster's Quality Ices stamped on it.
And of course, this being the Big Apricot, Joe's seen a few things in his time. Giant robots, alien spaceships, a mahoosive storm of ghosts. Weird things. But ol' Joe is part of the furniture, so he's used to it by now.
So when he's left speechless by two kids walking down the street, that's a helluva thing.
Helluva thing.
One is short and lean, with some kind of technicolor ninja get-up. His hair looks like it's been through a wind tunnel, and glitters with broken glass. He's towing the other kid along on a short rope, like a balloon bobbing down the street. Joe recognizes this other kid; it's Superboy, the big guy's son. He looks quite cheerful, bickering with his chaperone like they're an old married couple.
They approach his stand (man, why does he always gets the weirdos?) and the ninja kid (Ho-ly Moses, that's Robin) slaps down way too many bills.
"One scoop of Rum and Raisin, one scoop of Vanilla," he demands, like he's ordering the best whiskey at a bar. Superboy groans.
"Aw, vanilla? Ugh, I had Rainbow X-plosion last time, that was great."
"It also made you so hyper you lapped the city three times and wore holes in your sneakers," Robin sneers, "And I am not being attached to that when you have an built-in tow cable." he brandishes the rope tying them together.
"That'll be $6.50," Joe says mechanically, surprised he can form multi-syllable words. Superboy floats down and plucks his vanilla from Joe's hand. The hand stays there for a second, not sure what to do.
"Keep the change," Robin says dismissively. Superboy rolls his eyes at Joe and mouths 'showoff' like they're sharing a private joke. Joe manages a weak smile. He hopes he doesn't look too crazy.
"Come on, walkies," coos Robin, tugging on the line. Superboy sticks out his tongue.
"You're so not funny. And boring."
He sighs mournfully and gives his vanilla a cursory lick, caught up in dreams of what could've been.
"I could eat my ice cream with both hands," Robin suggests, "that would be both new and hilarious. For me."
"Boys," comes a voice from above, and Superman descends from the sky, haloed the noon-day sun. Because of course he does.
"Hey, Dad," says Superboy, waving his cone. A bit of ice cream dribbles onto Robin's shoulder, who regards it like bird guano, "Glad you got my message."
"Yes." Superman nods gravely, "Jon, you thirteen now. You're becoming a grown man. Your body is going through a lot of intense changes. This will be a very confusing time for you." Superboy looks horrified. He tries to back away, but Robin seems quite happy to hold him in place for further torture.
"Dad -"
"It's time," said Superman, with the air of an ax-man about to swing, "to have The Talk."
Superboy whimpers. His eyes flit between his father and Robin and with the air of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Robin just smiles, and Joe swears that grin will give him nightmares for months.
Superman laughs.
" - time to have the talk about the second stage of your power development!"
Relief floods Superboy's face. Robin looks like a kid who's had his Christmas presents stolen from under the tree.
"Do you have any idea how proud I am? Superman continues, "your first flight! I'm only sorry it was under such strenuous circumstances, that's probably why your body's over-compensating and you can't shut down, but we’ll get you to the Fortress and fix that. It's a shame your mother and I weren't there to see it; I remember a strong emotional connection with my parents being a huge help in focusing my fist time. Although," and here he studies Robin interestedly, whose chest immediately puffs out defensively, "I see you've found something just as good. You want to come in with us, son?" he addresses Robin directly.
The kid freezes. His eyes fix on Superboy, who looks equally uncertain. There's something in Robin's eyes as he takes in the space between his feet and the ground - Joe is reminded of the time his granddaughter lost her favorite toy, and had to watch as all the other kids play with theirs when she couldn't.
"I'd better be going," he says, ignoring Superboy's look of dismay, "Nightwing is waiting to debrief me in Keystone City. We were solving a case before your son so rudely interrupted." He hands Superman the rope attached to his son, Joe blinks and he's vanished.
Superboy stares off wistfully into empty space. Superman coughs.
"You know, if 'developing powers' isn't the only Talk we need to have..."
Superboy goes white as a sheet.