CHAPTER ONE

"Mother?" He waited outside the door for her to motion him forward. Things had changed in the last five years after the death of Grandfather. His mother had changed. She walked down the steps from her bed to him. He focused on her feet and not the men slipping back into the shadows. He could have no reaction to them, he'd learned that lesson years ago.

"Damian. I have a mission for you."

She walked past him to the large table she used for mapping her plans. She tapped a simple folder on the edge before picking up a glass and sipping it. She watched him as he opened the file and read the name at the top. He read the file, it was detailed in ways that the league's were not. He looked at the boy, a couple years younger than him, and wondered what he had done to earn his mother's attention. She was still watching him when he closed the file and set it back on the table. It was as if she had been expecting a reaction. She stepped forward and pulled a blade from somewhere on the table. His eyes followed the blade as she moved closer.

"Damian, my son." She touched his cheek and smiled at him. He saw nothing of the mother who had sung to him on nights when it all got to be too much, who had protected him when he was too young to protect himself, who had loved him. She was gone. "Do not fail me." She placed the blade in his hand.

"Never, Mother." He stepped back bowing his head before turning to leave.

-

The sky was wide and blue, it stretched for as far as he could see. Damian crossed his legs and watched the clouds as he waited. When he was younger he had been quick to finish his missions. He would find his target, eliminate them, and return to the league - return home. As he got older and his mother changed, he took his time. He watched his targets as they went about their lives. The first time he'd imagined himself putting groceries away while talking to the three-legged tabby on the counter he'd panicked and had rushed to finish the mission. He'd left the window open when he left, so the cat wouldn't be stuck in the apartment with their deceased owner. Now he let his imagination weave alternate lives for himself. His mother only gave him five days before she would send someone to check on him. He liked to think that there was still a part of his mother who remembered growing up in the league and understood the need for a glimpse at freedom. He took each of those days and on the fifth his targets died.

"Hey, Kent! Hold up." He turned to look down from his perch on the roof of the school. His target had paused and was waiting on one of his classmates, the one who had called out. As he looked at the boy smile and adjust his glasses, he couldn't stop the smile that grew on his own face. He slid back when he watched the beat-up pick up back out of its parking space and start down the road. He knew his target would drop off his friend at his house, then return to his own. He had done the same thing for the last three days.

As his target laughed with his mother, he watched from the edge of the cornfield surrounding the farmhouse . His chest ached inexplicably. He rubbed at it as his target stood looking out into the darkness while washing dishes. He shifted back into the field. Every night he'd stood watching him and every night he'd felt like he was watching him back.

"I won't be out here long. I promise." The door shut and the boy walked across the lawn to the barn. He'd spent the last two mornings working on a tractor before heading to school. The first morning was when he noticed that his target wasn't an average teenager. Damian slipped into the loft and looked down at the tractor. The boy picked up a wheel easily twice his size and moved it to the side with no more effort than someone might use to move a plate. He watched him work. The flex and pull of his shirt as he lifted the tractor onto a stand. The delicate way he adjusted the inner workings of the engine. He couldn't look away.

With each day this odd feeling grew. He couldn't explain it. He hated Kansas, with its wide open land and it's too bright sun and sky. He hated the farmhouse with its creaks and groans and the caution it required. He hated everything about being here. Yet he found himself wanting to wake up and watch the sun rise through the stalks, feed the animals, drive into town on the bumpy road, but mostly he imagined doing all of it with the boy below. The boy who was cursing and kicking the tire when the engine still refused to turn over. He'd fallen asleep on the roof of the farmhouse the night before, lulled into peacefulness by the sound of his target getting ready for bed. He'd known when he'd woken up that he needed to finish the mission before he couldn't.

Damian waited until the tractor was back on the ground with its wheel reattached before throwing a shuriken and cutting the power to the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The barn filled with darkness. He heard the boy curse and move toward the door. Damian dropped down from the loft and the boy froze - his head tilted as he listened. He'd heard him, it shouldn't have been possible, but Damian was sure of it. He stepped back and the boy spun back around.

