The Ghost in His Smile
”
Wayne Manor – One rainy afternoon
The rain was soft, pattering against the high windows of the manor like a lullaby. Damian sat in the corner of the library, sharpening a blade with a steady rhythm. Quiet. Focused. Always focused.
Across the room, Jon Kent laughed. A bright, unfiltered kind of sound. He was retelling some story to Dick, something ridiculous about trying to save a cat from a burning bakery and ending up covered in whipped cream. Jon was 16 now — still awkward, still grinning too much — and despite the years, Damian hadn’t entirely figured out how to be around him.
“—and then the cat bit me on the face,” Jon finished, laughing. Dick was laughing too.
But Damian froze. That laugh. That exact kind of laugh.
He heard it in his bones. He heard Peter.
He looked up slowly, his hand loosening its grip on the blade.
Jon turned and saw him watching. “Hey, Damian!” he called out, all warm energy. “You okay?”
The boy didn’t know what he had just done — how he’d cracked something open.
Damian blinked once. “Fine.”
Jon walked over, flopping on the arm of the chair beside him like they were just kids, not half-gods and assassins.
“I was thinking,” Jon said, “we haven’t trained together in a while. Wanna spar?”
Damian looked at him. Really looked. The enthusiasm. The complete lack of malice. The way he leaned forward when he talked.
Peter used to do that. He’d light up when he got excited. He’d talk with his hands, like every idea couldn’t fit in his chest unless it spilled out.
For a moment, Damian couldn’t breathe.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, standing. “Let’s spar.”
Jon grinned. “Awesome. I’m gonna kick your butt this time.”
Damian almost smiled. Almost.
But when Jon turned away, Damian whispered under his breath, just to the ghosts:
“You’d have liked him, Peter. He’s got your heart.”