Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June 13th, 2019.

Jon’s first week back on Earth-Prime.

Of all the powers that came with being Superboy, superhearing had to be the worst.

It’s not that he’s ungrateful. If not for his enhanced hearing, the lives of friends, loved ones, and countless innocents would be lost. But, Superboy or not, sometimes a guy needs a break.

The average human teenager needs eight to ten hours of sleep a night. Jon didn’t, at least not most of the time. His alien physiology meant he didn’t require too much sleep unless he severely overexerted himself. His body didn’t need the rest, but his psyche was an entirely different story. 

He hadn't slept much since returning home. After years in fight-or-flight, constantly anticipating the worst, his body wasn't accustomed to peace.

Before the grandfather-grandson bonding trip from Hell, his parents had him on a strict sleep schedule—routinely interrupted by Damian climbing through his window and peer-pressuring him into missions that definitely weren’t Batman-approved.

Back then, he didn’t mind the mandated sleep schedule. His parents would take turns sitting at the foot of his bed each night, narrating their way through various books. 

National Geographics—astronomy, dinosaurs, lost civilizations. Those were Clark’s favorites, while Lois preferred to educate Jon in the fantasy genre. They started at The Little Prince and worked their way up to the Percy Jackson novels—those were always Jon’s favorite. Maybe they helped him feel a bit more normal.

He was young then—naive, hopeful, unmarred. Normal.

Now he was seventeen, with gangly limbs that made his childhood bed feel claustrophobic, and a faded scar on his right cheek. His supersenses were as turbulent as his mind felt, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stay asleep. 

And he had nobody to read to him anymore. But he couldn't blame them.  

His parents were doing a good job of pretending the change didn’t bother them—quickly unenrolling him from sixth grade at West Reeve, which he had long grown out of. They found him a trusted therapist via Oracle, bought him books and online study programs so that he could obtain his GED, and did their best to show unconditional love and support. 

Kon even stopped by on the second day of his return, bringing an old Nintendo Entertainment System and a scratched-up Game Boy as offerings. The older Superboy was strangely fascinated with the 90s—collecting comics, consoles, action figures, and VHS tapes. He even had a few Superman trading cards in his arsenal. Not that he would boast about that to Clark. 

“I thought you might want a distraction,” Kon had said, dropping the items on the living room coffee table—already completely overtaken by printouts, interview transcripts, and messy notes, courtesy of Lois. “Tetris is supposed to be helpful for difficult mental stuff, y’know.”

He and Kon were nearly at eye level, which should've been off-putting, but the older Superboy didn’t seem too affected. 

“Thanks, Kon… It's great to see you.” Jon said, as his older brother—or at least, the closest thing he had to one—pulled him in for a hug. “I missed you.” 

He quickly blinked away the tears that stung his eyes. 

They separated after a few moments, and Jon immediately turned to remove old coffee cups and takeout boxes from the coffee table. He didn’t want the other man to see his tears, not because he was afraid of being judged—he just couldn't stomach any more pity.

Jon walked into the kitchen, dropping the old boxes in the trash and the mugs in the sink, and quickly swiping away any evidence of tears. Kon wouldn't have seen them anyway—he had his back turned to him, observing framed Daily Planet articles adorning the living room wall.

As Jon exited the kitchen, he heard the unmistakable chime of an iPhone notification. Kon pulled a phone out of his back pocket, typing hurriedly, before turning and shooting him a small, apologetic smile—one that said 'I'm sorry, but I have somewhere to be.'

"I hate to leave so soon, but I'm late for a date... thing." As he said it, Kon's eyes darted around like he was feeling self-conscious, but Jon wasn't sure that was possible. He just nodded in response.

Kon raised his arm and gave Jon a firm pat on the shoulder, "But seriously, dude, it's nice to see you—and if you need someone to talk to, I’m always a call or text away. Or a shout, but I don't think your neighbors would like that."

Kon paused, as if pruning a distant memory from his conscience. “My teenage years were pretty sketchy too… weird shit happens sometimes—well, all the time for people like us—and that’s okay! It gets better, trust me, it does.”

Jon smiled at him, feeling a bit lighter. “I’ll remember that.”

“Oh—and let me know if you have any issues getting those to work.” His brother gestured to the pile of cables on the coffee table, “They glitch sometimes, and it’s annoying as hell.” 

“I will,” Jon told him as Kon opened the front door, looking uncharacteristically jittery, “Good luck on your date thing. I'll let you know if the Tetris helps."