"Who's there?" the boy called like he was actually expecting the darkness to answer him. The strange part was that he did want to answer him. Instead he shifted his feet before moving toward the door. Red beams burst through the darkness. He dodged and slid behind one of the posts supporting the roof. He recognized that light. He didn't think there was a person on the planet that didn't know the hue of Superman's heat vision. He touched the blade tied at his hip. He hadn't understood why his mother had given him a ceremonial blade, but now the green stone made sense. He pulled it from its sheath and circled behind the boy who was turning and looking into the darkness but too panicked to look close enough. Damian moved as the boy reached the far wall. Another light came to life as he pressed the blade against the boys neck. He turned the blade, until the tip pressed into the soft spot under the boy's chin and his head tilted up. He watched as green veins crept up his neck from the blade. Too blue eyes stared at him, fearless.

He blinked when his stomach turned and a familiar stinging sensation prickled at his neck. He hesitated as he realized what had just happened, why he'd felt so drawn in. That hesitation was enough for the boy to get a hand free and claw at the cloth on his face. It came free as the door to the barn opened.

"Hey bud, your mom said-" the Superman froze in the doorway as he took in the sight. He saw a flash of recognition on the man's face, almost like he was seeing a ghost, before the heat built behind his eyes. Damian jammed the blade into the boy's shoulder and ran. He knew the superman would stop to help his son and he'd be able to make his escape. His shoulder, like the boy's, ached as he ran. He touched it and hissed a curse.

-

"Do you have any idea what you have cost us?" his mother asked. He stayed quiet from his spot on his knees at the base of the dias her throne-like chair sat on. He knew it was not a question she wanted the answer to. "You understand why you must be punished?"

"I failed," he said as evenly as possible. The crack of the whip on his back echoed off the walls of the chamber. He focused on breathing. If he reacted it would last longer. His mother's feet stepped in front of him. He kept his head bowed. He spared a thought that the boy wasn't feeling this as she stepped to his side and the whip cut into his skin again.

"You are no longer a child. You must withstand the consequences of your mistakes." He could almost laugh. He had been punished his entire life, for his 'mistakes'. It hadn't changed when he'd turned eighteen. The whip broke his skin and pain rippled up his spine. He sucked in a breath. The noise, that tiny intake of air, seemed magnified in the silence of the room. His mother's feet stopped in front of him again. The handle of the whip slipped beneath his chin and lifted his face to look up at his mother. She searched his face and looked disappointed in what she saw there. "You know I do not enjoy this, but you must learn."

"Yes Mother." She stepped back. Three quick strikes tore at his skin. "Send me once more. I will not fail you again," he uttered when her hand rose again. She made the tiniest noise like she was considering it before stepping back and sitting down on the chair a few feet in front of him. He watched her as she nodded.

"I know that you will not fail me again, my son." Her eyes gleamed as she smiled at him. She dismissed him with a wave of her arm. His back was raw and weeping as he walked down the corridors to his room. He laid down on his side and stared at the wall until the pain faded and sleep took him.

-

Nabila woke him as the sun started to rise. He rolled onto his stomach when she touched the light cloth he'd laid on his back the night before. He wasn't surprised that she was there. His mother had always sent her to check on him. She'd been his doctor since he was a baby. She was probably the only person that he trusted.

The cloth was pulled free with a slight tug. He heard the soft gasp she made. He hadn't thought it was that bad. He'd had worse and he was sure he would again. The wounds didn't even hurt as she wiped a damp cloth across them. She continued working her way from his shoulders to the small of his back. He didn't feel a thing. He rolled over when she touched his side.

"You are lucky, child," she smiled softly at him. He looked at her amber eyes and frowned. She laughed, a twinkling sound, and pulled his wrist into her lap. Her thumb brushed over his pulse point. A tender gesture he'd never seen from her. She looked down then up into his eyes. "Be safe," she said before leaving him to get ready.

He dressed carefully. He pulled his mask back over his head, but the torn cloth did nothing to hide his face. The boy had already seen his face, there was no need to hide it. People watched him as he walked down the hall, he knew that word had already spread of his failure. A few would be waiting for the word that he had failed again, waiting to step up and take his spot.

He spent the plane ride working on his plan. He knew if he could get the boy on his side that everything else would fall into place, but he wasn't sure that he would be able to convince him. He did not like that feeling. As he landed back on the flat Kansas ground he relaxed, free from the eyes of the league.

