Chapter Text
It was just five days, Dick thought. What could possibly go wrong?
“We’re looking at a major threat,” said M’gann, addressing the Team. “The last time something like this happened, there was a major casualty. As you know, we lost Lodestar for six years.”
Dick blinked himself back to the present. Debrief. Focus.
M’gann looked to him; he picked up where she left off.
“Wrath, identity unknown, is not to be underestimated. He had access to a large amount of resources, likely his own,” he rattled off. “His last known base was in Gotham’s manufacturing district, though it was destroyed in a recent incident.
“There,” Dick continued, “Artemis and Lodestar learned of a ‘Project Flamebearer.’ We believed it to be a method of enhancing Lodestar’s abilities, but in light of the recent break-in, we have learned that Wrath is looking for a new meta-human to fill the role of Scorn.”
But the thing that bothered Dick most was how the League of Assassins “clued” you into the plot. Their intentions, as they often were, were so opaque.
And why did the Black Spider—
“Dick,” came M’gann’s telepathic voice.
“Lodestar is fine,” he said, firm enough to nearly convince himself. “She’s in a secure location.”
You were fine.
Oh, you were fine alright. Anyone would be fine stuck in a cabin for five days with Superboy.
M’gann elbowed him, this time.
“She’s really got a hold on you, huh?” The tickle of telepathy returned. Dick fought off the embarrassed flush.
You did. He wasn’t sure what exactly was happening to him.
It was five days. He needed to get his shit together— get his mind off the two of you.
The Team gathered in front of him murmured to each other. Gar and Bart snickered, Barbara put her hands on her hips. Karen and Mal both gave Dick a look.
La’gaan chortled. “Fun seeing our fearless leader flounder for once.”
“ Hilarious,” Dick said. “Let’s get back on topic, shall we?”
He was already thinking ahead.
He knew who he was going to question first.
Dick had a couple things to ask that friend of yours— Damon.
—
You ended up painting on the first day. Monday was spent outside at the lake on the property. Sure the dock was kinda rickety, but you managed.
It had been so long since you had the opportunity to be in nature, and just take in and capture the landscape.
Besides your portrait work, you mostly did minor mural commissions at your university, though it was typically for friends-of-friends or a coworker’s aunt— something like that, at least.
You started with blue, in broad washes across the canvas. You formed the shore in darker blocks, and the waters themselves in dappled greens and oranges, catching the light off the sun.
The image was forming, captured by your hands. You wondered if maybe Bruce would want this painting.
You laughed lightly to yourself at the thought.
Bruce was actually your first “ client.” You recall having an art show at your high school, right after meeting Robin for the first time.
It was a little gathering before a couple weeks of holiday break, and to your vast surprise, Bruce Wayne himself arrived. He looked so thoughtfully at the walls covered in murky paintings. He stood out like a sore thumb from the glancing parents.
You asked him why he was there. He asked if the wall-height drawing of the Gotham Public Library, consumed in a blaze, was from memory.
He tried to purchase it that night. You laughed at him. He said he wanted to check up on those who were at the scene of the attempt at arson, that day.
It wasn’t long after that Lodestar was born— taken from your mother’s callsign when she was a specialist, once working with the heroes of the last generation.
You supposed this was in your blood, like Dick, like Wally, like Artemis.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Your brush jolted, disrupting the pine tree you were halfway through painting.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” Conner said, coming to your side. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Jeez dude, give a girl a warning.” You batted at his arm. “Can you imagine if I jumped and ended up in the water?”
“I’d jump in after you, then.” He gave his sweet sort of smile. “What are friends for, anyway?”
You tipped your head back and laughed, even though it did touch you.
“Friends don’t scare friends into lakes,” you pointed at him with your paintbrush.
“If we’re not friends, then what are we?” Conner asked, a joke, and not quite a joke. He fit his hands into his jean pockets. “Anyway,” he said, and shook his head. “What’re you working on?”
You looked at him for a second longer— a wave of nervousness ebbed off Conner. But you brushed it off.
“I kept thinking about this view.” You turned back to the water, the pines leaning towards the shore, the colors over the surface of the lake.
“It’s beautiful,” Conner said. “You’ve always been good at… capturing what something looks like.”
