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Jon’s body is both heavier and lighter than Damian expects.
There is no give to his form, even as he is carried through the halls of one of Ra's al Ghul's compounds. One of many that hold in its shadowy depths the elixir of life that he’s chased every day since.
All resistance within the stone walls has been nullified. They are little more than husks of bodies. Rheumy, lifeless eyes staring skyward before they even registered their existence has reached a swift conclusion. Though, it is not their fault. To be stationed as a guard of a Lazarus Pit is an honor amongst the League, but it is always a short-lived assignment.
Even shorter now. Damian did not want their interference, and so he ensured there would be none. He did not want word to reach back to Ra's that Damian had ever set foot on these island sands. His soles had never kissed the stones he now carries Jon over.
It is a weakness—it is always a weakness. The inexorable conclusion to attachment. Death, reigning all powerful over life. Jon always overflowed with it. He was destined, as all good things are, to pass early. To have his life’s thread cut short by fate. Villains, evil, darkness. They are eternal. As Ra's is. As the al Ghuls are. As Damian is. He will always come back.
And Jon– Jon would not.
Clark, Bruce, Richard, they would warn him off of this path if they knew. Clark would take his son's body back and reinter him beneath that horrid slab of memorial stone. Clark accepts the loss, understands it and the inevitability. He has already mourned and will continue to do so for the rest of his life. The what should have been, the what could have been, of his son's future.
Damian is not him. He does not, can not, accept this. Before him is the chamber, its stone arches and vaulted ceiling, the wavering reflection of glowing green waters dance across it as a whispered promise.
These are the same waters that have once before brought Damian back from his year spent in hell. A different location, but the same demonic source. They will also bring back Jon. Perhaps not exactly the same, not at first, but the effects will surely wear thin once he’s brought beneath the yellow sun.
Bruce, his father, would ask him to consider the consequences of this action. He would speak as if teaching or guiding, that same tone he used when Damian still wore the Robin's crest on his heart. Is this what Jon would want? Would he want to return if it meant coming back not as himself? Would Jon be able to heal from any harm he causes while recovering from the resurrection?
Damian has already considered all facets of what he is about to do. Within a lead-lined pouch he carries the same Kryptonite that had killed him the first time. He will keep it near, only pull it out when, if necessary. Jon will not harm anyone. There is no one else save him and Damian alive on this mile stretch island.
And as to what Jon would want—he is dead, his opinions can matter again once his heart is beating.
Then he can yell at Damian. Rant and rave and throw his fit. Jon can hate him, if that is what it takes. At least he is alive to do it, taking breath under the same sky, beneath the same sun.
With feet bare, Damian takes the first step down into the pool. The green waters wash over his ankles, carrying away the weariness in his muscles. Another step, down to his shins, soaking the fabric of his bakama. It wipes clean the scrapes and bruises from his battle against the Pit's guardians.
The blood however, it lingers. It clings, already dried and forming a crust.
Richard might understand better than Clark or Bruce what Damian is about to do. He has a streak of rage within him so thinly veiled, balanced only by an empathy just as vast. Richard understands Damian through this lens. They understand each other’s motivations in ways nobody else but Jason might.
He has nearly killed the Joker for what he has done, he has drawn so close to vicious acts without pulling the trigger so often. He would warn him off, but Damian believes, in the most sincere part of his mind, he would understand this need. What is the death of a few dozen League of Assassins members if it is to bring back someone that you hold in higher regard than yourself?
Up to the hip, Jon’s body is held just above the waterline.
This is his final opportunity to turn back. Damian's last chance to accept what fate has dealt and return what he has dug from the grave.
He only hesitates a moment. Then bends, slowly submerging Jon in the Lazarus waters.
It isn't until he's fully under, pallid face obscured, black curls fanning out around him in a halo–
Eyes snap open to reveal pupils flickering a dim red. Jon’s chest expands, his ribs and back flex over Damian's fingers.
Finally, finally, finally, Damian exhales.
Awkwardly, Jon stands, getting his feet beneath him. He is unfamiliar with his rejuvenated body.
Damian's hands fall from his skin, but hover near, not quite yet dropping to his sides.
Jon's skin blooms with color; blood pumping pink and rosy beneath his cheeks, eyes no longer lifeless and cloudy. Fingers curl and uncurl, working through the rigor.
Perhaps it's hope that prevents him from seeing it coming, or simply the superspeed that he's always found himself underestimating. Or the strength that Jon has never used for anything other than the greater good.
A hand wraps around Damian's throat before he can react. Squeezing with just shy of enough force to crush his windpipe.
“What did you do? What did you do?” Jon is pushing, stepping forward with a jolt into Damian’s space. There is so much emotion. An unbridled rage the likes of which he's never seen on the other's face before.
But it's something. It's everything.
Damian can't explain himself though. He can't answer the one question being asked on repeat. He’s already flicking open the pouch on his hip, fumbling fingers wrapping around the short blade’s handle. The flat edge presses against Jon's bare skin, so carefully. He can’t– won't hurt him again.