The boy was home alone. He'd seen his parents leave that morning after the boy had left for school and they hadn't yet returned. He crept over to the tree growing up the side of the house. It was easy to climb, he could see spots where the branches had been worn down from use. He sat outside the window and watched as the boy moved around his room getting ready for bed from the looks of it. He opened the window when he left the room and slipped in. He was careful of the floorboards that creaked and waited behind the door. The water faucet turned off and he listened to the light steps as they walked down the hall. As soon as the door shut he struck.

He covered the boy's hand with his mouth and pulled him against him. He struggled, panicked noises coming from beneath his fingers.

"I am not going to hurt you," he said. His English felt strange on his tongue, it had been years since he'd used it. "If I let you go will you listen to me?" the boy nodded. He had to believe him. His plan wouldn't work if he didn't. He let go. The boy spun. He dodged the punch aimed at him. It broke through the paneling next to his head. He held up his hands and stepped away. He could see the heat building in his eyes.

"I am not here to kill you. I am here to help you."

"Help me? You just tried to kill me." He wasn't sure how to explain his change of heart. He had been sure that the boy would understand. He looked at him as the boy glared with his blue perfectly human eyes. "How do I know this isn't some trick?"

"You would be dead right now if I wanted you to be." He kept his hands up until Jon shook his head as if he didn't like what he was thinking, he was starting to believe him. "The league still wants you dead."

"The League? No they don't. My da- the league are heroes, they don't want to kill me." The boy barely caught himself from announcing his parentage. He shook his head.

"Assassins, the League of Assassins," he corrected.

"That's a fairy tale. The league isn't real, Uncle Bruce told me himself." He stared at the boy. He blinked a few times. He'd never been told he didn't exist before, it felt strange.

"What do you think I am?" he asked holding out his arms so the boy could get a look at his outfit. "The league is real. They have put a contract out for your head. It is my mission, if I fail again they will send someone else until you are dead. So you need to die." The heat was back. He stepped back and tried not to react. "I can help you fake your death," he said calmly.

-

An hour later they were sitting on the floor staring at each other.

"Okay yeah. I guess that'll work, but I have to know… Why are you doing this?" Jon asked.

"Because you do not deserve this." He'd spent a week watching him dance in the kitchen with his mom to music that was older than the truck he drove to school. He'd seen him race his dad around the fields. Each race had started with him tripping his father and ended with him taunting the man as he won. He'd watched him laugh and smile with his friends from school. He'd seen him talk to every animal on the farm as he fed them like they were part of the family. He'd seen all of that and yet for some reason the universe had thought Jon's other half should be him, a weapon waiting to be used. He deserved better than that, than him.

Jon looked at him, he tried to keep his face blank.

"Okay, let's do this."

A nervous laugh escaped as Jon threw his lamp on the ground. He knocked his school books to the ground. Damian bumped the dresser a few times, it scraped across the wood floor. He opened the window. Once they'd made it look like a struggle had happened Jon stopped in the middle of the room.

"Do you trust me?"

"Not really," Jon said but held out his arm.

"Are you sure I will not need that rock?"

"Yeah. My powers don't work like that. Just make it quick." He pulled out a blade and looked at Jon's face, his eyes were closed tight as he braced himself for the pain. He sliced across his forearm, an echo of the tear resonating from his own arm. Jon opened his eyes and stared as the blood flowed and puddled at their feet. "Don't forget the bag," Jon said and headed for the window, arm still dripping blood. He grabbed the pack and followed him out.

"How long again?" Jon asked. He looked pale in the shadow of the silo. It was on an abandoned farm miles away from Jon's home.

"Five days," he said. "There was a date in the file, I think whatever she wanted you gone for happens on that day. When you go back, ask them not to tell anyone you are alive? It is important."

"Okay." Jon fiddled with the gauze wrapped around the wound on his arm. It had already closed by the time he'd gotten to wrapping it. He'd known since he first felt the throb of the Kryptonite in Jon's shoulder that they had a soul bond. He had been hoping the universe hadn't been that cruel.

"Hey Damian?" Jon called as he started to shut the heavy door.

"Yes?"

"See you later."

