Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Before Damian was brought to his father to continue his training, he believed he’d die in one of two ways: honorably while completing his mission like a proper Al Ghul, or in disgrace.

It crossed his mind more than once that he may be killed amidst his training as the Heir, or assassinated by a traitor. Both of which, mind you, have occurred and not an ideal experience. By the age of ten, he’d swum in the Lazarus Pit no less than three times.

After he entered Wayne Manor and become Richard’s Robin, Damian believed he’d die in his uniform. Like Todd, only less pathetic.

It’d be from injuries gained through a formidable opponent. A high level threat who Damian would have captured—not killed, per Father and Richard’s rule—for another associate to send to Blackgate, Arkham, or to the Justice League’s holding facility.

It’d be heroic, honorable, great. Everything that Robin was. Everything that Damian strived. And if the circumstances didn’t allow him that mercy, he’d take the villain with him out of vicious spite.

Regardless of circumstance, Damian Al Ghul Wayne would not have a meaningless death. He refused.

And yes, it has occurred to him that he may end up sacrificing his life for another's. But in his head, it's always been for Richard, Father, or Jon.

Not Drake.

Nor as a result of rescuing the dolt.

On a cold night in February, all available Gotham vigilantes were needed for a prison-wide breakout in Blackgate.

Spoiler was not available due to a fractured arm from the night before. Signal was nursing a concussion.

Batman, Red Hood, Black Bat, and Nightwing had to recapture everyone, prioritizing the most dangerous. Oracle assisted in tracking the criminals in need of apprehending. Robin and Red Robin were assigned to secure the perimeters around the prison.

In all aspects, it should have been a simple matter. Tiring and requiring as many vigilantes as possible, but simple nonetheless. They and the GCPD had responded quickly, before any of the inmates should have had time to truly be worrisome.

Robin had been keeping watch of his area and listening to Nightwing and Red Hood argue about the significance of books versus movies in the modern era when Red Robin hit his distress beacon.

From what they could gather, he was ambushed. The closest vigilante was Robin, so he went to rescue Drake before the fool got himself killed. And while he succeeded on that front, it is what happens next that Damian will later have trouble remembering.

Robin swung forward and kicked the gun aimed at Red, forcing his mind to remain clear even while his heart pounded. If he was just a few seconds late, Drake could have sustained a bullet to the head.

His annoying brother nearly died from some low-level criminal. Incidentally, Robin has the urge to cut open their livers in retribution. In a moment of anger, he engaged in combat.

But they were outnumbered. Red Robin had an injured leg and, given Drake’s poor immune system, needed immediate medical attention. Strategic retreat was nearly successful through the use of smoke pellets and grapples.

Guns were fired at random in hopes of hitting them. 

A flash of burning pressure left him momentarily breathless.

Robin didn’t make a sound to indicate that he’d been shot, focused entirely on getting to the roof.

It was only when the immediate danger had passed that Damian could no longer ignore the pain in his side. He collapsed onto his back and attempted to simply focus on breathing and putting pressure on the wound. Damian isn’t sure if it’d been mere seconds or hours until Red Robin rushed towards him in a way that certainly did not help his own injury and hurriedly assessed Robin’s status. 

Heavy bleeding from bullet to the side, suspected to have hit internal organs, shortness of breath.

He yelled at the comms for the Batmobile and reported the injury as he took out gauze from his utility belt.

Oracle responded with practiced calm to the Robins. “ETA ten minutes.”

“Wrapping up now. I’m on my way. ETA five minutes. Hang on for me, Robin.” It was Nightwing, voice steady and soothing.

Nightwing was coming for him. Richard would be here soon.

In the back of his head, even as his thoughts began to slip away into incoherence, he knew for certain that Richard would make it in time. He’ll stay with him as Pennyworth performs surgery. He’ll stay no matter what. He’ll hold his hand and whisper nonsense and promise he’ll be okay.

“Robin, stay awake.” Drake startled him out of the daydream.

Was that his imagination, or hallucination? He couldn’t bring himself to care.

Damian didn’t even know that he’d closed his eyes.

He hates that this feels familiar. The sensations, the dread, the ever-growing detachment.

He’s dying, isn’t he.

Slowly.

But. But he still has a chance.

…Right?

From the comms, there was an increasing chatter of concern and panic. Damian found that it was becoming harder and harder to follow what they were saying.

It took far more energy than he’d want to admit to lift his hand up to his ear and silence the communication device.

Ah, both of his hands were free. The gloves are stained, however. They need to be washed.

Drake has been applying pressure, mumbling all the while. What is he saying? It must be important.

“Drake?” He sounded muddled even to himself.

“You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.” He continued to say with no indication to have heard Damian.

Ah. So that’s what he’s been saying.

“Cease your stumbling, Drake. It’s unprofessional.”

He receives a scoff. “As if using names on the field is acceptable.” A bit of tension released from Red Robin's shoulders, but his voice was still trembling even when he forced it to sound light.

Clearly being the more mature of the two and definitely not because it felt like a waste of energy, Damian decided to ignore the insult. “Updates on the breakout?”

Like a switch, Red Robin relayed the information without any of the previous show of emotion. “Almost everyone is in custody, but Black Mask is using the chaos to sneak a big shipment from the dock. We suspect it’s related to the narcotics case from six days ago. Red Hood is dealing with it now.”

Red Hood. Oh. Jason Todd. If he really was dying, then Damian will be unable to finish that book Todd forced him to read. And he promised to help Damian brush up on his firearm skills, without Father’s knowledge or consent of course. They were supposed to do it next week.

He wants to see his Akhi again.

“...Drake?” He asks, calling his name again.

“Yeah?”

“Am I dying?”

For reasons unbeknownst to Damian, the perfectly sensible question served only to worsen Red Robin’s distress.

“No! No!” He yelled. “Oh god, Oracle! What’s the ETA for the Batmobile?”

Apparently, Drake didn’t like the answer he was given. “Can’t it come any sooner?! I can’t—I can’t make it stop!”

‘Make what stop?’ Damian wondered numbly.

“Drake…!” What was meant to be a yell sounded more like a whimper. Pathetic, but nonetheless he carried on while he was still coherent. “The truth. Give me the truth.”

Drake doesn’t say anything. His struggle to keep from hyperventilating is enough.

“I thought so. Listen. Listen to me.” It was getting difficult to keep his eyes open. Still, he had things to tell Drake. “You were...an adequate Robin. Neither a replacement or interloper. But stop being so danger-prone.”

Even on his deathbed, that is the closest he was willing to compliment his brother. Or apologize to him. Directly anyway. The will he left will convey the rest of his sentiments.

It startled a laugh out of Drake. An empty one, unfortunately.

Damian supposed he owed Drake after several assassination attempts, back when he was ten and didn’t understand the Manor’s rules. Considering he was dying on account of saving him tonight, perhaps they could be considered even.

If Damian had the energy, he would have taken the opportunity to guilt Drake into quitting caffeine. Ah, he neglected to include that in his will. What a shame.

Drake was talking, but the words refused to come together in Damian’s mind.

He felt something lift his head. It was shaky but somehow still gentle.

He opened his eyes again, wondering a second time when he closed them. Then he heard a familiar lullaby being hummed, and he knew who was cradling his head.

“You’re off tune.” Was all Damian could think of saying.

