Chapter Text
Ever since the Kryptonian invasion swept across most of Earth, Gotham had barely managed to hold itself together under the pressure of alien occupation. After his escape from krypton’s captivity, His family made the decision—one he didn’t protest—that it was no longer safe for him to remain in the city.
Not after everything.
So Damian agreed to stay with his mother and the League of Assassins.
The sun kissed the sand with the dying glow of fire, setting the desert ablaze in hues of copper and honey. Damian Wayne stood still at the edge of the market, the long folds of his black cloak billowing gently in the warm breeze. His keffiyeh hood hung low, shadowing his face. Around his neck, a pendant with a purple gem—designed to prevent a certain Kryptonian from hearing his heartbeat—glinted softly in the fading light.
Children ran past him, giggling. A young girl handed him a woven bracelet, not knowing—or caring—that the boy before her was the heir of the Bat. Not caring that there was a price on his head from the new leader of Krypton.
He wore it on his wrist without a word.
His hair was longer now—silky black waves cascading past his shoulders, catching the sun like ink kissed by fire. He had hoped that growing it out would help him avoid recognition. But he couldn’t help noticing how much more he resembled his mother now. He had always assumed that as he aged, he would grow into his father’s features. Yet it was his mother’s face he saw in every reflection—in water, in polished blades.
The market buzzed softly with life behind him. The air was thick with spices—cumin, turmeric, cloves. Bread baked in open ovens. A woman sang as she ground beans, her voice like smoke curling through the warm air.
And yet, Damian felt the prickle of something colder.
The phantom of eyes.
He hadn’t seen Jon in six months.
Six months since the bloodied chaos of the Watchtower Peace Talks. Six months since Nightwing and Batman had fought Jon to distract him during the rescue, while Kon flew Damian half-conscious back to earth, Kryptonian warships in pursuit. Six months since John Stewart brought his father and brother safely to Earth before the Watchtower collapsed.
Six months since Damian had been breathing Earth’s air like it might vanish.
And still, he hadn’t stopped looking.
Jon Kent—once his beloved, in the half-hidden way boys like them carried impossible feelings behind training sessions and whispered midnight talks.
Now Jon was the main general and ruler of a broken planet—an orphan, a tyrant, Zod’s greatest disciple. And Damian was the only thing he had ever taken and failed to keep.
Damian could feel it in the wind—Jon’s reach spreading. Krypton had swallowed Los Angeles last month. London had fallen last week. Metropolis completely controlled by the Kryptonians as their new main base. The Bat-Family remained on the frontlines, fighting shadows and gods, while Damian hid in palaces and deserts.
He hated it. Hated the distance. Hated that Jon had touched him, held him, spoken to him like he still loved him—only to lock him away like a prize and brand him with the House of El's symbol, burned into his chest.
He picked up a pomegranate from a stand and rolled it in his palm—red like a heart, like Krypton’s shattered sun.
The League had warned him not to come here today. Said scouts had seen Kryptonian drones in the outer sands. Said he was being watched.
But he came anyway.
This was the only place that still felt human.
The music began softly, like a secret being told from rooftop to rooftop. At first, Damian thought it was the wind playing tricks—low, aching notes of a sarangi weaving through the chatter and footsteps of the marketplace. Then the beat of tabla joined in, steady and warm, and a voice, aged like wine and dust, began to sing.
“
Maula mere, maula mere...
Maula mere, maula mere...
”
The sound echoed against the stone walls, blooming like a prayer into golden air.
A festival was beginning.
Damian watched as lanterns were lit and strung between vendor stalls. Cloths of red, gold, and turquoise were pulled from crates and hung like banners. The scent of roasting lamb and burning incense mingled in the breeze. Children painted their palms with henna. Old men laughed over card games. Women spun with coins at their waists and jasmine in their hair.
He hadn’t known there would be a festival today.
Or maybe he had forgotten what time meant—what days meant—in exile.
He stayed near the edge of it all. Close enough to feel it. Far enough to not belong.
The music kept playing, the singer's voice curling through him like something once familiar, now sharpened by loss.
“Tere dar pe saja,
Main jahan le ke aaya hoon…”
Damian closed his eyes. The lyrics hit deeper than expected.
He remembered the first time he shared the song with his beloved —years ago in Metropolis, on a warm evening that bled into midnight. He had one earbud in, trying to make Jon listen while Jon studied for midterms.
“You’re just scared you’ll like it,” Damian teased. “Bet you didn’t think I had taste.”