The other man shot him a peace sign before disappearing at superspeed. Jon's eyes followed the blur for a moment before he shut and locked the front door, vague amusement clouded by numbness. 

In the days that followed Kon’s visit, Jon couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t heard a word from Damian.

That wasn’t necessarily out of the ordinary. Jon knew the Bats were often busy, not to mention incredibly secretive. It came with the whole vigilante thing. 

But he also knew they were always informed—especially about something like this. 

Which meant Damian knew. 

Damian knew and hadn’t reached out.

Jon was trying not to let it get to him. It had only been seven days since his return. Four weeks since Damian had last seen him. He told himself he was overthinking it, but that didn't help. After everything they’d built between them—and with lost years hanging over him—the distance from his best friend really stung.

And with everyone—sans Kon—seemingly walking on eggshells around him, he felt like he was losing his damn mind.

A sort of numbness had taken over—the same kind he’d felt in Ultraman’s volcano. The feeling just seemed to be getting worse, despite its source being far away, an entirely separate world.

He didn’t need to guess why his mother was crying in the middle of the night, on the opposite side of the apartment. 

Lois Lane rarely shed tears—her equanimity in the face of challenging situations was what made her a renowned journalist. She was probably one of the few people who could handle being married to Superman, and that was stressful. But she couldn't handle Jon.

Jon couldn't even handle himself.

His mother's sobs faded, and his mind drifted to a time when being Jon Kent—Superboy—felt like a blessing rather than a curse. 

May 12th, 2019.

Six years ago for Jon. Four weeks ago for everyone else on Earth-Prime.

His father described enhanced hearing as being controlled like a dial rather than an on/off switch.

Flying long distances with his father was rare, but on a much-anticipated Sunday, Jon and Clark flew to Smallville to visit the senior Kents. 

Ma Kent’s pot roast was the main occasion, but it was also an opportunity to “calibrate” his superhearing, in a sense. 

They stood in the middle of a large field in the hopes of avoiding any immediate noise pollution.

“You know how the radio in the car works, Jon? This is kinda like that!” Clark sent a grin his way, “It might sound odd, but you can just keep turning that mental ‘dial’ until what you’re searching for becomes clear.”

Jon had shut his eyes tight, searching. For what, exactly?

He wasn’t entirely sure.

But he managed to lock onto the buzz of a lone honeybee, and then, the aggressive whoosh of a windmill. There was the rustle of leaves on a cottonwood tree, which was quickly drowned out by the mechanical whirr of a tractor. 

The soft purr of a cat. A crying baby. The keys of a piano. A train horn. 

There was the deafening roar of a jet engine, so loud it felt like his brain was rattling inside his skull.

And then—a familiar rhythmic thump-thump. Consistent and strong in a way that slightly differed from most human heartbeats. The one that was right next to him—his dad’s. 

He subconsciously ended up going for the safe option, go figure.

He evened his breathing and focused on ‘tuning out’ each extraneous sound one by one. It wasn’t too tricky, as the sound he was attempting to focus on was literally right next to him.

A few minutes passed, and he found himself having to fight the background noise less and less, until the rhythm of his dad’s heart was all he could hear. The sound was comforting and safe, and he listened for a few moments before drawing his superhearing back. 

His father’s pulse faded back into the familiar chaos of the world. 

“I focused on your heartbeat, Dad,” Jon said, “But that's kinda cheating—you’re right next to me anyway.”

Clark let out a small laugh as he patted him on the back, “It’s a start, kiddo. What do you say to coming back here next week?”

“I mean… as long as there’s more of Ma’s apple pie?” Jon grinned up at his father.

“I’m sure we can arrange that, bud.”

They were racing each other back to the Kent’s farmhouse (his dad was clearly letting him win) when Jon faltered midair. Nearly four hundred feet up, he heard a rhythm—a heartbeat.

It wasn’t his dad’s. It definitely wasn’t his Mom’s, whose heartbeat was typically a bit amped up due to her caffeine and sugar tendencies.

It was different—sharp and consistent as if controlled by a metronome. Mechanically perfect, and therefore slightly uncanny, but undeniably human. The pulse of someone who held their breath on purpose.

He could tell it wasn’t close to him at all, yet it was clear as day. 

Comforting. Somehow.

“You okay, Jon?” His dad’s voice snapped him out of a trance. 

Jon blinked, looking at the ground far beneath him, realizing he was hovering in place rather than flying.

“Yeah—uh, sorry, Dad.” The heartbeat had faded back into obscurity. “I was just… distracted.”