The humming stopped and Damian wished he’d just kept quiet.

“Hi, kiddo.” He scratched Damian’s scalp the best he could through the gloves of his suit. “We need to get you down so the Batmobile can take you as soon as it comes, okay? I’m going to carry you. Just stay awake.”

Richard was here now. Batman—Damian’s Batman—was here. He was holding Damian. That meant he could sleep.

“Keep your eyes open a bit longer, Baby Bat. Please.” Or not, if Richard had resorted to begging. “It’s very important you stay awake.”

Damian had no choice but to agree. It’s a task from his Batman, after all. In a moment, Damian sees blue wrap around him. Or perhaps that was his vision blurring.

He hardly felt the jostle of landing, or how Drake’s hands immediately went to reapply pressure onto his side.

He blinked, and the car stood in front of him. Time was slipping away, as was his vision. He was laying in the back of the Batmobile, his head on Richard’s lap and Drake holding a pressure bandage onto the injury.

The blood hasn’t stopped.

Oracle directed the Batmobile remotely, driving through every shortcut and back alley to get them back to the Cave. It was quiet, save for Richard’s strangled humming, Drake’s breathing, and the thrum of the engine. Richard began fiddling with Damian’s domino.

“Richard?” He calls out when the mask is gone, searching for his eldest brother’s eyes.

As soon as it was off, Richard’s hands went to his hair. They were still shaking, but otherwise he gave no hint of distress. In fact, a gentle, reassuring smile was found on his face. “Yeah, Dami?”

In normal circumstances, he would have scowled at the pet name. Richard agreed that he’d only use it in private, and only on occasion. But right now, he is tired. And rather sure he is about to die. So he’ll be gracious and allow it.

“Don’t let Father turn my room into a…” Damian couldn’t remember the word he’d wanted to use. It started with an M. “Like Todd.”

The fingers in his hair paused, then kept making soothing motions. “Of course. I won’t let that happen. It won’t ever happen.”

“Tell him…he’s my Akhi. Always.” Ever since they reunited, he’s barely ever referred to Todd as such. It’s regrettable that he won’t be able to remedy that now.

“Oh Damian.” Ah, he’d said that part out loud. Richard leaned down to kiss his head. In the position he was in, he likely only managed to do that due to his superb flexibility.

“Anything else?” For the first time since Richard arrived, Drake spoke.

Vaguely, he had the thought that Drake asked to keep him talking rather than wanting to know.

“Burn my uniform. My will is on the nightstand. And give Batcow bellyrubs. And…” He stopped for a moment before whispering a traitorous, childish thought. “Will Father miss me?”

Both Richard and Drake made a choked noise, but neither answered him.

A part of him knew the truth, knew the answer was yes, but Damian would like to hear it. Needed it confirmed now more than ever, because his brothers’ reaction was making Damian fall into a pit of insecurity.

Richard wiped away the tears that he didn’t even know were falling. He tapped his comm, into a private line, most likely. “B, tell Damian you love him. Right now.” Richard said something else and left no room for discussion as he removed the comm and put it inside Damian’s ear.

“Robin?” Batman’s usual growl sounded different. Maybe he’d imagined the hesitance.

“Father?”

“How do you feel?” It was certainly an un-Batman-like question. Damian had half-expected a grunt in acknowledgement.

‘It hurts,’ he wants to say. Instead, “Tired.”

“Stay strong. We’ll meet at the Cave. Agent A will get you better.”

Encouragement.

A promise he’ll be okay.

Concern. Batman was concerned. And this was the closest Batman could say to ‘I love you’ as possible when in uniform. He was still taking care of the aftermath of the Blackgate issue.

This was enough, because Damian understood. Because those words meant he’d miss Damian just as much as he would his other children.

It’s for the best that he is not present; he doesn’t want Father to see him like this.

“Richard?” He tries, he tries so hard to keep his eyes open. He’d resisted the pull of sleep thus far, but he recognizes a losing battle.

“Yeah, kiddo? I’m here.”

Richard was here, stroking his hair like Mother did when he was revived with the Lazarus Pit at the age of four. How Todd did when he was nine. Drake was here, trying to keep Damian alive while muttering about blood. Damian wonders if Mother and Todd complained about the blood as well.

Father wasn’t here, but he was listening. He wasn’t here, but wished he was. Todd would wish he was here too. And so would Jon, Pennyworth, Gordon, Thomas, Brown, Cassandra, Titus, Alfred The Cat, and Batcow.

Damian smiled despite himself.

This was a more peaceful, more comfortable death than he had ever dared hope for. He couldn’t even feel the pain now. He’s only partly bitter that it was somewhat meaningless, the result of a lucky shot.

“Ana…uhibbuk.” They made worthy last words.

Damian meant it with his whole heart. To everyone, but to Dick Grayson especially. His eyes closed again without meaning to.

“Me mangava tut.” Richard replied automatically, though his voice was strained and beginning to crack. “We’re halfway there. Stay awake for me, please. Do it for me. Please. I can’t do this, Dami.” He choked, rubbing a thumb across his cheek in rapid circles. “Not you. Not my Robin.”

He could barely grasp Richard’s words as he drifts away, unable to hold the final tethers of consciousness any longer.

“Damian.” Father calls out in his ear, voice less and less like Batman. More and more distant.

“Damian!”

Chapter Text

Damian has never considered himself vulgar.

He does not swear. He knows a colorful variety, of course. Todd had been his caretaker, trainer, and bodyguard, after all. He simply does not say them. At least not in the English language while in the presence of Pennyworth. Or in Arabic while Father is around. Or Mandarin. Or Hindi. Or Russian. Or German.

Regardless, Damian does not swear unless given a good reason for risking Pennyworth, Father, and Richard’s admonishments.

So when he tries to say “Fuck” Damian believes he has very much earned it. In fact, between dying and subsequently waking up, much less waking up in an unfamiliar place, Damian has decided that he’s earned the right to be foul-mouthed until he can make sense of what the fuck was going on.

The first thing he notes is that his attempt to speak sounds more like “fukk.” Like a babble.

A baby’s babble. Coming from his mouth.

He has a guess as to what has become of him, and it is horrendous to even think about. No, it cannot be. He would much prefer his promised death rather than that possibility.

Damian closes his eyes and takes a breath. He braces himself, gathers his courage, opens his eyes, and lifts his hands. The stubby fat of fingers and palm proves his theory correct.

Evidently, he’s become a baby.

Fucking shit.

He is offered no explanation as to what is happening, how he ended up in what appears to be a crib, or why the hell is he a baby.

Damian has no experience with babies, so how is he supposed to estimate his current age? And where is he? And where is Father and Richard and why—?

“Waah!” He cries, and Damian hates that he cannot control it. But more than that, he wants Richard to tell him what to do because this is too much.

Soon, someone comes to his crib to soothe him. But it’s not Richard. It’s not Father, or Todd, or Pennyworth, or even Drake. It’s an unknown woman. And she’s picking him up and will not let go no matter how much he struggles.

“Hush, Little Prince.” Damian instantly stills when he hears her speak.

It’s all familiar. The Dialect. The title, one that hadn’t been used for him since he was six.

Fuck, Damian is in the League.

This revelation intensifies his cries.