“ I didn't know you love to listen to romance songs Habibi,” Jon said very lovelyly. As he stared into his soul.
Jon loved it. Loved that Damian was vulnerable enough to share something sacred, something cultural, with him.
That night, there was no war. No legacy. Just music. Just stars. Jon had hummed along, off-key and soft, their heads so close their hair had touched.
Damian hadn’t thought about that night in months. Maybe because it hurt. Maybe because he was trying not to miss someone who no longer existed.
A group of dancers spun in the center of the square, skirts flaring like desert flowers. Someone handed Damian a warm cup of tea. A child tugged on his cloak, asking him to join.
He declined with a quiet smile.
But he stayed.
He let the song wash over him like sand and memory.
He let himself feel it.
Just for a moment.
He could still hear Jon humming. Still see the city lights. Still feel the brush of fingers against his wrist when neither of them were brave enough to speak.
“Maula mere, maula mere...”
The sun dipped lower, staining the sky in fire.
And Damian stood there, cloaked in shadows and silk, a ghost in the middle of joy, mourning something he couldn’t name.
Not love. Not exactly.
But something close.
As the last verse faded into the desert wind, the village lit up in full—lanterns glowing like tiny suns, dancing in doorways and hanging from rooftops. The festival roared to life behind him, but Damian was already moving toward the stables, pulling the edge of his hood up against the cooling air.
Goliath waited for him in the shade of a palm tree, head bowed low and massive wings half-tucked. The beast had grown older, slower, but just as loyal. He nuzzled into Damian's hand with a low huff, like a chiding parent. Too long. Too exposed.
“I know,” Damian muttered, mounting easily. “We’re leaving.”
The ride back to the palace was quiet—no birds, no wind, just the flap of leathery wings over silent dunes. The sun had vanished below the horizon by the time the palace came into view: a jagged silhouette carved into sandstone, lit from within by flickering torches. The League had buried it deep in the desert, beyond satellite scans, shielded by ancient technology and al Ghul defenses.
But Damian still felt exposed.
And he wasn’t sure why.
They landed at the rear terrace, where the heat of the day still clung to the stone. Two League guards bowed without speaking as he passed. The halls smelled of jasmine and oil lamps. Familiar. Safe.
But something in his chest coiled tighter with every step.
He found her in the dining room, sitting at the long, low table, back straight, hands folded. Talia al Ghul didn’t look up when he entered—she already knew he was there.
“You were late,” she said quietly.
Damian pulled back his hood. “There was a festival in the village.”
Her gaze lifted then, sharp and unreadable. Her beauty had only deepened with age—deadly, elegant, controlled. She studied him like a puzzle with too many pieces.
“That was foolish.”
“They know not to touch me.”
“I’m not concerned about them,” she said, voice cool but tight at the edges. “There are whispers in the outer posts. The desert is stirring. Eyes we haven’t seen in years.”
Damian moved to sit across from her, dragging off his gloves and placing them beside his plate. “I know. I felt it.”
Talia paused, then leaned forward slightly. “Was it him?”
Damian didn’t answer.
She didn’t need him to.
Her fingers curled against the tablecloth. “You shouldn’t have gone alone.”
“I needed the air.”
“And if he finds you again?” she asked, her voice sharper now. “Do you think the Bat will come crashing through the stars again to save you? The League will not survive a war for one boy, Damian.”
“I never asked you to.”
“No,” she said softly. “But I am your mother. I will.”
The silence that followed was not warm. It was thick, coiled with things left unsaid.
Dinner was served—bowls of lentils, rice, roasted dates. Damian ate quietly, eyes drifting toward the terrace where stars were beginning to emerge over the dunes.
Behind him, hushed voices rose from the servants. Their words were sharp, urgent. Something about Kryptonians conquering more cities. Taking entire countries now.
Talia silenced them with a single glare, her voice calm and ice-cold.
“I said not in front of my son.”
She was afraid. Afraid that the war would pull him in. That he’d join his father and the Justice League. That she’d lose him all over again.
Now the moon shone brightly in the sky, casting silver light over the palace grounds.
In his quarters, Damian lay sprawled across his bed in loose white clothing, a sketchpad balanced on his lap. The faint scratching of pencil on paper was the only sound in the room. He was trying to recreate a scene from an old anime—a soft moment between a moon-marked girl and the man who held her like she was everything.
Romantic. Tender.
But he couldn’t capture it.
The emotion felt off. Too stiff. Too hollow.
