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Damian doesn’t hear Jon at first.
The Batcave is quiet—eerily so—save for the low hum of the computers and the steady, rhythmic scrape of a whetstone against his curved blade. It’s meditative in its own way. Almost peaceful. Or at least, as peaceful as a cavernous base built into bedrock and steeped in grief can be.
The chair across from him sits empty. So does the perch above the training mats. The usual symphony of life in the cave—Tim’s furious keyboard clacks, Dick’s laughter bouncing off stone walls, Jason’s boots dragging through the halls—is nowhere to be found.
Father is off-world with the League, caught in some interplanetary diplomatic crisis Damian hadn't bothered to ask about. Grayson is deep in a sting op across Blüdhaven. Todd’s laying low—again—after another reckless tangle in the Narrows. Even Alfred, ever-reliable, has taken a rare night off, leaving behind only a perfectly brewed thermos of tea as proof he was ever there.
So it's just him tonight.
Or it was.
There’s a whoosh of air followed by a soft, slightly breathless, “Hey!”
Damian doesn’t turn around. He knows who it is. “You’re tracking mud through the cave again, Kent,” he says, his tone flat, already anticipating Jon’s usual nonchalance.
Jon’s sneakers squelch faintly as he slows to a stop behind him. “I was on the farm,” Jon responds, a slight chuckle in his voice. “So technically, it’s premium organic soil. You're welcome.”
Damian rolls his eyes but doesn’t comment. The usual antics. He continues sharpening his blade in silence, every movement deliberate, controlled. But Jon doesn’t leave. He lingers, and Damian can feel the other boy’s presence hovering at the edge of his attention, making it harder to concentrate.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silent pressure, Damian turns, fully ready to scold Jon for his lack of stealth, his disregard for the sacred training space. His mouth opens, ready to deliver the cutting remark about his lack of discipline.
But then he stops. Jon’s not standing there with the usual mischievous grin. Instead, in his jeans and ridiculous flannel, he’s grinning wide, crooked, and a little nervous, as though he’s preparing himself for something. His cheeks are pink, a hint of embarrassment coloring the otherwise carefree expression. He’s holding something behind his back, the way a child might hide something they’re eager to reveal, like a magic trick in progress.
Damian frowns, suspicion creeping in. “What is it?”
Jon’s grin only grows, his nervous energy palpable. “I brought you something,” he says, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, like he can’t stand still.
Damian, ever the skeptic, crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. “If it’s alive, it better not have fleas.”
Jon snorts, the sound full of humor. “No, it’s not alive. Well, not anymore.”
Damian freezes, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Jon—”
Jon quickly raises his hands, his grin turning sheepish. “No, no! I didn’t mean it like that. Just—here.” He steps forward, hand emerging from behind his back, the object he’s been hiding now in full view.
Damian blinks, his mind momentarily shutting down as he processes the unexpected sight: a single, bright yellow sunflower. The petals are slightly drooping at the edges, the flower clearly fresh but not perfectly vibrant, as though it had been picked just this morning. The stem is still damp with dew, a testament to its recent harvest.
For a moment, Damian is frozen, his mind caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. The world seems to slow down just enough for the absurdity of the moment to sink in.
He blinks again—once, twice—and then his gaze flickers from the flower to Jon, who’s standing there with that same expectant grin, a little too eager, a little too vulnerable.
“It reminded me of you,” Jon says, the words coming out so casually, so effortlessly, that it takes Damian a full five seconds to even begin to comprehend what he’s just heard.
Damian stares at him, his mouth slightly open, unable to wrap his mind around the implications. “A flower,” he repeats slowly, “reminded you of me?”
Jon shrugs, the nervous energy still coursing through him as he tries to downplay the gesture. “Yeah,” he says, his cheeks turning a shade darker. “Sunflowers are tough. They grow in weird places. They turn toward the light, even when they’re alone in a field. They’re… I don’t know. They’re brave.”
The word brave lands in Damian’s chest like a pebble dropped into still water, sending ripples of thought he’s not ready to confront. He doesn’t speak right away. Not because he doesn’t know what to say—because he does—but because it feels... wrong. To acknowledge something so simple, so pure, as it relates to him. It feels foreign.
Jon’s words hang between them, thick with meaning, and Damian’s mind races, unable to fully process the weight of them. He’s not sure why the gesture stings, why it’s more than just a flower. Maybe it’s the way Jon said it, so freely, like it was obvious. Like he truly believed it.
After a long moment of silence, Damian reaches out. He takes the sunflower, his fingers grazing Jon’s just briefly, the touch warm and soft, unfamiliar in its sincerity. He holds the flower as if it’s made of glass, his fingers careful, as though afraid it will break under the weight of the moment.