Jon kept what he’d heard to himself, an instinct urging him to hold it close until he understood what it was— who it was.

His father accepted his answer with little inquiry, and they continued on their flight to the farmhouse, coasting rather than racing. The sunset was monotone in color, a pale orange, but beautiful nonetheless. Peaceful. He found himself looking forward to their next Smallville trip.

But unfortunately, the next lesson never came—and neither did the pie, which was even worse. 

The following week, Jon was aboard Jor-El’s ship, unaware of just how terribly wrong things would end up going.

He couldn’t hear his father’s heart that deep in space. 

And for a long time, he didn’t hear anything at all. Time spent in Ultraman's volcano ensured he wasn’t able to utilize his hearing, nor the rest of the powers gifted to him via the yellow sun. 

But sometimes, when his captor hadn’t returned to the volcano, Jon felt safe enough to curl up and sleep. Sometimes he imagined things—heard things, right before he drifted off. 

A melodic voice reading to him. Krypto barking. The trilling of Smallville crickets. 

Sometimes, it was someone screaming his name, causing him to wake up in a panic. Only to remember where he was, yet again.

And once in a while, as sleep was about to overtake him, he would hear a heartbeat he never identified, familiar yet distant.

Sharp. Deliberate. 

And somehow, still clear as day.

June 20th, 2019 - Early Morning

Jon's second week back on Earth-Prime.

Jon never did learn to control his superhearing fully. Nor could he avoid any auditory hallucinations that found him as he drifted off. 

That heartbeat he couldn’t ever place—it had followed him home. It followed him everywhere. 

For years, he was weak and fragile. His bones broke, his muscles tore and his skin scarred. It wasn’t like Kryptonite poisoning—there was no immediate recovery upon his oppressor’s absence. The pain remained, visceral and human.

The only physical remnant of those years was the scar that still marred his right cheek, which refused to heal upon reintroduction to the yellow sun. His yellow sun—the very one he was born under—had no power to heal him.

It felt like rejection. It felt as if Jon’s home planet no longer had a place for him.

But for now, his place was still his parents’ apartment in Metropolis. Blackout curtains drawn, blocking out the light pollution of the city. The only source of interior light was his open laptop on the desk, and the pale gleam of glow-in-the-dark stars adhered to his ceiling. 

Lying on the linoleum floor, in a pair of his father’s embarrassingly Batman-themed pajama pants and a ratty, oversized hoodie, Jon had never felt more pathetic. 

On his abandoned laptop, YouTube must’ve been on its twentieth autoplay. He didn’t remember what he was originally watching, but whatever song had just begun was infinitely better than Watch Mojo’s “Top Ten Sexiest Gotham Villains.” Ew.

It was well into the early morning hours, and Jon was wide awake. He could hear his mother aggressively typing on her laptop in the living room. On the roof of the apartment building, a plethora of AC units hummed, several emitting the irritating squeak of loose bearings.

Beneath it all was a cacophony of human voices—talking, laughing, crying, screaming.

They all blended into a familiar static. 

Among those voices was his dad’s, speaking in a quiet yet serious tone, presumably to another Justice League member. He focused on it for a few moments before a sharp headache pulled him out of his concentration. 

Breathe—2, 3, 4

Hold—2, 3, 4

He closed his eyes and drew his hearing back in, focusing on the music playing from the laptop speakers. He only vaguely registered that the language wasn’t English; the syllables were rounded and smooth, with tonal qualities unlike those of Latin-based languages. 

Out—2, 3, 4

He was just getting the hang of his breathing exercises when he registered a very slight swish outside. Probably his imagination.

Pause—2, 3, 4

Then, what sounded like Jon's bedroom window sliding open. Please let it be a burglar.

Breathe—2, 3, 4

A muted thump of boots on linoleum. Not a burglar... unless this one was just really good.

Hold—2, 3, 4

It was all wishful thinking. There was only only other type of person that broke into his room at this hour. Someone Jon wasn't ready to face. 

Out—

“I didn’t take you for a Korean Pop enthusiast, Jonathan.” 

The voice was droll and achingly familiar, enunciating his name with practiced precision.

He scanned the room and found Damian leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossed. Jon took another breath, suddenly feeling self-conscious from his position on the floor. 

But the other boy wasn’t looking at him.

Green eyes, obscured by the domino mask adhered to his face, studied the contents of Jon’s laptop screen. His lips were in a slight downturn. For whatever reason, he stole a sticky note from the collection on Jon’s desk. If Jon didn’t know better, he would assume Damian was bored. 