He paused, staring at the image. His hand hovered… then dropped. He ripped the page free and threw it across the room. It fluttered like a wounded bird before landing silently on the marble floor.
His hand drifted to the scar over his chest—the crest of the House of El. A permanent mark of ownership. Of possession. His chest ached beneath his fingers. The memory of Jon’s voice—tender and terrifying—still echoed in his head. The punishments. The dark room. The whippings. The whispered apologies against his ear.
Damian shivered and clenched his jaw.
He growled under his breath, glaring at the unfinished sketch. It wasn’t coming out right. The emotion was wrong. He ripped the page from his pad and threw it aside again.
“I hate him,” he muttered, twirling a lock of hair. Maybe he’d sketch Goliath instead.
Creak.
He froze.
The balcony doors—heavy, ornate, locked—were slowly opening.
No wind.
No footsteps.
Just the quiet groan of old hinges and a chill that slithered down his spine.
They creaked wider, letting in a gust of cold desert air that made the curtains flutter like ghostly fingers.
Damian didn’t move. He sat frozen on the bed, breath caught in his throat, every instinct sharp and ready.
It was probably nothing. A draft. A servant who forgot to lock up.
He told himself that—even as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Slowly, he reached for the dagger tucked beneath his pillow. Not because he needed it—he could kill a man with his bare hands—but because it gave him control. Something real to hold as the past clawed its way into the present.
He stood, bare feet silent on the cold floor, creeping toward the open balcony. Moonlight spilled in like liquid silver. The desert stretched beyond—endless dunes and silence.
Empty.
But he still felt it.
A shift in the air.
Something watching.
Something waiting.
He stepped onto the balcony, eyes scanning the horizon—nothing. Just the wind, the stars, and the low hum of a world that never truly slept.
And then…
“Nice drawing, habibi.”
The voice was a whisper behind him.
Too close.
Too familiar.
Damian spun, dagger raised—
And there he was.
Jonathan.
Standing in the middle of the room, as if he had always been there. As if he belonged there.
No armor. No cape. Just a sleek black suit, trimmed in red, a long cape billowing behind him.
Damian didn’t lower the blade.
Jon didn’t flinch.
“You’re not real,” Damian said, voice low and dangerous.
He needed to believe that.
Jon’s smile was soft. Sad.
“Would that make it easier?”
Damian’s grip tightened, his hand trembling.
“Get out.”
“I tried,” Jon said, stepping closer. “Believe me, I tried to stay away. But you’re still dreaming about me, aren’t you?”
His gaze flicked to the scar on Damian’s chest. “Even here, you still wear me.”
Damian’s stomach twisted. “I didn’t choose that mark. You forced it on me. You blamed me for your parents’ deaths—before this stupid war even began.”
“No. But I had every right to be angry,” Jon said, voice like silk over a blade. “Still… you never tried to burn it off. Or use the Pit to heal it.”
His eyes roamed over Damian again. “Your hair’s longer. I like it. It suits you.”
The dagger pressed to Jon’s throat now. Not enough to break skin—not through Kryptonian genes. But close.
Jon didn’t move.
His heat radiated into Damian’s skin. The same warmth that once curled around him at night like fire made flesh.
Damian hated how much he remembered that heat.
“I should kill you.”
“You could try.”
They stood like that—one heartbeat, then two. Damian’s breath shallow. Jon’s, steady.
Tension coiled between them like lightning in a jar.
Then Jon tilted his head.
Damian’s jaw clenched.
Jon’s smile turned almost fond.
And then—rage.
The dagger clattered to the floor as Damian shoved him, fists pounding against Jon’s chest once, twice—
Then stopping.
Because Jon caught him.
Held him.
Just like that.
And Damian—traitorous body and all—didn’t pull away.
For one second… for just one… he let himself rest against the one person he swore he’d never need again.
Their lips hovered close. Breathing the same air.
Then he shoved Jon back. Hard.
Jon stumbled, but didn’t fall. His gaze never left Damian’s.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Damian whispered, voice cracking.
“I couldn’t stay away,” Jon said. “No matter how far you run, I’ll find you.”
He stepped forward.
“Now I’m here.”
Damian stepped back, shaking. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
“No,” Damian whispered. “You’re here to ruin me.”
A pause.
Then Jon took another step forward.
Damian didn’t stop him.
“I never stopped loving you,” Jon said, voice low and raw. “Even when you hated me. Even when you blamed me for what I became—what I had to become.”
“You became a monster,” Damian hissed. “And you blamed me because it was easier than facing your grief.”