It took a mortifyingly long time until the tears ceased and his caregiver returns him to the crib. To make matters worse, he fell asleep in an instant and had no time to think before he was presented with breakfast.

Or, he assumed it was breakfast. There was no clock visible anywhere and the room held no windows. The only light they had was artificial. Khubz, a cup of sliced fruit, and nutritional supplements were fed to him. He was indulged with gummy supplements meant for children instead of tablets. A satisfactory meal, overall. It is a relief he was old enough to consume solids, at least.

Damian thought he’d be sent to train once he was done. After all, most of his early memories consisted of either sharpening the mind, or sharpening the sword. As far as he knew, Damian’s training began from the moment he could walk. And his current body was certainly capable of walking.

So he was rather confused when his caregiver had placed him on the ground and offered him a handful of items. Upon further investigation, they were toys. 

Not ostentatious like in advertisements and stores, but they were certainly toys. Building blocks, a set of puzzles, a tiger plush, and flashcards containing animal pictures. He’d been so immersed in these toys he hadn’t noticed someone new had entered the room until he glanced up.

Sleek brown hair, sharp eyes, and a presence that could slit the throat of even the mightiest men. Cold, brilliant, calculating, beautiful.

Mother.

Damian hasn’t seen her in over a year. Not since she’d all but abandoned him. And now she was right here, speaking to the other woman about his diet and yesterday’s incident.

He couldn’t stop the hiccup and tears in time. Before Damian could fear that his childishness would result in punishment or scolding, Mother picked him up.

“What’s made you so unhappy, Habibi?” She poked his cheek, an action he had not at all anticipated from her.

Damian knows nothing about children and can’t hope to know how to behave convincingly. In the end, he concludes not to compromise his cover by speaking. For lack of a better response, Damian simply buried his head into his mother’s shoulder.

Unexpectedly, Mother coos and rubs his back. She settles on an armchair with Damian on her lap.

She spoke to him for two hours, alternating between League Dialect, Mandarin, English, and approximately eight or nine others.

Topics changed seamlessly as well. One moment she’d tell him about the recent development of a clean energy project in a company owned by her alias, Miranda Tate, and the next Mother would speak of her college days in Cairo. Damian hadn't even known she attended a legitimate college.

There are no tests, punishments, or expectations of him to do anything but listen and utilize the toys. Damian felt like he’d achieved something greater than becoming Robin when Mother praised the tower he made with building blocks. When he stared at a flashcard, one that showed the image of a bat, Mother chuckled and picked him up. “You truly are Ibn al Xu'ffasch.”

Damian sat on his mother’s lap as she proceeded to reminisce about Father.

Mother told him how they met and a couple of other stories. She omitted most details, but it was relatively the same version of what Damian learned when he was ten.

The two hours were over quickly, and Mother left to oversee drills.

Damian observed this new routine and noted its consistency. Every day was more or less the same, aside from the toys changing. Without fail, Mother came to see him every morning for two hours. She would check on him once again after dinnertime, and leave within ten minutes.

He wasn’t allowed outside his bedroom and consistently supervised to ensure he wouldn’t unintentionally kill himself. Or so no one would kill him.

Over the course of ten days, Damian gathered enough intelligence to piece together his situation.

          1. The matter of most obvious effect is that time travel has occurred. Or dimensional travel. He couldn’t rule one or the other out for now, nor speculate how or why he was alive.

          2. A significant portion of his memory has faded. Not gone, but far less vivid than before. Damian still remembers relevant details and trivia pertaining to his family’s habits, but much of his time spent in the League of Assassins was a blur.

          3. His father was still Batman. An issue to consider is that if this was an alternate universe, Batman may not necessarily be Bruce Wayne. A rather troubling possibility. For all he knew, the man under the cowl could be Slade Wilson or Oliver Queen.

The thought of any version of Mother being involved with either of them is sickening, so he was willing to keep to the assumption that his father is still his father.

          4. Damian is of the estimated age of two. Frustratingly, he’s lost all his hard-earned muscle control, strength, and reflexes. Now all Damian could do on his own is sit up, run, and kick. His hands lack dexterity and he has not been provided any drawing utensils thus far.

          5. He is in Nanda Parbat. While his new room is unfamiliar and consisted of necessities for babies, the door had the same design. Styles differed slightly between bases, and Damian has been trained to possess keen eyes.

          6. Mother is affectionate in a way that is far more casual than he used to receive. It’s inconclusive whether it is due to his young age or if he really is in an alternate universe.

          7. Damian is still Ra’s Al Ghul’s heir. He is under Mother’s protection for now, but combat training will begin once he turns four. The result of a compromise between them, according to Mother’s iterations.

In conclusion, he is safe. For now. Damian would be permitted to remain a child for a couple more years. And then he will have to endure the League of Assassin’s training a second time. With his body the way it is now, he can’t escape on his own.

Would he survive? Probably not.

After revival with the Lazarus Pit, Grandfather would punish him for his weakness. Back then, they were called additional training. Damian had believed it. He will be left in a cell, left with no one (except one, except one soul who would become a protector and a brother). Or assigned to spar until on the verge of collapse. Or perhaps he will be brought to the Bloodless Chamber.

Ah, he’ll have to undergo all of it again. For six years until he is sent to train under Batman.

“No need to waste your strength on tears, Damian.” Damian hadn’t realized his mother had come in.

She stroked his hair just as she did when he was four, and it made him cry harder. “Hush, my heart. No one will touch you without losing his life. I will make it so. No need to be scared.”

The words were a cold reassurance. Part of him wanted this to be his Mother, vowing to protect him while he is weak, instead of an alternate version. But that was looking less and less feasible, considering the ease of which she holds him close, with no fear that he may become a weakness to exploit.

With Mother being how she is now, perhaps she will ensure his training regimen will not be as brutal. There are many things he is willing to endure, but he does not wish to go anywhere near another Lazarus Pit.

Damian leans into her touch.

Chapter Text

Damian is nearly certain that he is in an alternate universe when his mother greets him in the morning at the same time she’s done every day for close to three months.

It was the same routine, only with one glaring difference.

“Happy birthday, Habibi!” Mother exclaims as soon as she enters and shuts the door.

In his utter shock, Damian inadvertently dropped the ball he’d been playing with.

He has a birthday.

He has a birthday?

Since Mother hadn’t ever told Damian his actual birthday, Father celebrated it on the 30th of April. For three years, that had been designated as Damian’s day. Now he has a new day. His infant-level education disguised as games had mentioned it was April 6th, nine days ago. So today is April 15th. Was he born on that day originally, or is the date specific to this universe? Interestingly enough, both birthdays were set in the same month. Does that suggest some sort of cosmic consistency, or something else? 

Mother interrupts his musings by lifting him up and placing a kiss on his cheek. “You’re making the same expression as your father. What are you thinking about so intently?”

“Birthday.” It was spoken like a question instead of an answer. He has made significant progress in training his tongue into forming proper, sophisticated words, but there is only so much he is willing to risk his true intelligence being compromised.

She laughs, as though Damian’s confusion is amusing to her. “Yes, your birthday. A special day. I even went on a trip to secure the perfect gift.”

There’s no way any version of his mother would waste time on a flight for something so useless. It must have been during the two-day mission in Metropolis, last week. It was the only time Damian didn’t see her. Whatever gift she’d bought, it certainly was not the purpose of her absence.