But he knew better. His best friend looked on edge. Unsure.

The song ended. An awkward silence filled the room, only broken by the soft click of Damian hitting the laptop's space bar, presumably to pause the video before the next ad. He lifted his head and fixed Jon with an unreadable look, further obstructed by the mask covering his eyes. 

Jon pulled himself into a sitting position, meeting the other boy's gaze, but found himself unable to see through the mask's white lenses. He could barely even focus on Damian's form in the darkness—Kryptonian vision, usually perfect, now hazy and unfocused. 

“Hi…” He forced his vocal cords to produce the word, voice hoarse from disuse. At that, Damian's gaze morphed into something odd, almost expectant. Jon wasn't sure how to decipher that—and Rao did his head hurt. 

Improvise. 

He awkwardly cleared his throat before gesturing to the faded Bat symbols on his pajama pants. “You like the pants? If I knew you were coming, I would’ve worn my matching cowl.” He attempted to punctuate the joke with a smile, but it just didn’t feel right.

If things were back to normal, he would’ve seen Damian roll his eyes under the mask. Call him an idiot, among other choice names. Maybe toss a Birdarang at him with a decent amount of force.

Nothing was normal anymore. 

The other boy ignored the failed quip, continuing to seemingly study Jon’s appearance. His hands were folding the sticky note he took from Jon’s desk into a small square. 

Jon fidgeted with the frayed edge of his hoodie.

“You look like a seasoned vagrant,” Damian deadpanned. “When was the last time you bathed?” 

“That’s it?” Jon shot back, half-heartedly defending himself, “You broke in just to stare and insult me?”

Damian's eyebrows pinched together through the Robin mask, which would look silly if it didn't indicate Jon was about to be read for filth. 

“The clone noted you seemed relatively functional upon your return.” Damian stated, before adding, “But your current state only validates other concerns."

“What concerns?” Jon’s scar itched under the weight of the other’s gaze.

Without answering, Damian removed a stack of books from Jon’s chair and spun it to face him. He perched on the edge of the seat, leaning forward with padded elbows resting on padded knees, posture still rigid. His hands were fiddling with the sticky note.

Jon pressed further. 

“What do you mean by ‘concerns’, Damian?” 

The other boy let out an exasperated sigh, “Several people close to you believe your emotional state has severely declined. I can see why they feel that way."

“People close to me?” Jon asked in disbelief. His head felt like it was being split open.

“You haven’t set foot in the sunlight for, what, six days?”

“I–”

“After forty-eight hours without yellow sun exposure, Kryptonian powers begin fading,” Damian said, cutting him off. “At ninety-six, you’re essentially reduced to an above-average human. ”

“My powers are fine—” Jon lied through his teeth, and saw a flash of something in Damian’s eyes that made him feel like prey.

“Look at yourself, Kent!” Damian snapped, seemingly annoyed. He rose to his feet—and so did Jon, stumbling slightly and catching himself on the edge of his bed.

The caped boy approached him, jabbing a finger at Jon’s chest—who vaguely registered how much their height difference had increased. Years ago, he would’ve pointed it out and laughed, but now he just felt sick.

“We are well past the ninety-six-hour mark; therefore, I find your statement highly doubtful.” Damian asserted, before dropping the gloved hand to his side and taking a step back. 

A tense silence followed.

Damian soundlessly exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly. 

“Why have you decided to do this to yourself?” He asked in a low voice, “After everything you did to free yourself—why claw your way out, only to build a new cage the second you’re free?”

Before Jon knew it, he was the one stepping forward, guided by a rush of anger laced with something far more vulnerable. Damian stayed put, holding his ground and unflinchingly keeping eye contact.

“You came here to belittle me, Damian? Is that it?” Jon nearly shouted, incredulous. His skull continued to throb. "You have no idea what I've had to deal with!"

That apparently did something, as he saw Damian’s fingers twitch briefly at his utility belt—a rare crack in an otherwise unreadable facade. Damian quickly acknowledged the nervous habit and crossed his arms, the protective material of his Robin suit shifting.

“I am not here to belittle you, Jonathan,” Damian’s voice had softened, just a fraction, though his posture was still rigid.

Jon let out a humorless laugh. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes—caused by physical or emotional pain, he wasn’t really sure. A shaky breath pushed past his lips.

“I’ve spent the last two weeks waiting. Wondering if my best friend would reach out. I thought that maybe I should be patient. That maybe you were coming to terms with this—” He gestured to himself, voice thick, “—like I was.”

Damian opened his mouth, as if to respond, but then closed it. 