His voice cracked, throat thick with memory. “I had nothing to do with your parents’ deaths.”
Jon’s expression twisted—pain, then guilt, then something darker.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Damian’s chest heaved. “Then why—”
“Because I needed someone to hate more than myself.”
It hung there, between them, like smoke that wouldn’t dissipate.
He hated him.
He missed him.
He feared him.
He wanted him.
And as the wind howled through the open doors, somewhere below, a servant’s voice rang out—terrified:
“The Kryptonian ships—they’re above the village! They’ve taken it!”
But neither of them moved.
The world was burning again.
And Damian was still standing in the ashes of the boy who once promised him forever.
“You used to say you loved me,” Damian snarled, voice low and cracking. “Then you tore me open and called it devotion.”
Jon didn’t blink. Didn’t even flinch.
Instead, he smiled.
Not soft. Not sad.
Something slow. Rotten.
Like something had festered behind his ribs and finally crawled to the surface.
“You think I stopped?” he murmured.
Damian’s mouth went dry.
“I do love you,” Jon continued, stepping closer. “I loved you when you bled for me. When you screamed. When you begged me to stop—and then begged me not to leave. You were honest when you were broken, Dami. Everything else was noise.”
Damian stood firm, fists clenched. But his fingers twitched.
“I was a prisoner,” he spat. “And you... You’re sick. You think obsession is love? That hurting me proved something?”
“I proved I could keep you,” Jon said, eyes gleaming like red glass. “I proved no one else could handle you.”
“You branded me,” Damian hissed. “You left your crest on me like I was a possession. I’m not something to own—and I’ll never be yours again.”
Jon moved faster than thought.
One second, he stood across the room.
The next, his hand was at Damian’s throat, pinning him to the wall.
Not squeezing.
Not yet.
Just there.
The weight of power, hovering like a sword.
Damian’s breath hitched.
He thought he was ready to fight.
He wasn’t ready for this.
His body remembered.
The palace on Krypton. The cold. The silence. The way Jon’s hands could cradle or crush—often in the same breath.
“I branded you,” Jon said, voice slow and deliberate, “so the stars would know you were mine. So the council would never take you from me. So you won't forget.”
He leaned in, breath hot against Damian’s ear.
“And I see now—I was too merciful.”
Damian trembled.
He hated that his knees wobbled.
That his heartbeat slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird.
But he forced the words out.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore.”
Jon pulled back slightly—just enough to meet his eyes.
Then he laughed.
Low.
Soft.
Wrong.
Like something vital had snapped long ago.
“Oh, habibi,” he whispered, “your body’s telling a different story.”
And then he let go.
Damian collapsed to his knees.
Not from pain.
Not from the force.
From memory.
Jon crouched beside him like a predator admiring his kill.
“You can spit venom. Curse me. Hate me,” he said, brushing a thumb across Damian’s jaw with terrifying gentleness.
Damian flinched—but didn’t move away.
Couldn’t.
Jon leaned in again, voice velvet and venom.
“And you’ll come back to me. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But the galaxy belongs to me, Damian. And you? You’re just one little moon caught in my orbit.”
He stood slowly.
No cape flourish.
No dramatic exit.
Just silent steps toward the balcony.
Damian remained on the floor, trembling.
“Fuck you,” he whispered in Arabic.
Jon paused.
Still. Perfectly still.
“How dare you speak those words to me,” he said without turning around. “I’ve decided to be… merciful.”
Damian’s stomach twisted.
Jon turned slowly.
His smile was hollow. Moonlit. Something inhuman flickering behind his eyes now.
Something beyond Kryptonian.
Something is wrong.
“I will leave you three nights,” Jon said, voice sinking like a stone into ice. “Tonight was the first. Tonight, you denied yourself.”
He stepped closer.
“—and for that, I will visit the lives of those you love.”
Damian surged to his feet, fire in his eyes. “Denied myself?! You revel in my torture!”
Jon’s smile sharpened.
“Upon the third night, you will submit,” he said. “Or the man you still call your father will die by my hand.”
Damian’s voice cracked. “No…”
“Until you bid me come,” Jon whispered, “you will watch the world become as naught.”
“NO!”
Jon’s cape snapped behind him like wings of smoke as he vanished into the desert dark.
“I’ll be waiting,” he said.
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
The balcony doors blew open wider with a gust of wind.
Damian was left kneeling in the center of the room.
Heart pounding.
Breath shallow.
Skin cold.
Three nights.
Three nights until the storm returns.
And everything he loves is razed to ash.