Jon was pretty sure that he should be dead. He focused on not tensing up as Alfred pulled the needle through his torn skin to draw it together- knowing that if he couldn't keep himself from steeling they'd have to pull out more kryptonite and that was the last thing he wanted. So far he had managed to only break one needle. Alfred hadn't said anything as he replaced it and continued working.

He could barely hear his father and Bruce talking outside of the study in the entry hall. He had tried once but he couldn't go for super hearing without hitting some of his other super buttons- thus the needle. So Jon watched them. His father paced back and forth, his shirt still stained where Jon had leaned into his chest. Worry and anger more than apparent on his face. Bruce was calm. He always was. But his eyes turned hard when he looked back at Jon and Alfred, who was sealing the patch with a clean bandage. "I believe that is the best that can be done as of now, Master Jon." He told him heavily, his face a little more easy to read.

Jon sat up slowly and his father and Bruce started back towards them. "Thanks Al." He told him, smiling as bright as he could to get him to stop looking at him like that. "I'm fine, really."

"You shouldn't be." Bruce frowned, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets than the frown on his face. "Even with your accelerated healing, that much Kryptonite could still cause a significant amount of damage. But even still…"

"Do you think the suppressors…?" his father's question hung awkwardly in the air and everyone looked anywhere except for Jon, letting it go unanswered. It wasn't something they liked to talk about. The entire incident that led to the suppressors being needed was still too fresh even three years later.

"The real question here is who wants to kill Jon," Bruce said decidingly. He held his hand out to Jon and helping him to his feet so they could all follow Alfred to the kitchen. They sat at the table and Alfred brought Bruce and Jon cups of steaming tea and his father a mug of dark coffee.

"He must have been watching us," his father said after taking a drink. "I didn't hear him at all. He knew when I wouldn't be tuned in, knew that Jon would be in the barn on his own."

Jon stared out the window. He watched the sun begin to creep over the top of hill, setting the Gotham skyline on fire outside, as his father filled Bruce in on what had happened. He touched his shoulder softly, already feeling the sting of his skin trying to knit itself back together. He could have killed him. The boy. He had the kryptonite. He had stabbed him. If he had shifted a little to the left then that would have been it. He chose not to kill him. But why? "He looked scared," he said over whatever his father was saying. Then men stopped and looked at him. "When I pulled off his mask he looked scared. And mad."

His dad reached over and squeezed his arm. "Did you get a good look at him?" he asked.

Yes. Jon felt like he had seen his face a thousand times before that minute and had forgotten until he saw him again. He had a squared jaw, locked into a permanent scowl. A cut through his right eyebrow that left a little while line up to his hairline. And his eyes. They were so green and so clear that Jon felt he could have read his every intent if he had gotten to look a little bit longer. "He was hot," he said without thinking. Cheeks flaring, Jon swallowed hard before he cleared his throat. "I mean that's all I really saw. The… uh, attractive...ness." He took a drink of his tea and then looked at Bruce and flushed even harder.

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him but turned to his dad. "Jon should stay here."

"What?" Clark's hand tightened on his mug involuntarily and it shattered all over the table. Alfred stepped up with a new mug, mopping up the mess quickly and without a word.

"We don't know who is after him." Bruce said calmly. "We don't know what they look like or when they will come again. We do know that they know where you live, and judging by the kryptonite, they also know what you are."

His father fidgeted, obviously unhappy with that plan. "He can go to Metropolis with Lois."

"They'll track her, likely they used her file and biography to find your farm to begin with." Bruce looked at Jon then. "He should stay here. At least until we figure out what is going on. And definitely while we are off world."

"I have a test tomorrow," Jon said numbly. "Pre-Cal. I've been studying all week."

"We have to leave tonight," Bruce reminded Clark who looked at his son debating until finally he replied.

"We promised Jon he could have a normal life." The words were heavy on his shoulders. "With the repressors, after everything. Let him take his test, finish the week."

Bruce nodded, "Dick will pick him up tomorrow."

