The continuous red flash of the small device on Damianās 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.Ā
Summer vacation had been an endless onslaught of training for Damian. While Bruce wasnāt 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 nonsenseĀ 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 spaceĀ (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 didnāt spend everyĀ moment together, after all. They werenāt attached at the hip like they had been when they were just pre-teens. They werenāt dependent on one another in a stupidly unhealthy way that their fatherās mocked, and Damianās 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 motherās base, and he couldnāt wait to rub it in Jonās face at how heād grown nearly half an inch just over the few weeks theyād been apart, Damian a solid 5ā²6ā³ now, and growing.
His descent to the Fortress of AttitudeĀ 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 heād 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. Damianās head swam, gloved fingers reaching out to press to his forehead for a moment.
The man in front of him hadnāt spotted him yet, and really, Damian couldnāt move. Couldnāt speak, or breathe, or think. The frustration of it all bubbled like poison in his guts, tainting him from the inside out.Ā
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 bassĀ at one of those ridiculous clubs Grayson attended, and ā maybe that was just his heart echoing in his ears.
What could he say? How could he say it? What happened? Whatās wrong with you?Ā Whereās Jon?Ā The ridiculous blink of the machinery in his hand continued its mocking pattern and Damian couldnāt help but throw it at his feet, smashing it into pieces between them.Ā āExplain.ā
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 wasnāt really proportional with the amount of time heād spent off-planet. Elementary school stuff.)
Heād sent Damian a text before heād gone up, hadnāt he? Hey D taking a family vacay to space š š āļø be back soon donāt 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 heād hurriedly packed a bag and rushed onward and upward, how he hadnāt even bothered to say goodbye, not really.
At the time, he probably figured heād regale Damian with stories of his daring heroic adventures, how heād become Han frickinā Solo out there, how cool it had all been. It probably wouldnāt 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 hadnāt happened like that. Instead, heād just vanished. And there were days when heād 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 didnāt 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, sheād look at him with those eyes they shared, mirroring his own narrow-eyed stare back at him.)
Jon hadnāt even let himself think about giving up because he couldnāt leave them. He couldnāt 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 heād been able to tell Damian in person that this was something he had to do for himself, but it didnāt mean Jon was leaving him behind, not even a little bit. That heād miss him, but not too much. Only a little. Or, like, a medium-sized amount. Donāt 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 didnāt know where to start.
āI,ā he started, stammered, swallowed.Ā āWell. I... kinda got lost? And... something about physics and space and I think Einsteinās probably involved if you want to get technical? I donāt know. Iām here now. Iām sorry I was gone so long--Iām sorry I didnāt say--ā It was all spilling out now. Keep it together, Jon.Ā āI was alone for a really long time, D. And I missed you.ā