“Thank you! I feel like I haven’t painted in forever.” You looked back at your canvas. You were satisfied with how the watercolors looked so far— you could bear to leave it for a bit.
“Can I make you lunch?
You smiled, letting all of that warm happy feeling in your chest spill out. “What do you want to make?”
“I don’t actually know, yet,” he said, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I haven’t thought that far.”
You stepped ahead, walking up the incline that trailed down to the dock. With a look over your shoulder, you held your hand out to him.
“C’mon, let’s go figure the day out.”
—
Dick had a surprisingly hard time trying to pin down where this Damon guy lived.
It came down to a Zeta and a drive out to his supposed family’s bakery, on the outskirts of Metropolis.
According to their website and decal painted across their big glass windows, they had the best donuts in the city.
… Dick supposed that he could pick up a dozen or two for the team— after he got some answers, of course.
The door rang when he entered, and a plump dark-haired woman looked up from behind the counter— Mrs. Enjolras.
“Oh, hello, honey, come right in! You’re one of the first to come in today, so you have it all to yourself.” She leaned an elbow on the counter.
Dick threw on his brightest smile, and approached the register. “Thank you, ma’am, but really I was curious about your son. He and I are in the same lectures, and—“
“I’m sorry, dear,” the lady said. “I haven’t heard from Damon in…” she sighed, “At least since classes started.”
“Since last September?”
“Yes.” She shook her head. “Our boy has always been a wanderer, but ever since his father passed, you know, he’s been so distant.”
Dick frowned. “I’m sorry for your loss. When did he pass away?“
“Oh, years ago now, honey. But it was very hard for him, you know, as an only child.”
That ruled out any other close family to check with.
“Thank you anyway, Mrs. Enjolras,” he said, putting on a concerned, thinking expression. “And if you don’t mind—“
“Donuts?” She smiled with a glint in her eye. “Of course. How many do you need?”
Dick laughed lightly. “ A lot. I’ve got a big family.”
“Then I’m glad Damon has you. He needs to make more good friends, if you ask me.” She wagged a finger at him.
He’s got one good friend, Dick knows that much. No one could ask for anyone better than the one and only you, if you asked him.
“So, how many dozens?”
Dick felt his smile fall. “Oh, boy.”
—
After some maneuvering and cooperation, Dick got all the dozens into his car, and he waved at Mrs. Enjolras with a cup of complimentary coffee keeping him warm.
He called you at the next stoplight.
“We’ll have to keep this quick,” he said.
“Sure thing— Conner, cut it out! I’m on the phone with Dick.” You were laughing on the other end. Giggling , bright and musical.
“I know,” Conner said, from somewhere by you.
Dick took a long drink of his coffee, hoping it would burn the sour taste from his mouth.
“Sorry,” you said, sounding contrite. “We’re trying to do the dishes but someone keeps throwing soap bubbles all over the place.”
“It’s fine.” No, it wasn’t. But he had to focus— failure, even a small one, was unacceptable at this point.
Even if he wanted to just hurry up and get to you in that remote little safe spot, far from the world.
The week had barely started, and he was already off kilter.
“So, what’d you find out?” you asked.
“Not much,” Dick said. He huffed, suddenly weary. “Just that his dad’s no longer in the picture and that he’s not a homebody.”
“Wait. Hold on a second. What about his dad?”
Dick stopped— the car, and himself. Red lights all around.
“He passed away. His mom told me that herself. Why?”
“Dick,” you said, sounding grave, “he told me his dad was alive. What about his older sister?”
“He was an only child. What do you mean?”
Things weren’t adding up, not in the slightest. But his bad feeling only got worse when he pulled into the tucked away alley, meant only to lead to the Zeta.
“Hiya, there. Sorry, delivery boy, but you can’t park there.”
The Black Spider sat upon the brick wall, content as ever. Any confusion was firmly replaced with the hard of competence. The focus before a fight.
“I’m gonna have to call you back.”
—
You weren’t really in a painting mood for the rest of the day.
Really, you spent most of the time since Dick hung up on you just sitting— thinking .
Damon lied to you. He wasn’t the person you thought he was. No matter how you looked at it, that was the only conclusion drawn.