He is instructed to close his eyes. Opening them, Damian stares at the fuzzy thing placed in his grasp. That fuzzy thing turns out to be a bat.

A toy bat.

A bat whose torso was unrealistically round compared to its small wings.

Mother must’ve thought she was being humorous. He attempts to glare at her, but that only serves to make her chuckle. Instead of getting angry and throwing a tantrum befitting an infant, Damian chooses to focus his attention on examining the bat toy in his hands.

It was soft and fuzzy, and the material did not feel cheap. Damian could admit it was not a thoughtless gift. As far as he could tell, it wasn’t bugged with listening devices or cameras. There was no hint of even a tracker.

His mother had given him an ordinary toy. For his birthday.

This is by far the strangest day since his arrival.

And the routine had changed today as well. Mother didn’t leave when the allotted two hours were up. She stayed for the whole day, even feeding Damian lunch by herself.

It was not that Damian was ungrateful that she’d chosen to spend his birthday together, but it was odd. Odd that she chose to be so open with her care. Before, Damian was fortunately to have earned a nod of approval or a sentence of praise. Here, Mother acts almost like Richard. Freely giving affection to Damian, regardless of if he earned it.

She left after dinner, bidding goodnight on her way out.

“Happy birthday, Little Prince.” His caregiver whispers as she tucks in Damian in and smoothes his hair. She allows him to keep Mother’s recent gift in his grasp.

In honor of Richard, he shall name it Bat Plush.

Bruce has been suffering in his study since noon. Lucius had been on his case all week about doing the paperwork necessary to go ahead with their next project. And he may have been putting it off in favor of upgrading the Cave’s security systems. Right up until the deadline tomorrow.

So Bruce was stuck at his desk, speed-reading and signing a stack of papers with a protein shake for lunch and another one for dinner. But he finishes it on time and sends it off to Lucius.

Finally able to stand up and stretch, Bruce plans to spend a couple hours in the Cave before going on patrol.

Which would mean sitting in a different chair, looking through the computer to find a lead on an upcoming case. It’s astounding how much of his time is actually spent stationary and not grappling through rooftops.

He is just about to turn the hands of the grandfather clock when he remembers the date.

April 30th.

He stares at the clock. Or maybe it’d be more accurate to say he stares at the wall next to it. He’s not sure which.

Overcome with a familiar feeling, Bruce lets go of the hands and walks out of the study as though in a trance.

He passes Alfred in the hall, who doesn’t raise his eyebrow like he would when he didn’t understand what Bruce was doing. So Alfred knew, and he was waiting for Bruce to notice.

He doesn’t stop walking until he gets to his room, reaches an old dresser in the corner, and opens the box stored inside it. 

He doesn’t look inside the box—not yet. He has to sit down first.

Gingerly, he picks up the first item: an item shaped like a red popsicle, intended to soothe teething.

It was stupid to get it, since the baby wouldn’t need it until they were four months at the earliest.  But Talia had just told him she was pregnant and Bruce was twenty-three years old, with zero experience with kids. He’d bought it spur of the moment, thinking it’d be useful. Bruce had bought a slew of things in the following weeks, but the silicone popsicle teether was the first. And the only one he’d purchased without doing any research beforehand.

He stares at it for a moment, running a finger along the textured bumps before putting it aside. 

The box only has one other item: a framed picture. The photo from the ultrasound. Bruce’s fingertips brush the edges of the protective glass.

The picture is the only one of its kind. Because Bruce never made a copy, and Talia didn’t ask for one when she left.

Bruce didn’t blame her for it. He still doesn’t.

He understands that the reminder was painful. It was why the cradle, the toys, the nightlight, and clothes disappeared overnight.

Out of everything he’d bought for the baby, these were the only two things he couldn’t bring himself to donate or throw away.

Bruce, though he loathes to admit it, is a sentimental man. As a result of this sentimentality, he kept a couple things for safekeeping and looked at them once a year. It’s turned into a ritual and he’s not sure when, if ever, he will stop. Bruce never has the date marked on a calendar, but he keeps doing it. He keeps going back to the box tucked away in the dresser. Keeps thinking of that time when he felt so…optimistic.

Back then, Batman didn’t exist in anything but concept.

For at least a couple weeks, he had seriously considered whether or not he should go through with being a vigilante. The day he’d planned to debut in May was less than a month after the due date. It would have been foolish, reckless, selfish, and impractical to risk his life by going out at night if he had a baby to raise.

If it was a boy, Bruce wanted to name him Thomas.

If it was a girl, Talia planned to call her Athanasia.

But in the end, it didn’t matter because they lost the child before they were even born. His relationship with Talia ended soon after. She couldn’t bear to stay in Gotham and returned to the League. Bruce couldn’t stop her, and he hasn’t heard from her since.

His debut as Batman happened a year later, when he was twenty-four. Now, he is twenty-seven and still going out at night.

Bruce packs everything away and puts the box back into the drawer. His eyes linger there before he shuts it.

Every year, Bruce lets himself think about fatherhood. About the child he could have had, what might have happened if Talia stayed. He lets himself be sentimental, just for a few minutes, before donning the cowl and continuing on.

Chapter Text

Damian had gotten complacent. That much was clear when his mother had left for an assignment and he was fighting off tears.

It’s only been three days!

Before his death, he’d been separated from Mother for over a year with no issue!

He doesn’t care if this is a baby’s body. Regardless of age or emotional control, he is Damian Al Ghul Wayne and he will suck it up, as Todd would say. But Richard had taught him that it is not healthy to deprive oneself of comfort, so he hugs Bat Plush a little tighter at nighttime.

Yes, it’s Richard’s fault for making him soft.

And Mother’s fault for coddling him.

What if she has already returned, but has yet to seek Damian out? Has she gotten tired of him? Did he unknowingly fail a test?

The tears spill uncontrollably and soon his caregiver comes to hush him back to sleep.

On the fifth day of Mother’s absence, Damian is summoned by his grandfather.

He is changed out of comfortable clothes and into a fitted robe without the gold embroidery he used to own. It’s just a simple green with no indication of his rank.

For the first time since he awoke three months ago, Damian is taken out of his room. The messenger leads the way, and Damian heart pounds at the sheer familiarity. It fills him with dread, because he knows every possible scenario this can lead to.

He is not carried and his caregiver is not permitted to escort him.

Walking on his own two feet across Nanda Parbat for an audience with Grandfather is not something Damian wished to experience again.

But, he’s had to do it dozens of times and knows what is expected.

Damian surveys his surroundings as they walk, looking for differences in the layout. There is none, everything is the same, but the surveillance cameras are visibly ancient. It’s laughable, really. Oracle would have a field day. Drake would have a nervous breakdown. The thought of Drake’s idiotic face is enough to settle his nerves.

Sure enough, Grandfather is sitting on that gaudy gold chair. Even back when he’d wanted to be the Demon’s Head, Damian intended to replace it with something more tasteful.

Grandfather evaluates him, asking simple questions and watching for something.

Damian has to tread lightly between satisfying Ra’s and using vocabulary he definitely shouldn’t know at three years old. It’s an extremely stressful time, but relatively short. Grandfather nods to himself, seemingly content with his answers.

Damian hides his relief and waits to be dismissed to his room. He desperately wants Mother and Bat Plush.