-

"I don't need to be kept in Gotham," he complained when they landed back at the farm. Jon had stormed inside to where his mother had already left a note saying breakfast was up to them today. He was annoyed by the entire conversation that had happened that morning. They always talked about him like he wasn't in the room. Like he was a problem waiting to happen. "I wasn't prepared last time. Now that I know what's coming-"

"Jon," his father sighed, starting a pot of coffee and leaning against the counter. "I'm not saying that you can't take care of yourself. But you shouldn't have to. This is not what normal teenage boys have to worry about."

"Well I'm not a normal teenage boy," he grumbled pulling the milk out of the fridge. "Maybe that's not, like, the worst thing in the world."

His father watched him silently as he ate his cereal and went upstairs to get ready for school. His arm hurt as he pulled on his flannel, tugging at the bandage enough to be annoying. He put on his glasses and double checked to make sure that none of the gruesome morning was left on his skin before he ran back down the stairs and grabbed his backpack, forcing himself to hug his father goodbye through his annoyance.

-

He was distracted all day at school, unable to stay focused on anything but the slightly decreasing pain in his shoulder and the green eyes of the boy from that morning. He had looked scared. But not of Jon, and not even of his father. No, what he had been scared of was unrelated entirely and Jon needed to know what it was.

He drove home more awake that he should be and welcomed the distraction of his chores. He didn't want to think. He wanted to be done and try to remember everything they had gone over in their pre-cal review that day.

His mom was staying in the city on assignment so it was just Jon and his dad. Dinner was quiet and Jon went up to get ready for bed without much of a fuss. He was brushing his teeth when the first sting hit him, peeling across his back in such a surprise that he yelped and dropped his toothbrush to the floor. The second one was worse and then the third. He stopped counting after that. He hadn't even realised that his dad was in the bathroom with him until a full minute had passed after the last one. "I'm okay," he panted, the full ache of the imagined blows running heat up his back. "I… I don't know what happened."

"Maybe we should go to Bruce," his father told him helping Jon back to his feet.

"No!" he said too quickly making his dad's face turn questioning. "N-no, Pa, I'm fine. If it happens again we'll go. I promise."

-

He didn't sleep that night. His back hurt and his mind was too full to rest. He managed to make it through breakfast with his dad without letting on how tired he was. As soon as he left to meet Bruce for their league meeting, Jon dragged through his morning chores. His back didn't hurt any longer, but all that did was raise more questions. Why had it hurt to begin with? Was it a left over effect from the kryptonite, or was this something else entirely? And why was Jon so sure that it had something to do with that boy?

He was pretty sure that he failed his pre-cal test.

He got ready for bed early after he ate whatever casserole that his mom had left in the fridge. He knew that Dick would be by early tomorrow and he didn't want to drag through another day or have Dick come and find him and see what a wreck his room was. Jon had always had always liked Dick. He was nice, and if Jon was being honest- he was probably the hottest person that he had ever seen, at least until…

He shook his head and washed his face, shutting the light off before he even left the bathroom. He walked down the hall exhausted, shutting the door to his room before he was pulled back into someone's chest, a hand over his mouth. He struggled, but the arms held him hard and still. "I am not going to hurt you." His voice was softer than Jon had been expecting, that was weirdly what relaxed him. "If I let you go, will you listen to me?" Jon nodded. As soon as the assassin released him, he threw a punch right through the wall, anger starting to boil behind his eyes. "I am not here to kill you, I am here to help you," he told him with his hands up circling back towards the window.

"Help me?" Jon demanded, anger flaring again. Everyone was always trying to help Jon. Baby Jon who couldn't help himself without making an entire town explode. "You just tried to kill me," he told him, but the heat had left him. "How do I know this isn't some trick?"

The boy twitched an eyebrow at him, an attractive smugness painting his face as his hands remained up in a continued surrender. "You would be dead right now if I wanted you to be," he told him matter of factly.

Jon thought about the knife. How he had forgone stabbing him through the heart to hit him in the shoulder. Wounding him so that his father wouldn't pursue him. He clenched his fists and listened to him.

-

He spent the five days silently, knowing that if he so much as breathed wrong his father would come flying to him in anger and grief that he wasn't mentally ready for. Guilt hit him hard just thinking about it. How it must have looked when Dick got to the house and found his room destroyed, window broken and his blood…

He looked at his arm and frowned, the wound had closed in the first couple of hours but there wasn't even a scar. Nothing to show any evidence of what had happened, which was exactly how he needed it to be. He waited until the morning of the fifth day and kicked off of the side of the silo, floating easily into the air. He had forgot to take his suppressors with him, another thing to feel guilty about, and he felt power surge around him as he took off in a shaky flight toward the farm.

