Lost in the Void, Found in the Stars | Damian Wayne Oneshots

Maps to Nowhere Special | Reader

Summary: There's a meteor shower in your rearview mirror, and maybe if you keep driving, you'll outrun the part of you that still aches when he says your name like it's the only one that matters.

.・。.・゜✭・»»--⍟--««.・✫・゜・。.

Years drift like smoke. You've learned the shapes of new cities, the taste of different rains. You almost believe you've outrun the echo, the phantom weight of a hand on the small of your back, the ghost of a voice that knew your name before you spoke it. You almost believe you're free.

Then, it finds you. Tucked between junk mail and bills on the floor beneath the mail slot of an apartment you've stayed in longer than most. A single postcard, edges softened from travel, forwarded more times than you can count, bearing the smudged evidence of multiple postmarks.

On the front is a generic, over-saturated photo of a famous bridge at dusk, the kind tourists buy and forget to send. You almost toss it, another piece of detritus from a world you don't belong to. But the back holds your breath hostage.

No greeting, no signature, no return address. Just a date from three weeks ago, the ink slightly feathered as if raindrops had kissed the paper before it dried, and two words written in a sharp, elegant script you'd recognize in the dark, a script that still traces phantom patterns on your skin sometimes:

Still looking.

The watch ticks on the nightstand. It shouldn't. It never has before. The cracked glass still shows 2:47, frozen in time, but something inside has awoken. You pick it up, press it to your ear, and listen to the impossible rhythm. It brings a smile to your lips, your first real one in months.

In the morning light, the leather strap feels worn but sturdy against your wrist. You trace the edge of the watch face with your thumb, feeling each familiar scratch. Some might call it worthless-an antique that doesn't even tell time correctly.

But you know better. Some things don't move forward. Doesn't mean they're useless. And just like that, the carefully constructed walls around the past begin to crack.

˗ˏˋ ★ ⩇⩇:⩇⩇:⩇⩇ ★ ˎˊ˗

You meet him in the middle of a pouring rain.

He's leaning against a rust-bitten payphone that hasn't worked since dial tones were a thing, hair soaked through, hood down, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers though it looks like he's never actually inhaled in his life. The street glows electric, headlights smear across puddles like spilled gold and acid pink, flickering through the runoff dripping from the rusted awning above him.

The rain pierces your skin like tiny needles, cold and unforgiving. Your jacket isn't thick enough for this weather, but you hadn't checked the forecast before storming out of your apartment after that stupid fight with your roommate. Something about dishes in the sink and rent money. Something that doesn't matter now.

You almost don't stop. Almost. But the way he tilts his head when you pass, like he already knows something about you you haven't figured out yet, makes your steps falter. He doesn't say your name, but he says something. And when you look over your shoulder, he's already walking the opposite direction, leather jacket glistening with raindrops, hands in pockets, like the whole world was just a temporary detour to that exact moment.