But of course that doesn’t happen. Of course Grandfather didn’t summon him just for a chat. Damian is dismissed, but it is not his room. No, he is taken to a place he hasn’t seen in almost four years.

It’s the Bloodless Chamber.

The Bloodless Chamber.

He was complacent. He should have expected what Grandfather meant.

It was agreed that Damian wouldn’t train in combat until the age of four. There was no discussion about developing his tolerance to torture in the case he is captured for information. Because the Heir cannot betray the Demon’s Head and Mother is not here to persuade Grandfather. The chamber itself isn’t the kind typically seen in films. It is clean, with three rooms inside the chamber, each with a different purpose.

He’s brought to the tile room. It has the appearance of an old-fashioned bathroom, though inside there is only a chair, towels, and a tub. And a video feed, for performance data and Grandfather’s entertainment.

Compared to the other rooms, he knows this is tame. But although he refers to it as the tile room, it’s more accurate to call it the drowning room.

Damian steels himself to appear calm, but he fears he will start crying soon.

But he can’t, even if it takes all of his minuscule control. If he cries, Damian could be brought to the burning room. Or the electric room.

Those are far worse.

Grandfather isn’t here. The one who will be training Damian is a close subordinate. He was likely ordered to punish Damian if he doesn’t satisfy.

He knows how this goes. He knows, and he cannot show any reluctance when the man instructs him to sit in the tub and begins to fill it with water. It’s cold, and Damian has to suppress a shiver. He hasn’t felt cold in months. His bedroom has always been a mild temperature.

As soon as the water fills, the man pushes Damian’s head into it. He barely has enough time to take in a breath.

Just when his lungs begin to burn, he is pulled back up. The reprieve doesn’t last and he is dunked back in. This pattern continues until Damian is on the verge of losing consciousness. He is pulled back up a final time and ordered to step out of the water. Damian wanted to, but he is shivering and weak and scared and he needs Richard and Mother and Bat Plush and—

He knows he can’t show emotion on his face.

He knows he can’t, so he grits his teeth and wobbles out.

The effort is rewarded with a towel, and Damian quickly dries himself the best he can. No one will do it for him, because he is not a child. Right now, he can’t afford to be.

His caregiver waits inside Damian’s room, but does not make any show of moving from her place until his escort exits and they are left alone. She swiftly changes him out of the wet robes and mercifully does not give him a bath that night.

If Damian wasn’t certain that she will likely die under Grandfather’s order once he is deemed old enough to fight, he would have asked for her name.

“When will Mother come back?”

He knew by her regretful expression that he would not like her reply. “I’m sorry, Little Prince. I cannot contact her at the moment. Until Lady Talia returns, you must be strong.”

Strong.

Of course.

Even in a new world, he has no choice but to kill any weakness.

Damian will die otherwise.

His body wants to cry, but no tears fall this time. He curls against Bat Plush and pretends he is home, where Titus and Alfred the Cat guard the bed against unwanted intruders.

Damian had feared this would not be a one-time occurrence, and he is proven right.

He was summoned every day and taken to the tile room each time. The temperature would vary from frigid to scathing hot. It left his skin shivering, red and hurting.

Itscoldandhotiscolditscoldandtoohotanditfeelslikehisskinispeelingoffandithurtsithurtssomuchmotherrichardakhifathersomeonehelp.

But Damian is fine. He can handle it.

He has to.

He makes a mistake on the fifth day.

He was tired and had been taken away before lunch. It made him irritable. Privy to outbursts. Childish. He cried when the water reached past his torso, and hugged his knees as he attempted to silence himself.

He managed to, but it was already too late. He was heard.

Grandfather, watching his suffering through a screen with likely a wine in hand, decided to entertain himself further. Rather than allowing him to return to his chambers once the training has concluded for the day, Damian is brought someplace else.

He does not remember much of it, reminded far too much of another life he had long since repressed. What he remembers is being confined to a dark room, still wearing the robes he had been submerged in. For no reason other than to accustom him to the feeling, one hand is chained down. He was not freed until sunrise, shivering and hot with fever, delicate wrist bruised with his foolish choice to pull at the shackle.

It was that night spent in the dark, wet and cold, that Damian fully discarded any emotion that could be used against him, with no hope of it being rekindled.

Or so he thought.

The length spent in the Bloodless Chamber grew by each passing day, until he was staying there, learning to hold his breath even at the cost of his burning, agonized lungs, for hours on end.

He’d lost his naps and snacks.

The rules are the same as he’d been taught years ago. They are simple and straightforward. Obediently sit in the bathtub. When asked questions in a mock interrogation, do not answer. Do not offer any information. And never, ever beg for mercy.

It became a routine not unfamiliar to him in a previous life. And just as Damian thought himself used to it, Mother returns from her mission with a stormy expression.

Mother returned.

She is here.

The urge he feels when he sees her is pathetic. It’s weak and childish, things he can’t be anymore, but so badly wants to do. He wants to be a child for a bit longer. He hasn’t seen her in over two weeks and he wants to cry into her embrace and beg her to make it stop.

The next thing he knows, Damian is doing just that and Mother is stroking his hair until the tears finally taper off. He blames it on his immature body.

His caregiver does a full report on Ra’s’ activities.

Mother stalks off to presumably berate Grandfather. She’s the only one who can without losing a limb or dying. At least that was the case in his original universe, where Grandfather saw her as a daughter. To him, Damian was not a grandson. He was not even an heir. Simply a tool to extend his life by taking Damian’s body. These facts seem to coincide with his other life, offering him a gleam of hope.

If anyone could protect Damian from Ra’s, it’s Mother.

He is proven right.

From that day on, Damian is not summoned.

Neither he nor Mother are naive enough to think that Grandfather will stop once Mother leaves his side. But Damian didn’t think she would go as far as she did just to ensure he remained safe. Neither did Grandfather. They had both underestimated Talia Al Ghul’s unforgiving fury.

She refuses to travel outside Nanda Parbat. She refuses to oversee drills and sparring sessions.

After one month, Grandfather vowed he would not continue without her knowledge. That should have been enough to appease Mother. She should have left to resume her duties. And yet she stayed.

She continues to stay.

And Damian does not understand why.

He keeps drowning in his dreams.

Damian doesn’t know why the thought of the tile room, the thought of submerging in water, shakes him as much as it does. Objectively, he’s had worse. He’d undergone sleep deprivation, isolation, whipping, flogging, burning, poisoning, and broken bones. He had been taught to endure, to inflict all that and more. But the mere thought of sitting in a bathtub, water slowly filling until reaching his shoulders is enough to burst into tears and yearn to latch onto something solid.

Damian is weak now, and he doesn’t know how to make himself not weak while still keeping Bat Plush and all his toys. He doesn’t know how to survive in a baby’s body without Father or Richard or Akhi andtheyrenotherewhyarenttheyhere—

“—bibi! Breathe. Mother is here. Breathe. There is nothing to cry about, my love.” The scent of jasmine and cinnamon hit his nose and Damian realized he was being held.

Mother’s fragrance is different from before. After all this time spent together, Damian has only just noticed. It is another point towards dimensional travel, considering her perfume had never changed for as long as he could remember. The hint of cinnamon made her warmer. It's soothing.