It would be one thing to just not tell you; you understood that, avoiding the truth, but a blatant lie? Dead family members—worse, ones who had never existed in the first place?
You couldn’t go back to that peaceful little spot by the lake, for fear of all the feelings swirling in your head bleeding through your paintbrush.
This was supposed to be a happy place. A safe place.
You tucked yourself further into yourself from where you sat in the loft’s bay window seat, covered by blankets, cushioned with pillows.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Conner sat across from you. He had changed into his pajamas— you hadn’t even realized the sun had set. There was quite the difference between time zones. You barely noticed, with the Zeta.
“Damon was… He was the only friend I could keep at school. Everyone else didn’t understand how I couldn’t bear going out at night, or being in public in general,” you said.
He was quiet, looking out the window, at the great tranquil motion of the forest. You turned your gaze out as well.
You had to keep yourself grounded to what was real.
Blankets, pillow, the cool window pane. Trees, moon, sky.
Conner.
“Hey, do you want to watch that movie, or something?” he piped up— not without catching the way you stared at him.
“Oh, god. Yes please.”
After that, it was as simple as sitting by one of your oldest friends, feeling almost normal, if not for the thoughts in your head and the warmth on your skin, where Conner’s knee rested against yours.
He picked one out after a few minutes of scrolling, and some questioning check-ins with you. You didn’t really feel up for the typical sort of action flick, and the idea of horror made you chafe.
It was a little too easy to put on The Princess Bride.
Conner hummed. “I haven’t seen this in forever.”
“Really?”
His face, lit by the blue and yellow light of the screen, tugged at something in your chest. You couldn’t help but look at him.
He looked back at you, catching your gaze. “Not since…”
Not since before.
But still, you loved a classic love story.
“It was our movie. I couldn’t see it without you,” he said, and you melted.
“Oh,” you said, almost dumbly, “thanks.” But surely he meant our as in the team’s, right?
You all had a rotation of movies— typically watched after long nights of violence and worlds darker than you should have known.
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Star Wars, Sherlock Holmes. And after some coaxing, The Princess Bride.
You recalled that spat fondly, the boys’ exaggerated groaning later becoming engaged quiet throughout the film.
But on the screen, Buttercup realized something about her farmboy, and there was the pressure of an arm being draped around your shoulders.
And you turned to find Conner already looking at you.
“What’s wrong?” You smiled, a little nervous. “Is something on my face?“
You felt warm. Every part of you. He could probably hear your heartbeat, too, beyond it pounding in your ears.
You thought, for a moment, of when Dick did something similar—the electric sensation, the damn tingling, the butterflies.
But with Conner, it’s just warmth. Steady, unfaltering warmth.
And you couldn’t help but bathe in it.
His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to you. His expression was serious enough to almost make you laugh.
“With the face you’re making, I’m a little worried. Is there a spider on my forehead?” you joked, a bit softer.
Conner’s other hand came to your cheek, and with that touch brought his emotions, whirling in your head.
Affection. Admiration. And something brighter than that which skittered back into the darkness once you glanced over it.
And want. It sent flares down your spine.
“Is this alright?” He asked quietly, his voice low and rough.
“Yes,” you said. The movie was entirely forgotten— Buttercup could be cartwheeling down mountains and you wouldn’t look away from his startlingly blue eyes.
“Yes,” you repeated. Please, you didn’t say.
And he kissed you.
His lips were a little chapped, you’d admit. But they moved against yours with care, enough that you shivered in his touch.
That hand against your cheek fell to your shoulder, then your waist, only to lightly tug you closer.
You had seen him crush concrete walls and bend steel.
A quiet desperate noise came from his throat, and you couldn’t help but echo it. It was a rush of heady desire, of gentle, pawing touches.
You felt like a teenager again.
His mouth opened against yours, and he half-kissed-half-bit your lower lip. Before you knew it, his tongue was in your mouth, his strong hands rucking up the hem of your big sleep shirt. You whimpered at the heat of it, at the spit-slick slide.
He groaned in response, taking the opportunity to tug you into his lap.
“Is this alright?” Conner asked once more between sweet kisses, his eyes nearly black from his pupils.