It shouldn’t matter this much. It’s just a plant. Just a silly thing Jon thought of while flying over farmland, a harmless, kind gesture. It shouldn’t make his chest tighten or stir something unfamiliar inside him.
But it does.
“I don’t like bright colors,” Damian mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, though he doesn’t let go of the stem. He wants to downplay it, make it a joke, take the edge off the confusion that swirls inside him.
Jon’s grin widens at the challenge, his voice light and teasing. “Liar. You like Alfred’s lemon cake.”
Damian rolls his eyes, his scowl deepening, but it’s not the usual sharp expression. There’s something softer about it this time, something reluctant. “That’s different. That’s edible.”
Jon just laughs.
The sound is rich and free, echoing off the walls like a warmth that doesn’t quite belong in the cave. Damian finds himself standing there, sunflower in hand, unsure of what to do next.
“Come on,” Jon says, his voice playful but inviting. “Let’s sit.”
They end up on a small, secluded balcony of the Batcave, a place hidden away from the usual bustle of the cave. It's high up, with a clear view of the city skyline stretching beneath the fading orange glow of the sunset. The edge of the world seems to spill out before them—buildings and rooftops disappearing into the horizon, the sky painted in streaks of pink, gold, and purple. The quiet of the Batcave feels distant here, replaced by the peace of the sunset. They sit close enough to the edge to watch the light shift, feet dangling over the side like children on a swing set, the world sprawling below them.
Damian sits stiffly, one leg tucked beneath him, the sunflower resting gently in his lap, as though it might be too fragile to move. Jon lies beside him, arms crossed beneath his head, his gaze lifted to the sky above, eyes following the colors of the fading sunlight as if they hold some deeper meaning.
They talk.
About nothing. About everything.
Jon rambles, his voice light with a mix of amusement and nostalgia. He tells Damian about a cat stuck in a tree on Main Street, his tone filled with mock indignation. “I swear, Damian, this cat had fangs. It was like some kind of feral beast. I was trying to help, and it bit me. Right here.” He extends his hand, showing the tiniest of scratches, a mark so small it could’ve been from a paper cut. “Lois laughed at me for ten minutes straight.”
Damian rolls his eyes, unable to help but soften under Jon’s good-natured teasing. His glare isn’t quite as sharp as usual. “You probably startled it with your clumsy approach.”
Jon snorts, unfazed. “Rude.”
“Accurate.”
Jon grins, and despite himself, Damian feels the corners of his lips twitch into a reluctant smile. Jon’s laughter is contagious, filling the space between them, making the fading daylight feel even warmer.
The conversation drifts, flowing like the soft breeze that teases at their hair, and Damian finds himself talking about his latest training exercise. He grumbles, his voice laced with frustration. "It’s too easy to be effective," he mutters, as if the simplicity of the task were an insult to his abilities. He complains about the exercise like it’s some sort of personal betrayal.
Jon hums in response, clearly amused but unbothered by Damian’s grumbling. “Only you would complain about winning.”
Damian’s scowl returns, but it lacks its usual sharpness. “It’s called proper training. Something you wouldn’t understand.”
Jon chuckles, a sound that makes the evening air feel lighter, even as the last rays of the sun dip beneath the horizon. They debate, of course—some things are inevitable. This time, it’s about the costume designs. Jon insists that the ‘R’ logo was better when it was red. “It was more iconic,” he says, throwing his hands in the air dramatically, like it’s a fact written in stone. “Clean. Bold.”
Damian’s reaction is swift and fierce. “The black and yellow is classic. Striking. Changing it was sacrilege.” His voice is thick with his passion for the design, as if it were more than just an aesthetic choice—it was a piece of his identity.
Jon laughs, his voice ringing with affection. “You’re so dramatic.”
Damian’s glare intensifies. “And you’re wrong.”
Jon’s laugh fills the space again, but somehow, it doesn’t disturb the quiet peace that’s settled over them. In that moment, it feels like the sunset itself is wrapping around them, catching the warmth of Jon’s laughter and pulling it into the atmosphere, creating a space where the cave, the city, and the weight of their worlds don’t feel so heavy.
Eventually, the energy between them ebbs. The sharpness of their banter fades into something softer. The golden light of the sunset slowly turns to dusky purples, and the shadows stretch longer. They settle into a comfortable silence, one that’s not awkward, but full of understanding, of the quiet that exists between people who don’t need to fill every moment with words.
Damian breathes in deeply, the cool air mingling with the warmth still lingering from the setting sun. The faint scent of oil, metal, and the distant smell of the city below linger in his nose. But underneath it all, there’s something softer. Something gentler. Something Jon.
Damian glances sideways.