His mother was sitting at the table, staring at the clock on the wall, a cold cup of coffee clenched in her hands. Dick leaned against the wall next to her. His eyes darted to the door as Jon pushed it open. "Holy shit, Lois-" and she was on her feet and in front of him faster than his dad could have ever hoped to move.

She hugged guilt further into him and he held her tightly as she whispered, "Oh thank god," over and over again. She pulled back and held his face in her hands, looking straight across at him with thirsty watery eyes. "Are you okay?" she asked. "Did they hurt you, all of that blood-"

"I'm okay," he swallowed past the lump in his throat. "He didn't hurt me, he-"

The door burst open again and his father was there in his suit, looking as though he had flown around the world a hundred times. He lifted Jon off the floor, hugging him hard enough to break him of he hadn't hardened himself. Then he was back on his feet, and his father was looking through him, trying to determine the damage that had been done to him. "Dad, I'm fine," he told him firmly grabbing his arms. Dick was muttering into his phone in the hallway, telling Bruce that they had found him.

"I know." His father breathed in relief after a moment. His eyes hardened, "Why are you fine?"

"He came back," Jon told him as Dick walked back into the room. His face turned red as he felt Dick doing his own examination. "He told me that he wasn't going to hurt me but he had been sent to finish the job. So we wrecked my room. He told me to hide out for a few days while they came to check…" He trailed off, watching his parents and Dick exchange confused looks at each other.

"Bruce is on his way," Dick said finally.

"Honey why don't you go take a shower?" His mother told him sounding exhausted, clearly stating to her son that it was time for the adults to talk.

-

He sat at the top of the stairs listening to them argue in the kitchen. They spoke in hushed tones, but Jon was out of pills and tuning in was entirely too easy. "Why would Jon have gone along with it?" His father demanded, anger lacing his voice, making Jon wince knowing that he had put that disappointment there. "He's a smart kid. He knows better than to-"

"He's a kind kid too," Dick interrupted. "He was told that something bad would happen, so he did what he could to protect the people he loves. Maybe it wasn't the right thing, but it was a choice he made with good intentions."

"Those intentions distracted Clark long enough for hundreds to die," Bruce said in the same hard tone that he always had. "It doesn't matter how it was meant. It happened. And we can only assume that this boy will come back. And maybe next time he won't be feeling so charitable. "

His mother sighed. He heard the kettle start to steam right before she took it off the stove. "Maybe it's time that we consider taking Jon off the suppressors."

"No," his father commanded.

"That boy snuck up on him twice," she continued. "That's two times our son could have been killed when there is no reason-"

"No, Lois," his father said again, kinder this time. "You weren't there the last time. You didn't see…"

"He stays on the suppressors," Bruce said and it was final. "But I don't think that we can ignore that whoever is after him might be back." There was a beeping noise. "I went by your apartment in Metropolis on my way here. It has been entered. Nothing was taken or moved but they were there."

"So what do we do?" His mother asked.

-

Dick found him on the top step when all was said and done. He sat next to him, frowning at his hands as he asked. "So how much of that did you hear?" Jon shot him a look and Dick nodded. "Right." They sat there silently for another minute before he continued, "You know they are only doing what they think is best."

Jon turned away from him, not wanting him to see him pout. "My friends are here," he told him, trying his best to keep a hold on the range of emotions that were lighting up the super parts of his body. "My school is here."

"Gotham has great schools," Dick offered with a little nudge of his elbow. "Maybe not so great kids," he admitted. "But with you there, they at least have one." Jon didn't say anything. Dick sighed. "It's only temporary. Your dad and B think it's best that you learn how to defend yourself without the powers. Bruce is the best option for that, and no one will think to look for you in Gotham. This will all blow over in a few months and then you'll come back like nothing happened."

"Yeah," Jon mumbled. But that was the problem. It had happened. What if Damian came back and couldn't find him? But that was stupid. Why would he come back?