Jon and Damian’s relationship had been built on rivalry, sharpened through sparring matches and clashing egos. What started as constant bickering—Damian calling Jon a simpleton, Jon calling Damian a gremlin—had somehow morphed into something neither of them expected: real, unshakable friendship. Jon had never had a bond like this before, and he cherished it. He loved Damian like a brother, respected him, trusted him. He would never betray that trust. But then there was you—Damian’s twin. And Jon had a problem. Because as much as he wanted to keep things simple, as much as he swore he wouldn’t ruin the fragile balance they had, he couldn’t stop himself from staring a little too long, couldn’t ignore the way his heart kicked into high gear whenever you were around.

You were no warrior, not in the way the League would have demanded, not in the way Damian was trained to be. You were sick, always had been, your body refusing to move the way it should. Crutches were your constant companion, a necessity for even the simplest steps. It kept you from the fight, kept you from joining the chaos like your family. But that never meant you were weak. You swung those crutches with a force that could rival the Joker’s crowbar, had perfected the art of using them as both a weapon and a tool. You weren’t a hero, but you were still a force to be reckoned with, a presence that couldn’t be ignored, and Jon, well, Jon was helplessly drawn to that fire.

Damian couldn’t find you. The realization settled like ice in his chest, his mind running through a hundred worst-case scenarios before he could stop himself. He didn’t panic—he refused to panic—but his movements became sharper, his scowl deeper, his words clipped as he ordered the search. Jon, recognizing the rare crack in his best friend’s armor, stepped in without hesitation. And then he saw you. Perched on the edge of the rooftop, silhouetted against the sinking sun, staring out at the city below. You hadn’t run. You were just lost in thought. In your own world.