Jon's chest tightened, words spilling out before he could stop them. 

“But part of me was relieved when I didn’t hear from you. I- I thought that maybe you figured it out on your own—” He gestured to the Little League trophies gathering dust on a shelf, “that I’m not that kid anymore.”

The pain migrated to his temple like a warning, but he pressed on.

“That I wouldn’t have to watch you, in real time, figure out that I’m broken.” His voice cracked slightly as he emphasized the last word, “But no, you’re here after two weeks—six fucking years—and you’re trying to have some sort of intervention when all I need is for things to go back to normal!"

Damian’s jaw tightened. The watch on his wrist beeped several times, but he ignored it.

"I want things to go back to normal as well." The admission sounded uncharacteristically childlike—Because he is a child, Jon's conscience supplied.

The sentiment was there, but Jon knew it wasn't that simple. It hurt. Everything hurt.

“Damian, please go.” 

For a second, Jon thought the other boy might argue. A stubborn set to his jaw told Jon he wanted to.

He didn't.

“If that’s what you want, Jonathan.”

Before he knew it, Damian had slipped back into the night. Silent and undetectable.

The open window made the curtains stir with warm night air, the city lights once again casting shadows on his walls. 

He walked across the room and closed the window, adjusting his curtains to block out the light once again. Then, walked back to his desk, where his computer still presented a YouTube screen— “BTS - Tomorrow [Color Coded Lyrics/Han/Rom/Eng].”

Jon had no idea what that meant, but he did like the song.

He had just lifted his hand to shut the laptop when he noticed something small and pointed resting on the touchpad. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand.

A paper star—faded yellow, matching the other sticky notes strewn about his desk.

The sticky note Damian had been fidgeting with was now a perfect origami star. 

Jon quickly shut his laptop, dropping the star on its closed lid. Silent tears slipped down his face, tracing the jagged line on his cheek.

He took several steps in the direction of his bed, collapsing into it and burrowing himself in the blue comforter. He forced his eyes to close, taking a few deep breaths, trying to will away the ache.

He hadn’t realized he was drifting off until he heard the steady thump of a heartbeat. 

Familiar. Deliberate.

His eyes shot open, searching the darkness.

But all he found was silence.

Chapter Text

June 20th, 2019 - Late Morning

When Jon woke up, it was quiet.

Disoriented, he blinked the sleep from his eyes and attempted to free himself from the comforter twisted around his torso. A sharp pain shot from the nape of his neck to his right shoulder blade—undoubtedly from sleeping at an odd angle. His invulnerability must've been fully down.

He sat up, attempting to expand his super-hearing's radius, but couldn't pick up anything besides air exiting the vent above his head and the faint clinking of ceramic from the kitchen. 

There was light seeping in from the gap under his door, and a vague glow emanating from the edges of his blackout curtains. When there was light in Metropolis, there was most certainly traffic, but he couldn't hear the hum of engines on the street below at all. 

It was finally quiet, and Jon didn't know what to do.

He rolled out of bed and onto his feet, stretching in an attempt to make the crick in his neck more bearable. Then, he took several steps in the direction of his door, only to flip the light switch on . For some reason, the idea of exiting his room in the presence of his parents made him feel nauseated. 

He squinted his eyes at the fluorescent dome light of his ceiling fan, watching as its blades picked up speed. In the artificial light, he registered the poor state of his room. A large trash bag filled with clothes that no longer fit him rested against his closet door, waiting to be donated. His comforter was covering more area on the floor than on his bed, and his pillowcase was almost pulled off his pillow entirely, as if he was tugging on it in his sleep. 

Under the desk was an open duffel bag, with a bright blue sleeve hanging over the side. Unease churned in Jon's gut at the sight of his Superboy suit, but he pushed it down, stepping towards his desk. He leaned down to shove the rest of the suit inside and fully closed the zipper. Out of sight, out of mind, right? 

Coward , some part of his brain whispered. 

Jon didn't care.

He didn't care about a lot of things anymore. Emotions that were once so strong were now fuzzy—his brain unable to fully categorize or understand them. 

Lost in that feeling, Jon's eyes were locked onto the closed duffel bag. They unconsciously trailed upward, landing on the paper star sitting atop his computer. It was out of place, nearly glowing under the harsh lighting.

Damian.

His best friend had been in his room last night, uninvited and unannounced.

It was their thing, wasn't it? An unspoken routine—no matter what they argued about, who was grounded, or how many texts went ignored—Damian was always there .