Damian buries his head into Mother’s neck, not quite recalling the reason for his childish outburst but still in need of her presence.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, Damian feeling more content than he had in weeks. Then Mother began to speak, sounding more as though she was talking to herself than gauging Damian’s opinion. “I intend to relocate you out of my father’s reach. Though he’s sworn not to repeat this error, perhaps you will be better off elsewhere.”

Damian…couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Four months of getting foolishly attached, receiving affection from this version of his mother, letting his guard down, trusting her, and she is abandoning him. He is being cast aside.

“Where?” His mouth is numb and there is an annoying buzz in his ears and his stupid body desires to cry despite his wishes.

She smiles. She smiles. “To your father, Damian.”

Father?

To Batman.

Oh. The pieces are coming together.

Mother is not forsaking him. She is taking him somewhere he will be shielded from Ra’s.

He is going home.

“To be safe?” He asks, as it is the most child-like way he could request confirmation. His throat is dry with unspeakable relief. He is going home.

She nods. “To be safe. This is not an environment suitable for your happiness. I’d rather you be soft-hearted like your father than remain here.”

“Will you come?” He asks, eyes watching her expression. Perhaps, maybe, possibly, this version of Mother and Father could be together. And Damian will never be forced to choose which path to take. They could be a complete family.

“No. There is much I need to do here.” Mother is firm, and it shatters what tentative hope he had in fulfilling an old fantasy. She must have noticed his disappointment because she immediately begins to rub his back, attempting to console him. “Do not be upset, child. We still have time before I bring you to him.”

Damian makes a questioning noise as he breathes in her fragrance. "When?"

“Six months at the latest. Though, I may be selfish and decide to keep you longer.” She smiled as she lunged to nip the air right by his ear. It felt playful in a way that reminded him of Todd. In fact, he recalls Akhi doing this exact action, once, a very long time ago. He giggles, giggles, and he blames it entirely on the three year old vessel.

“I am contemplating a parting gift, and I have my eye on a few.” Mother whispers to him, fingers brushing into his hair. "What would you like?"

He is getting a gift? Damian has to stamp down the juvenile excitement before he embarrasses himself.

There were several things he wanted. A sketchbook and pencils would be nice. A chance to see the sky, to touch dirt and sand and grass, to watch birds spread their wings and soar, would be divine.

But those are luxuries he can indulge in later. Damian pats Mother’s shoulder to get her full attention. “Sword.”

She blinks, eyes creasing in slight surprise before taking on an amused smile. “You want a blade, my love?”

He nods with all the seriousness he could muster. Thus far, Damian hasn’t had any access to weapons. And while a ball and building blocks can effectively function as projectiles, he’d prefer something sharp when he needs to defend himself.

There’s a light in her eyes. Something akin to relief before it shifts to something more.

“You truly are my blood, Habibi.” Mother looks at him with what could only be interpreted as pride. “I shall acquire a worthy sword, so you may cut down whatever blocks your path.”

Damian has never felt so utterly loved by his mother as much as he does at this moment.

Chapter Text

“Though it is delightful to see you pursuing something unrelated to your nightly activities, Master Bruce, I fear you may be diving into this endeavor at an unhealthy pace.”

Translation: Slow down before you do something irrevocably stupid.

He’s just gotten back from his fourth session and not even five minutes after setting foot in the dining room, he’s being judged. Again.

“Hn.” Bruce grunted in a way that meant I’m fine.

Alfred arched a single eyebrow that meant Are you sure about that? At the same time, he set a plate of chicken cobb salad in front of Bruce.

This exchange isn’t anything new. It’s practically customary at this point. Bruce finishes a class, Alfred indirectly tells him not to rush anything, Bruce denies that he’s rushing, and Alfred forces him to eat something that’s not protein shakes.

It’s a new addition to their normal life, and he blames the whole thing on Superman.

Ever since the founding of the Justice League, Bruce has been gathering information on each member with the purpose of formulating contingency plans. He wishes he could contribute his discovery of Superman’s identity to pure deduction and analysis like he did with Oliver Queen and Barry Allen, but it was blatant luck. Bruce hadn’t been looking for Kal’s other persona because he wasn’t even aware the Kryptonian had a human identity. Further investigation found that Clark Kent, Metropolis journalist of the Daily Planet and husband of the increasingly infamous Lois Lane, has a two year old son. Jonathan Samuel Kent, named after Superman’s adoptive father.

Bruce wouldn’t call it 'baby fever,' but the family photo he found with baby Jonathan might have reawakened an emotion that died years ago. Like flipping on a lightswitch he forgot existed amidst the dark room.

Then, within a day of this Superman discovery, a certain case caught his attention. 

One of the leads had him looking into Gotham’s foster care system and discovering a major problem. Several major problems, really. As he dug deeper, he found evidence of misappropriated funds stemming from decades ago. A series of stolen funds, it turned out.

Bruce could have let it go then.

He’d resolved the case and had everyone involved brought to custody. He could have just hosted his next gala with the purpose of raising more money and maybe bringing a little more attention to Gotham’s incredibly stretched-thin resources for housing kids who need it. Doing an interview with a few reporters would’ve been a nudge in the right direction.

Bruce could’ve let it go. But he didn’t. 

It was because he was curious, more than anything. He wanted to know all the inner-workings, from how lax requirements are to compensate for the tremendous demand to all the ways money could be extorted. He wanted to know the subject in all its depth and make his way through the maze of feasible solutions.

The curiosity resulted in taking three hours a week for preservice sessions, plus additional research that may have cut into WE paperwork time.

Bruce is now doing something that barely has anything to do with Batman or his Brucie persona. At some point during the first and second sessions, he was doing it with the full intent of getting the certification. Just because he wanted to and Bruce never does anything halfway.

He wasn’t interested because of some savior complex (mostly), or even the thought that if it weren’t for Alfred, Bruce could have ended up a foster kid (it’s a miracle the Wayne fortune and estate remained intact, with all the piranhas around him; he has no idea how Alfred did it).

Honestly, Bruce just wanted a family. He’s wanted it for over a decade.

When he traveled abroad straight from highschool and fresh into adulthood, he thought the feeling would go away once he found purpose.

He was wrong.

It didn’t go away while he trained and fell in love with Talia Al Ghul. It didn’t go away when he returned to Gotham with a woman who believed in fighting evil but didn’t agree with his moral code. It didn’t go away when he delved into building the Cave and designing the suit. It wasn’t until they lost the child that Bruce realized just how badly he wanted it.

The feeling never went away, but it’s been pushed aside for years.

Curse you, Clark Kent, for making him think about it all over again.

Now, Bruce doesn’t plan to do anything after he becomes a legally certified foster parent. He wants to learn and have that possibility open to him, but that’s all. After it’s done, he can put all the curiosity to rest. Preferably as soon as possible so he can return all his focus on Gotham and Wayne Enterprises.

Who knows. Maybe in ten years, if Gotham no longer needs Batman, Bruce can use that knowledge to start a family. There’s plenty of time.

Alfred, on the other hand, thinks his rush means he’ll be bringing home the first kid he sees.

He’s wrong, of course. Bruce is nowhere near that level of irresponsible and impulsive.

The dreams become less frequent, but not substantially. The bedroom that Damian once considered safe no longer is. It has no lock. Anyone could come in and drag him back to the tile room.

What makes it bearable is Mother's constant presence and the hope he’ll meet his father soon.

