The continuous red flash of the small device on Damian’s desk mocked him, beeping softly with each repetition as the day went on. There was only one notification set to that particular tracker - one that Damian had set many years ago and had continued to influence throughout the years.
Jonathan Kent was back in orbit.
Summer vacation had been an endless onslaught of training for Damian. While Bruce wasn’t fond of his son spending large amounts of time in the desert with his assassin-oriented mother, they did get to occasionally see one another, especially now that Damian was out of school (as if he ever really went) and able to make more decisions on his own. Their training consisted of swords and meditation and a lot of boring nonsense that Damian had wanted nothing more than to skip because it was just like being back home with Bruce and Dick, legs crossed on the floor of the cave, breathing and existing.
With his mind constantly going-going-going, summer break had been a good way to work out some of his energy. He saw Jon for the first few weeks, until he had announced his intention to go to space (without him), and subsequently would be leaving Damian behind for a week or two. While irked, that was fine. Jon was his own person. They didn’t spend every moment together, after all. They weren’t attached at the hip like they had been when they were just pre-teens. They weren’t dependent on one another in a stupidly unhealthy way that their father’s mocked, and Damian’s brothers teased him about. Not anymore. They were grown, independent teenagers.
And if Damian had to swallow thickly around the lump in his throat at the thought of Jonathan Kent not needing him anymore, then he would blame it on allergies or thirst. Anything to hide this nurtured dependency on his best friend.
Now, it seemed, his time was up. Damian was tanned and golden from the harsh desert suns near his mother’s base, and he couldn’t wait to rub it in Jon’s face at how he’d grown nearly half an inch just over the few weeks they’d been apart, Damian a solid 5′6″ now, and growing.
His descent to the Fortress of Attitude was a well-worn one, Damian finding the little pleasures in the ride. Jon must have been incredibly bored without Damian to preoccupy his time - ready to pull that ridiculous Kent-curl from his head with frustration at being unable to see the youngest Wayne. Although he’d never admit it, Damian was beginning to feel restless without Jon by his side too.
The door opened with his access code, the back entrance to the Fortress closer to the manor than the main. It was also a fantastic hiding place, if he did say so himself. One that even Richard would be proud of, he thought.
When the main panel slid open to reveal their hideout, time seemed to stop. Or go forward. Or, or, or something. Damian’s head swam, gloved fingers reaching out to press to his forehead for a moment.
The man in front of him hadn’t spotted him yet, and really, Damian couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak, or breathe, or think. The frustration of it all bubbled like poison in his guts, tainting him from the inside out.
And really, it was just that: the Jonathan Kent in front of him was no longer a boy, a year or two younger than him, taller than him by a few mere inches. In his wake, there was a man; broad shoulders, a striking jaw, and dark hair no longer curled around a round baby face. There was a pounding in the room, constant and heavy and it felt like bass at one of those ridiculous clubs Grayson attended, and – maybe that was just his heart echoing in his ears.
What could he say? How could he say it? What happened? What’s wrong with you? Where’s Jon? The ridiculous blink of the machinery in his hand continued its mocking pattern and Damian couldn’t help but throw it at his feet, smashing it into pieces between them. “Explain.”
He wished explaining would make things better. He wished it could be easy. (It was, sort of: Jon had gotten combination kidnapped-slash-lost in space for a couple more years than expected, and, because of some weird physics shit that Damian would probably understand more than he did, his return to Earth wasn’t really proportional with the amount of time he’d spent off-planet. Elementary school stuff.)
He’d sent Damian a text before he’d gone up, hadn’t he? Hey D taking a family vacay to space 👊 🌎 ☄️ be back soon don’t beat valhalla without me. Something like that. Of course, that had been the last one, and it barely said anything at all. Over the past few years, Jon had had plenty of time to think about how quickly it had all happened, how he’d hurriedly packed a bag and rushed onward and upward, how he hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye, not really.
At the time, he probably figured he’d regale Damian with stories of his daring heroic adventures, how he’d become Han frickin’ Solo out there, how cool it had all been. It probably wouldn’t have hurt to put a little emphasis on the fact that, while Damian might be a genius and a ninja and better at MarioKart, Jon was part alien with the coolest powers this side of the Milky Way. You know, for his ego.
Of course, it hadn’t happened like that. Instead, he’d just vanished. And there were days when he’d thought that that was it, he was done, he was never getting home. He was vanished for good. His mom always taught him that--to go until you didn’t think you could go any more, then keep going. That nothing in the entire universe, no matter how big or scary or overwhelming, was as strong as the will of a Lane. (And if Jon argued that he was a Kent, too, she’d look at him with those eyes they shared, mirroring his own narrow-eyed stare back at him.)
Jon hadn’t even let himself think about giving up because he couldn’t leave them. He couldn’t just vanish--not for his family, and not for Damian.
So here he was now, standing where he should have stood three weeks or five years ago, however you wanted to look at it. Where he wished he’d been able to tell Damian in person that this was something he had to do for himself, but it didn’t mean Jon was leaving him behind, not even a little bit. That he’d miss him, but not too much. Only a little. Or, like, a medium-sized amount. Don’t get sappy about it.
Nope, file that all under shoulda, coulda, woulda, right there with senior prom and teaching Krypto to ride a skateboard.
He didn’t know where to start.
“I,” he started, stammered, swallowed. “Well. I... kinda got lost? And... something about physics and space and I think Einstein’s probably involved if you want to get technical? I don’t know. I’m here now. I’m sorry I was gone so long--I’m sorry I didn’t say--” It was all spilling out now. Keep it together, Jon. “I was alone for a really long time, D. And I missed you.”