Jon’s still lying back beside him, eyes closed now, his hands tucked behind his head, and his legs casually bent at the knee. The view of the sunset stretches out before them, painting the sky with fiery colors that seem to match the ease of Jon’s posture. It’s almost like he belongs here, like he belongs in this moment, the warm light of the sun cascading over him as though he were born for it.
The distance between them has shrunk in a way that feels almost like the space itself has decided they should be closer. Like even the silence can’t stand to keep them apart.
“I’ve never gotten a flower before,” Damian says.
His voice is softer than he expects it to be, quieter than he meant, like the words are slipping out of him before he can hold them back. He isn’t sure where the words come from. They just… happen. A part of him wants to pull them back, to keep the vulnerability tucked away, but he doesn’t.
Jon turns his head, and when he looks at Damian, his gaze is exactly the same as it always is—direct, blue, and impossibly open. It’s like Jon’s never been afraid of what Damian might say, never worried about what he might feel.
“Really?” Jon asks, his voice almost sounding hurt, like it’s the saddest thing he’s ever heard.
Damian nods, looking down at the sunflower in his lap. The petals, vibrant in the dying light of the sun, seem to glow as if they’re still reaching for something, still yearning for warmth.
“My mother says that sentiment is a weakness.” Damian murmurs, his words falling out without thought.
Jon frowns. It’s not just a small frown, either. It’s big, a whole storm-cloud of emotion, subtle but fierce. The kind of frown that makes Damian feel like Jon wants to fix something—like he’s upset on Damian’s behalf though he doesn’t know why.
“That’s not true,” Jon says, his voice low but full of conviction. It stings, but not in a bad way. More like a tug at his heart, like someone’s trying to make him believe something he’s not sure he’s ready for.
“I know,” Damian says, his voice slipping quieter again, the words almost harder to say this time. “But I used to believe it.”
For a moment, there’s silence. But it’s different now. Not empty. Not uncomfortable. Not cold. It’s full.
Full of the weight of unspoken things. Full of the raw, aching truth of wounds not yet healed. But there’s something else there, too. Something gentle, something new.
Then, Jon moves.
It’s not a huge movement. Just a small shift, barely anything. His hand inches closer to Damian’s, tentative and slow, like he’s unsure if it’s okay to do this. He doesn’t even try to reach for Damian’s hand directly—his finger just brushes the side of his, the softest of touches, like a question without words.
Damian feels it immediately—the almost electric spark of contact. His heart races, his breath hitching in his throat. For a moment, it feels like everything has stilled around them, like the world itself is holding its breath.
Jon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t pull away. He just stays still, waiting.
Damian doesn’t know what to do. He’s not used to this, not used to someone being so close—so close in this way, where the silence feels louder than any words could be. It’s uncomfortable, but not in the way he’s familiar with. This discomfort is something softer. Warmer. More vulnerable.
Then, slowly, he curls his fingers, catching Jon’s hand in his own. It’s not perfectly smooth—there’s a slight hesitation, a little clumsiness, a little awkwardness like they’re both trying to figure out what comes next.
But it fits. It works. In a way that feels right.
Jon doesn’t say anything, but Damian can feel it. The slight hitch in Jon’s breath, the little tremor in the way his fingers twitch—just a tiny thing, like he didn’t expect it. Like he was waiting for this.
They sit like that.
Side by side. Shoulder to shoulder. Their hands quietly woven together, fingers tangled in a way that feels oddly natural. It’s not perfect, not yet. But it’s real.
For a few moments, they just sit like that, hand in hand, letting the silence stretch out around them. The world outside the cave feels far away, like it doesn’t matter. The sunset fades into night, but neither of them move. Neither of them pull away.
The sunflower rests in Damian’s lap, its petals still bright even in the dimming light, as if it, too, is content to sit and watch. And in the stillness between them, something begins to settle.
Something warm.
Something soft.
Something that doesn’t need words to be understood.
That night, when Damian finally returns to his room, he doesn’t throw the sunflower away. He stands there for a moment, his hand hovering near the small desk, as if uncertain of what to do. After a beat, he finds an empty glass, its surface cool and smooth under his touch. He fills it with water, watching the liquid settle, then carefully places the sunflower inside, its stem leaning slightly to the side, its petals still bright and fragile.
The flower wobbles a little, but it doesn’t fall. It stays. Even at the angle it’s resting, it still faces the window, where the moonlight pours in—soft, silver, and quiet—casting pale shadows across the room.
Damian stands there, watching the flower for a long time, the quiet of the room pressing in around him. He doesn’t understand why something so simple means so much. Why a single flower, so ordinary, has this weight.
But he knows one thing for certain: he doesn’t want it to wilt. Not yet. Not if it came from Jon.
So for the first time in a long while, he feels something that isn’t cold, or sharp, or buried. Something that feels like it could bloom, if given the time.