But those things do not quell the dreams. The quality of his sleep is lessened and Damian's mood is not favoring anything. Idly, he suspects that inadequate rest may have contributed to his temper when he first arrived at Wayne Manor. Richard certainly thought so, since he mandated Damian to a sleep schedule at the cost of patrol.

Damian feels even worse now that he’s thinking of his family. He may never see them again, at least not in the same way. 

At best, Damian will be around younger versions of Father and Pennyworth. Maybe Richard as well, if the loss of his birth parents occurs the same here. Drake Manor should still be in Bristol, so perhaps they’ll see each other at some point. The same can’t be said for Todd, Cassandra, Thomas, Brown, or Gordon.

And Jon. His closest colleague (best friend). If Damian comes to the Manor early, then he’ll get to meet Jon sooner than he did the first time. They could…grow up together. There is a chance that Batman and Superman are bitter rivals and will not agree to arrange a meeting (or what Richard would refer to as a ‘play date’), but Damian is confident in finding ways to contact him without their knowledge.

He wonders how different the Justice League will be in this universe. How different his family will be. Information is suffocatingly limited here. He can’t even remember the last time he’s seen the screen of a computer. Or a window for that matter.

There are too many unknowns. But Damian has time. Time to contemplate and prepare for every possibility. Time to—

Mother burst into the room with two assassins behind her. “Ra’s Al Ghul is dead.”

And now he has no time.

She explains the situation more to his caregiver than to Damian, speaking with swift precision instead of the slow patience that he’d become accustomed to.

The Lazarus Pits were unable to keep Grandfather alive anymore. Only a select few know of it, currently. Within the next few days, an announcement will be made. Mother intends to become the next Demon’s Head, but she will face opposition from several other factions. It will be dangerous for Damian to stay. He must leave today.

He thought he had months to plan. Now he has hours.

Damian’s caregiver prepares a bag with his clothes while Mother writes a letter for Father, instructing Damian to deliver it. Besides Bat Plush, which Damian is stubbornly refusing to let go of, all his toys will be left behind.

Within half an hour, Damian is seated in a jet. It hasn’t taken to the sky yet, allowing him and his mother a few minutes to say their goodbyes.

Everything is going so fast.

Mother sits across from him, handing him a katana. “Your gift, Habibi.”

The handle is small enough for a child to wield and light enough to carry without straining. The blade is well-made and durable. How did she manage to find this so soon? Damian requested a sword barely a week ago.

Mother also gives him a set of small knives. They fit perfectly into his immature hands.

“Damian.” She cups his face and kisses his cheek. “From the moment you depart, you will no longer be an Al Ghul. You will no longer be the Heir.”

He nods. Living as an Al Ghul means countless enemies, countless assassination attempts. The only reason why it hasn’t happened to Damian thus far is because his existence is more of a rumor than fact. Few have actually seen him. Hiding his relation to the Demon’s Head is only logical. Even a child should understand that much.

Mother looked a little sad as she let go of his face and squeezed his hand. “You will no longer be my son.”

How could that be true? They are blood. Regardless of anything else, he will always be her son just as he will always be Batman’s.

No longer my son.

You are, and now you are not.

Oh. Damian…should have expected this. It only makes sense. Mother is an Al Ghul. It makes sense.

“Forget everything about me, Habibi. You only have one parent, and that is your father. You do not have a mother.” Her voice is hard, nothing like the softness it held these last few months. “Do you understand?”

He understood. Understood completely. This is for the safety of both of them. There are hundreds of people who want the Al Ghul line to perish. They are weaknesses to each other.

“Yes.” Yes, Mother he wants to add, but holds his tongue. It would be demeaning to make this more difficult than it needs to be.

They sit together for another minute. When it was time for her to go, Mother maintained an indifferent mask, showing no emotion of reluctance that had been there before. Mother didn’t look back, and Damian understood why. He himself kept his eyes locked on Bat Plush, refusing to stare at her retreating figure.

Chapter Text

The flight is over ten hours long, but Damian can’t sleep.

A small team of assassins loyal to his mother are the only ones on the jet, assigned to ensure he is safely delivered. They leave him alone for the majority of the flight, respectfully looking away when he unwillingly cries.

Hours are spent planning on what to say. How to walk the line between being himself and hiding knowledge he’s not supposed to know. For that, he could just say Grandfather educated him and leave it at that. The only way to disprove that lie would be if Father and Mother managed to have an extensive conversation regarding their child’s education. Having that occur without any 'distractions' (yuck) is as likely as Timothy Drake learning Atlantean tap dance.

Perhaps he should feign ignorance on Father’s involvement with Batman. Within minutes, he decides against it. Damian would like access to the Batcave and begin training. He’d also like to eventually become Robin again, if Richard will let him. Yes, he’d died as Robin, but he’d also lived as Robin. He’s not ashamed to say some of his fondest memories are when he and Batman took to the sky. When he and Richard would consume ice cream on a rooftop after a successful night, agreeing not to tell Pennyworth of their detour.

And now he’s going back. After all these months in the League, he’s going back home. The closest version of it anyway.

Will Richard be there in the Manor? Would Todd or Drake?

If their ages remain consistent, Richard should be about eighteen now. And Todd should have been recently adopted.

But this is a different dimension. Differences can range from inconsequential to major. Grandfather’s untimely death is proof that many things will not be the same. What if none of them are at the Manor because in this world Damian is the eldest? That’d be horrendous. If their ages are reversed and Damian becomes the first Robin, he’ll have Richard’s responsibilities.

Oh fuck. 

He’d have to deal with a child Richard attempting somersaults on Father’s chandeliers. Damian’s heard the stories. Richard was a nightmare.

Damian had thought that Todd was the most difficult child for Father to care for, what with his temper and trust issues. But no. That was not the case. According to anecdotes from Father, Pennyworth, Richard, and even Todd himself, he was a model student with a respectable interest in cooking.

On the other hand, Richard got into fights, skipped classes, and nearly set the kitchen on fire in an attempt to scramble eggs. Richard has always been a menace. Ever since he was taken in, to his teenage years, to even now as an adult.

Damian does not want to be the older sibling of any version of that. It’s no wonder that Father was graying by the time he was thirty. His first child was an eight year old, angry, energetic Dick Grayson.

At least if this does come to pass, Damian will no longer be the youngest. He settles that matter for now, and moves on to his next concern.

How should he refer to Father?

The most obvious options would sound unnatural on Damian’s tongue. Father is Father, after all. And he can’t call him Batman out of uniform.

“Dad.” He mutters to himself and immediately scowls. Absolutely not.

“Bruce.” Far too uncomfortable. And awkward. And he’s never been given confirmation of whether Batman is Bruce Wayne in this universe. It could still be someone like Oliver Queen.

“Sir.” Too impersonal.

“Old man.” Too rude. Only Todd could make it sound fond.

Damian groans, already knowing that there are only two options he could accept. The default, Father. And…

He heaves a deep, put-upon sigh. For the sake of his cover, there is no choice.

He closes his eyes, soon falling into a light doze. He wakes up to the feeling of weightless drowning, cries, then dozes again. This repeats until the jet lands.

The aircraft brings them to the vicinity of Gotham, but not in the city proper. Somewhere they can land without suspicion or notice.