Last night was far from the first time Jon had snapped at Damian, and far from the first time he had ordered him to leave. In the early days of their partnership, that actually happened several times a week. But Damian had never really left before, and never listened to Jon when he attempted to order him around. There was always a sardonic comment or quip, followed by outright refusal, because Damian almost exclusively did what he wanted. 

It was an annoying trait, yes, but Jon had always secretly appreciated that the other boy never backed down. 

Growing up in Superman's shadow had always made him feel a bit small. His dad was a symbol, larger than life and always perfect— or so it seemed in a child's eyes. Jon had spent a good portion of his time as Superboy worried that he would never be good enough to take over that title. Even the idea of following in his parents' footsteps through journalism was daunting. Few people could compare to his mother.

But then there was Damian—the son of Batman and Talia Al Ghul, two larger-than-life people with entirely different ambitions for their son. Two people who scared the shit out of Jon almost as much as they pissed him off. 

His best friend was the last Robin, an ex-assassin, "Heir to the Demon." Placed on a pedestal since birth, tortured, threatened, and manipulated by those meant to care for him. But even under insurmountable pressure, he refused to be pushed around. Every pedestal was left empty as he threw himself off in a careless free-fall. 

Jon always caught him. 

And looking back on it, ten-year-old Jon was a bit too obsessed with Damian. But who wouldn't be? He was older, rich, disgustingly educated in both academics and the battlefield, and straight up condescending about it. But he had freedom, and he chose to share that freedom with Jon —a boy three years his junior, who couldn't fly when they first met, and wore his heart on his sleeve, and looked for the best in unforgivable situations. Ironically, it was the first time the son of Superman had felt special. 

Jon shook himself out of his thoughts, blinking rapidly. He reached out and picked up the rounded star, holding it in his palm and observing it under the fluorescent light. Then, he tilted his head upwards to study the plastic stars on his ceiling. Sticky dots were visible where several of the stars had fallen. 

He felt sadness, anger… shame. He knew how to name those feelings—they made him absolutely sick in their intensity, until detachment took reign at least. But he also had a feeling they weren't directed at Damian, or his parents, or even Ultraman at this point.

No…they were directed at himself, weren't they?

Jon was the one who changed. He was the one who naively begged his parents to go on that space trip. Nobody wanted to admit that it was his fault. 

Despite being given countless days to mull it over, he still felt like a scared child—like a bomb waiting to go off. Hiding in his room and starving his body of sunlight, refusing to look in the mirror because he was scared of the face looking back at him. He had avoided his family and lied to his best friend—his only friend, really, with Kathy much too young to have anything in common with him anymore. 

Thinking of his friend back in Hamilton, a mournful feeling settled somewhere around his lungs, which morphed into something that felt eerily like jealousy. Kathy would have just started sixth grade now—just a kid in Hamilton, like he once was. 

He forced the tension from his chest with one staccato exhale.

Making new friends was low on Jon’s totem pole. The Legion of Superheroes had given him an opportunity—personally invited him to join them, and even credited him as their founder. 

It should've been an automatic “Hell yeah!”

But after nearly two weeks, he hadn't made a decision. 

And maybe that was a decision in and of itself, taking into account his current state, and the fact that he hadn't worn his Superboy suit in the time since then. He wasn't even really sure how to contact that girl— Imra?— in the first place. 

Truthfully, he barely remembered the events leading up to that offer. His return to Earth had felt euphoric. With so much adrenaline coursing through his veins, he had been in a dreamlike state, feeling every bit the superhero he was supposed to be.

But then, everything had been handled, and the action was over. As soon as he returned to his parents' apartment and stripped that uniform off… everything came crashing down, night after night, day after day. Surrounded by people he loved, but still feeling so, so alone. 

And now he was. Trapping himself in the stale air of his childhood bedroom, he had made sure of that. He felt like a fraud.

Superman wouldn't hide like this. 

That’s right… he wouldn’t.

Jon placed the star in the pocket of his hoodie, stretching the fabric with his hand to make sure it wouldn’t bind and flatten the origami. The resistance of the fabric was an odd sensation without his super-strength, but it was welcome—something taken off his list of immediate worries. 

He hooked his fingers over the metal handle of his desk drawer, which was visibly warped from years of unfortunate super-strength incidents and made worse by failed attempts at bending it back into its original form. The drawer easily slid open, its contents rather unimpressive: a few wrinkled notebook papers decorated by unfinished notes and pointless doodles, and several erasers poked thoroughly with pencil lead. 