“God, yes,” you whimpered, as he kissed down your jaw. It felt like yes was all you could say— just more, more, more.
It was instinctive, when you rolled against his hips, where you straddled his waist.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your neck. “Do that again, beautiful.“
It had been so long, too long, since anything half as good as this had happened. You barely had even done anything, and you two were already panting.
You did as commanded, throwing caution to the wind, and were rewarded with a harsh moan and his tented sweatpants being shoved against the crux of your thighs.
The sound that came out of you was high and humiliating— he grinded against a terribly sensitive spot, and from the devilish look in his eyes, he was going to do it again.
You could feel how wet you were.
Suddenly, you were horizontal on the couch, those hot hands sneaking up your shirt, clutching at your back.
“Conner, please .”
He grinded against you once more. And he sucked hard on a sensitive spot on your neck— the mixture of lust and guilt shot through your heart.
Why guilt, though? This was good. This was more than good. You hated to admit it, god forbid you even need something. Much less want it.
You wanted .
Didn’t you?
“What’s wrong?” He murmured, sounding almost intoxicated. “C’mon, talk to me, beautiful.”
You pulled back, taking in his expression. Affection, concern, desire .
“Nothing’s wrong, Con— don’t worry.”
He cradled your face in his hand. His palm was warm, his touch calloused but gentle.
“Let’s stop, then, okay?” Conner pressed a kiss to your forehead. “If this is gonna happen, I want you to be sure.”
He looked at you with a gentleness you couldn’t bear.
“I am sure,” you said. “Please, I want this. I—“
Oh, you embarrassed yourself, sometimes. You wanted, terribly. Unbearably.
“I want you,” you said.
Those were the magic words, it seemed.
“Lemme take care of you, okay?” He asked, laying kiss after kiss down your neck. Heat rushed up to your face, trailing down with each touch of his lips. “I’ll take care of you— give you what you need.”
“But what about you?” You nearly whimpered as his hands traveled back up your ribs, brushing against the bottom of your breast.
Conner whispered your name against your feverish flesh. “You don’t know how long I’ve been dying to do this. But…”
You gave a needy little sound as he played with the waistband to your pajama pants.
“I might have to take you up on that later, babe.”
—
Dick learned quickly that he really didn’t like Black Spider.
Mostly because he reminded him a bit too much of himself.
“C’mon, you’re gonna have to be a bit faster than that,” he quipped, darting away on a web. “Thought Nightwing would be a bit… Better ?”
Dick, palming his escrima sticks, tried to keep his glower off his face, but knew it still showed in his eyes.
“What a glare. Did you learn it from star-bound Batman? Or maybe the butler did it.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, c’mon, you don’t mean that, bird boy. You’ve got questions, and you seem to think I’ve got answers.”
He did have questions, he got that right. But he knew he could get it out of this pest.
“Aren’t you tired of all this talk? I’m starting to think that’s all you are,” Dick said, while scaling the wall of the alley way, catching with one hand the discarded line of web. With a heave, he flew through the air.
“Trying to estimate me, are you?” His shit-eating grin was clear, between the grit of his teeth and the stretch of his mask. It was made worse by the way he grappled just out of Dick’s reach.
Yeah, no. Way too much like himself.
He twisted midair like a cat, his escrima stick flying, smacking Black Spider in the back of the head.
He fell from the air, landing appropriately like a dead bug on the concrete, face first.
“Am I still underwhelming? Or are you just whelmed ?” Dick couldn’t help his smile.
Dick landed in a roll, and ended up in a crouch over the dazed Spider.
“C’mon,” he said, “Bird got your tongue?”
“Fuck you.” Black Spider groaned.
He grabbed him by the scruff of his dark costume, pulling him to snarl in his face. “No, fuck you. Y’know why?“
“Sorry, sir, didn’t mean to fuck your girlfriend. She just likes me,” Spider warbled, annoying as ever.
“That attitude,” Dick gritted out. “It’s gonna get you killed. I’ve seen it before.”
“Like Jason Todd?”
The anger almost blindsided him, laced with grief.
With a handful of cloth, he pulled off Black Spider’s mask, revealing mousy brown hair, a bloody nose, and a red-toothed grin.
“Hey, Dick,” he said.
“Hey, Damon.”