The grip on Damian slackens immediately. Prying the hand the rest of the way off, Damian clutches at it, fingers entwined—his lifeline—and proceeds to lead Jon's unsteady frame from the green waters. Quickly, urgently, up the three stone steps, puddles of water all that are left in their wake.
Jon is weakened, that much is clear. The underexposure to the sun while entombed beneath the earth, the Kryptonite in his proximity, the after effects of resurrection.
Where Damian had come back temporarily stronger, Jon has come back weaker.
Hopefully, this too will pass.
He’s speaking to himself. Mumbling under his breath, a repetitive mantra of whos and whats and whys. His feet drag, catching on the lips of stone, eyes lingering on the crumpled heaps of bodies that Damian has left to get them to this point.
Get Jon into the sun.
That is all that Damian’s concerning himself with. Neither the lump in his throat nor the tightness in his chest matter.
Get Jon into the sun.
Get him off this demon’s forsaken island, get him home.
Jon collapses as they exit from the palatial building. He falls to his knees and curls his fingers into the loam. Damian can't do much more than stand before him, his own fingers curling uselessly around the piece of a dead home world in his hand. Watching wearily as Jon’s shoulders heave and a shiver runs down his spine.
“The effects should be short-term, since this is your first time in the Pit.” Damian finally says, his tone disaffected. Neutral. He is a hollow man, tears long since wrung dry. Any tightness of his lungs, any sharp feeling behind his eyes, it is… inconsequential.
Bowed head raising, Jon looks at him. “Why..? Damian?”
Blue eyes aren’t so blue, they are stained the same horrid, acidic green that Damian sees whenever he looks into the mirror.
Damian hopes that will wane as well, at least to something softer and more indicative of Jon. Perhaps a seafoam shade or a teal—it’s too much to wish for that cloudless shade of the sky to return in full.
“I am sorry. I never intended…” Damian looks away from Jon’s wet eyes and plastered down hair. He thought that he could handle this. But seeing Jon alive once again, the numbness rattles restlessly beneath his skin. Inhaling the saltwater air, he finds himself whispering just above the crash of waves and the call of seabirds. “You were not supposed to die. I am making right a wrong.”
“You…” Jon starts. He’s pushing himself up, trying to get his feet beneath his body to stand. It takes a moment, the sun’s rays have only just begun to work their magic into his cells. He is awkward with his limbs, a newly born calf taking his first steps. “You killed me.”
“Yes,” he confirms without argument. Without self-defense.
Jon's eyes clench shut. He shakes his head, and the spattered water droplets hit Damian. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t otherwise react. He needs to let Jon work through his own memory of events. Allow him to draw his conclusions. If he would hold a grudge for what was done to subdue him, so be it.
Finally managing to stand under his own power, Jon’s shoulders immediately curl inward. Slumped. Defeated. “My solar flare… I nearly exploded again.”
“Yes,” Damian agrees once more. There’s no point in sugar-coating the event or lessening either of their parts. A spike of emotion after witnessing an innocent’s murder. A near city-leveling explosion to rival a nuclear bomb. Mitigated by the blade he now slips into its sheath. Damian hadn’t meant for the wound to end his life; just as Jon hadn’t meant to do what he’d done.
Accident compounding on accident compounding on accident.
He had to make it right, he had to do everything in his power as an al Ghul to undo this wrong they've wrought unto each other.
“I’m dangerous.” Jon reaches his conclusion and stumbles back. Away from Damian, as if he could hurt him again. “You should’ve let me stay dead. Should’ve–” He only makes it two steps before tripping once more over his feet. He falls again, and Damian can only watch.
Tears well up in those wide eyes then spill over, his broad chest heaves with so much emotion. “Damian… why?”
Damian kneels, wet pants clinging, coated in sand. He softens his tone, or tries to. “I can live with a lot of things. But I can't live with your death on my conscience, Jonathan.”
Jon curls into himself further now that Damian’s level with him. His back curves, knees bending stiffly so that he can press his forehead to them. Somehow, he manages to make his large frame small, even as his words cut straight to Damian's core. “Your conscience or your family's disappointment?”
Something within Damian shudders. It rattles irritably in the confines of his ribcage, twists and writhes like some monstrous beast–
He squeezes the Lazarus green creature in a white knuckled fist. Strangling. Suffocating. Smothering. Do not lash out at Jon. He may strike at Damian, that is fine. Acceptable, even.
He deserves nothing less—for someone who knows anatomy as well as he, knows where to strike to injure rather than kill, has trained in that art for a lifetime, it's shameful what he's done.
And he is so deeply ashamed, not angry. The Pit may not distort this fact within him.
Damian forces an exhale and loosens the tight grip rested atop his thigh. “My family is entirely irrelevant. This was for me.” Selfish monster, vile creature. “Stand up. I’ll take you home to your mother and father. They miss you.”
Standing in a single, fluid movement, he reaches back down to offer a hand, waiting for Jon to take it.