He pushed the materials aside, revealing a black flip phone. He picked it up, running his thumb along its smooth edge before flipping it open and pressing the power button in a specific sequence. A boot screen appeared, displaying stylized text that read "Wayne Enterprises."

His parents had gifted the phone to him on his eleventh birthday, after he finally got himself into enough harrowing situations to drive them insane with worry. He thought the device was hilarious at the time— Wayne Enterprises making a flip phone? In this day and age? No way, Jose. 

And as it turned out, Wayne Enterprises had ended the production of all flip phone models several years prior. However, those phones hadn't been reinforced with a nearly indestructible Promethium alloy, nor were their batteries able to charge via a 10-second heat vision blast— nor did they have a silent panic button routed to the literal Justice League. Those weren’t Bat-tech.

The device completed a biometric scan, immediately confirming his identity as if nothing had changed. Which was… strangely affirming. Thanks, Batman. 

He used the touchpad to navigate to the messaging app, which indicated two notifications. Anticipation churned in his veins—he didn’t think anyone would be texting him. He hadn’t even remembered the old phone until now. How did I remember the laptop and not the phone?

One message was from his cousin Kara, several days ago—” you okay kid?” followed by a TikTok URL. The preview image displayed a golden retriever holding an absurdly large stick in its mouth. Jon’s lips unconsciously curled upwards, reminded of Krypto trying to maneuver a twenty-foot steel beam held in his jaw. 

And another message, from contact name “Dami !! 😼”.

Three weeks ago—before Jon had come back. Before anybody knew what had happened to him. Which meant Damian had messaged him anyway, knowing he was off-world. 

His hands shook as he clicked on the conversation, the phone feeling uncharacteristically heavy in his hands.

“Jonathan,

I presume you are still off-world, which is extremely inconvenient. The stupidity of my subordinates rivals even a farmboy such as yourself. The urge to hurl myself off Titans Tower is growing stronger by the hour. 

Seeing as I am unable to fly and not wearing gear, I would almost certainly die upon impact. Father would not be pleased, and I cannot risk being mocked posthumously by one of my lesser counterparts.

I infiltrated Justice League comms out of boredom, and it seems Superman has concerns regarding your delayed arrival. This is unacceptable. As Superboy, you must not disappear for so long on frivolous expeditions. I implore you to return in a timely and unharmed manner.

— D.”

Jon read it over a second time—and then a third, eyes lingering on Damian’s sign-off at the end of the message. He felt a wave of warmth and familiarity, but then felt strangely guilty for it.

His eyes trailed back up to the line that read, “Superman has concerns regarding your delayed arrival.”

Clark hadn’t mentioned anything like that to Jon. There was only the initial shock, followed by anger and tears from both of his parents. After that, they did their best to reinstate the status quo. Jon had insisted he was fine, that he was still himself, and they shouldn’t worry. His parents were doing their best to honor that now.

It’s just, there was too much space. Too much freedom. Too much quiet.

His father was spending more and more time at the Watchtower, probably doing his best to avoid being reminded of the child he lost. Or maybe it’s because he’s tired of seeing his son flinch at the sight of his face. It was ridiculous—Superman and Ultraman had entirely different postures, facial expressions, and inflections. They shared a face, but were blatantly not the same person. 

The damage was already done, and Jon felt terrible. 

No, not right now. He pushed that sour feeling to the back of his mind, to be dealt with later, with everything else he didn’t want to ruminate about. 

Jon looked over the phone’s keyboard. After years away, he wasn’t sure if he would remember the device’s hidden functions correctly, but he figured he would test his luck. He pressed the asterisk key five times in quick succession, and then the directional arrows of the d-pad: right, down, left, up.

Or was it counter-clockwise?

He felt a small surge of pride as the upper menu buttons slid up into a hidden compartment by its hinge, leaving room for each key to flip over in a domino pattern. The overturned keys clicked together, revealing a sleek and reflective surface. Another panel slid up from the base of the phone, filling the remaining gap seamlessly. The backlight activated, and the phone now had a fully functional touchscreen keyboard. 

Batman was extra like that. 

Jon stared at the text box below Damian’s message, thumbs absentmindedly tapping the keyboard—spacebar, backspace, spacebar, backspace.

“Dami,”

He added “--an” to the end of the nickname, stared at it for a moment, and then spammed the backspace. 

“D…” Maybe that was the safe option—not too casual, not too formal. He continued typing, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

The statement felt a bit flat for some reason. He hit the backspace.

“D… I’m sorry for everything.” 

He read it over, making sure he hadn’t somehow accidentally typed out something like “ Fun fact! When we first became friends, I actually had a raging crush on your older brother Dick, and I used to secretly listen to Taylor Swift and imagine what our wedding would be like. It was the mullet, I think. Anyway, I’m probably bisexual, but that doesn’t really matter right now cause I kinda want to die, and also you’re probably never going to talk to me again because I was a total asshole.”

Thankfully, it appeared he hadn’t. That would be ridiculous.

He hit the send button, a burst of anxiety shooting through his veins. He felt like pacing, jumping off the walls, hurling himself out of his window, and flying into the atmosphere at Mach speed. Oh, right—he couldn’t fly right now. So he would probably, like, actually die.

A shiver ran down his spine, thinking about how painful it would be to go splat on the roof of a soccer mom’s Cadillac Escalade ten stories below. Sacrificing his super-hearing for invulnerability suddenly felt like… a really dumb decision. 

He closed the phone and tossed it in the direction of his bed. It bounced off the far edge and smacked into the side of his nightstand, disappearing into the void. Oops.

A knock sounded at his door—gentle, but he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Jon? Baby, can I come in?” He turned towards his door, seeing that the door handle was already pushed down, Lois seemingly waiting for permission before pushing it open. 

“Uh, sure, Mom!” He did a quick visual sweep of his room, looking for anything incriminating, but then felt like an idiot. Drugs or porn would probably be less incriminating than whatever he had going on in here.

The door opened, and his mom stepped in. She was wearing her favorite pink sweatpants and a black camisole, brunette hair haphazardly held back with a claw clip. Her eyes were framed with dark rings indicative of sleep deprivation, but their violet irises revealed a compassionate glimmer, rather than the disappointed one that Jon probably deserved. 

“I made breakfast if you’re interested,” She informed him, stepping past him to pick up the comforter and toss it back on the bed. “It’s not much, just scrambled eggs and bacon—you still like those, right?”

“I do, Mom, thank you.”

He felt bad that she was fixing his mess, so he reached over and pulled the pillowcase back over his pillow, placing it back against the headboard. His bed would now look… decent, at least.

“Are you sure? I can make something else for you.” She reached out and brushed a stray curl away from his eyes, “I could run to the store—pancakes? Waffles? Hashbrowns?”

You don’t deserve that.

“I’m okay, really. I like eggs and bacon, you don’t have to go anywhere.”

He plopped himself at the foot of the bed and closed his eyes, suddenly feeling a little dizzy. After a moment, the mattress dipped as Lois accompanied him. 

Nothing was said for several minutes, the smell of bacon wafting in through the open door.

His mom inhaled deeply before breaking the silence, “I heard yelling in here last night… anything I should be concerned about? Is everything alright?”

He raised his head, opening his eyes and finding the familiar spot on the floor. 

“Nothing bad, it was just Dami. But—we kind of got into it, and I told him to leave, and…” He trailed off, trusting her to understand the unspoken portion of his sentence. 

“Oh, baby…” She gave his arm a comforting pat. 

“I just… got so angry. I don’t know why I did—it’s Damian. ” He elucidated, “He’s always come across as blunt and mean and all that, but that’s just how he is. I know that’s how he is. A-and I told him to leave, and he just left . Just like that.”

“Damian’s a smart kid, Jon,” She stated, “Not only that, but he cares about you. You boys are going to be just fine with a bit of time.”

He shrugged noncommittally. She was right, of course. He was just feeling uncannily… perceived. Maybe he had shared too much? No—that was ridiculous, this was his mom.

A muffled chime sounded in the quiet of the room. It took him a moment, but when he remembered its source, he swung his legs onto the mattress, crawling to the side of the bed bordering his nightstand.

“What’s that?” She questioned. 

He peeked over the edge, seeing the edge of the flip phone between the bed and the nightstand. As he reached down to grab it, that dizzy feeling came back full force, but he still managed to close his hand around it. He used what little momentum he could create to bring himself back up.

“Oh, your phone! I didn’t know you were still using it.” Lois commented.

“Yeah, I kinda forgot I had it. But I felt that I should text Damian and at least say sorry or something.”

“My kid is so mature,” She smiled, placing a hand on her chest in a display of pride.

“Something like that…”He opened the phone and unlocked it, seeing a notification for one unread message.

The foot of his bed shifted back into place as Lois rose to her feet, making her way to the door. “Well, I’m going to go get everything ready. I’ll see you out here in a few, and you can tell me what he said.”

As the sound of her footsteps grew distant, he clicked on the notification from "Dami !! 😼".