Damian is loaded onto the backseat of a car, and three assassins take the other spaces. The drive to Gotham is quiet and uneventful. Damian hasn’t let go of his katana or Bat Plush as he watches buildings pass through the tinted window.

Well, given his current height, the view is limited.

The usual cloudiness of Gotham keeps even the afternoon of late June from being overly bright. The gothic style architecture and the route is the same he remembers, but it lacks the modernity he’s used to. The city is…different. Just the slightest bit younger.

It’s to be expected, given the mediocre surveillance technology he’s seen thus far is supposed to be state-of-the-art. But Damian doesn’t like that this dreary, cruel city isn’t the same he knows. It’s never had Damian’s Batman fly through rooftops, doing unnecessary flips whenever he forgets he’s not Nightwing. It’s not the same Gotham he died in.

They are not here. None of them are. Damian is about to meet a father who doesn’t know him. He and his brothers are strangers here. Cassandra won’t be in the Manor. Nor will Titus or Alfred or Batcow.

It’s enough to make him cry and he hides behind Bat Plush, the stuffed animal protecting him from the eyes of assassins.

As they drive through Bristol, Damian catches a glimpse of Drake Manor.

One of Mother’s men escort Damian out of the car and over the gate of Wayne Manor. Wayne Manor. The chances of his biological father turning out to be Oliver Queen has drastically gone down at least. 

Once they reach the doorstep, he puts the backpack to the ground and nods to Damian. In a blink, he’s gone. His duty is complete.

Damian has been waiting for this. Dreading it, yes, but anticipating it in equal measure. At last, he’s returned home.

He briefly lets go of Bat Plush to fix his hair. He’d have liked a mirror and water to wash his face, but there is no point in dwelling on that. 

The first time, Damian had made a less-than-ideal impression on everyone in the household. Now that he knows the importance of introductions, Damian will succeed in having others view him in a positive light.

Strong, with great potential. Worthy. Likable.

He straightens out his clothes and has to jump to ring the doorbell. With the ring, his stomach tenses and Damian picks up Bat Plush to keep his courage.

Chapter Text

It was a perfectly ordinary morning for Alfred Pennyworth, consisting of the ordinary activities. Examples include persuading Master Bruce to eat a breakfast that consists of solids instead of protein shakes and coffee, catching Master Bruce attempting to enter the ‘basement’ before noon, and taking stock of perishable food before doing some light dusting. He was enjoying an equally ordinary afternoon, washing linens and ironing a suit. That is when he hears the doorbell chime.

The doorbell, not the heavily secured entry gate. Someone has managed to bypass the front door without triggering any alarms. There is one person in particular who has done this over a dozen times, but it has been quite a while. Whether it is her or not, Alfred is certain his perfectly ordinary afternoon is about to end.

On his way to the door, he presses a hidden button on the wall to inform Master Bruce to make his way down.

While prepared to face Miss Al Ghul or perhaps one of her subordinates, they are not what he finds outside the door.

No, it is a child. A very small, very alone child waiting on their doorstep. Alfred’s first thought is that he is lost, but that hardly explains why he is here at the door and not outside the security gate.

The child looks up and upon seeing the older man, gasps rather audibly. He is staring at his head with a pensive intensity that does not belong to someone his age.

“Why, hello there.” He looks the boy up and down, eyebrow raising at the black bag on the ground and what looks to be a very real sword situated on top of it. “May I ask who you are?”

And where the bloody hell are your parents.

The young—very young—boy puts out one hand as though he intends to initiate a handshake. “Damian.”

A handshake. This is a child after his own heart, it seems.

With no small amount of confusion, Alfred plays along and accepts the hand, noting the boy’s impressive grip for his age and the stuffed animal he holds in the other hand. “Alfred Pennyworth. Do you happen to know where you are?”

He expects the answer to be no. Or to learn that someone very determined and foolish left their child here in hopes they’d raise him, as though their life is a work of fiction. Fictional and unrealistic as it sounds, such a thing may very well occur with Master Bruce’s recent interest in children. Alfred can already feel the days of only caring for one boy (admittedly, Bruce is a rather petulant adult at times) slipping away from him. He knew the day would inevitably come, but he’d like it to not be today. He hasn’t even ordered any child-appropriate furniture yet.

The boy nods, taking back his hand. “I have busi-ness with Mr. Wayne.”

Now what could a boy his age have to discuss with Master Bruce? He doesn't look older than three, though his near perfect pronunciation is very impressive. Furthermore, Alfred can hear hints of a foreign accent.

Oh dear. With his tanned complexion, green eyes, sword, and very familiar stare, Alfred feels slightly faint from the conclusion that leads him.

Master Bruce is certainly in for a surprise.

“I see. Do come in.” He opens the door wider and ushers the child inside, picking up the backpack and weapon. Before Alfred needed to ask, the boy politely removed his shoes, allowing Alfred to escort him to the parlor without a fuss.

The boy—Damian—seats himself on a couch, maintaining a straight back and squared shoulders. His eyes are noticeably red and tired, but nothing else gives away fatigue.

It seems he inherited the willfulness of his parents.

Good god, Master Bruce better arrive soon.

“Can you tell me his name?” The little boy looks up at Alfred, his face twisting from resisting a yawn, it seems.

“The name of,” Alfred pauses momentarily, taking in the surreality of this situation. “your father?” It leaves an odd taste in his mouth. Not necessarily unpleasant, simply odd.

“Yes.”

“I believe it is Bruce Wayne. I take it that you haven’t been told much about him?”

Damian shakes his head, glancing down at his toy bat before looking Alfred in the eye. “Mother told me stories, but she calls him Beloved. When can I see him?”

He sighs. Sometimes, Alfred wishes to be wrong. Blessing and a curse, as they say. It seems Miss Al Ghul has been keeping quite an important secret.

“He should arrive any moment now, Master Damian.”

The boy’s shoulders relax minutely, and Alfred sees signs of relief on his guarded expression.

He’s too young to hide his emotions with such skill.

Bruce was going through the motions of Wayne Enterprises paperwork when he received a notification that one of the house’s communication buttons were pressed. This one in particular means that they have a surprise guest and Bruce must be downstairs within the next five minutes.

Relieved to do something that doesn’t involve sitting at a desk, Bruce gets up and quickly finds a mirror. He fixes up his hair and purposely opens up a few buttons of his shirt. If this is a sudden meeting, Brucie needs to sell his bit. 

He also needs to send them away soon before Brucie agrees to make a guest appearance on reality television. Again.

He makes his way downstairs and finds the door to the sitting room open. His eyes land on Alfred, who looks very disapproving of his choice in appearance. More than usual, and Bruce quickly understands why.

He spots a kid tensely sitting directly across from Alfred.

He’s small, tanned skin with a thick head of dark hair and a deep scowl.

As soon as he steps into the room, the kid stands up and scurries over until he’s only a few feet from Bruce. He readjusts his toy—a bat plushie, of all things—to one hand as he holds the other up to shake. “I’m Damian.”

He blinks for a second. Then blinks again because what the fuck is happening? The next thing he knows, Bruce is shaking hands with a two year old and introducing himself while under Alfred’s burning stare.

Once their hands go down, Damian walks back over to the chair and climbs up at a, quite frankly, amazing yet terrifying efficiency. He doesn’t even put down his bat plushie, squishing the wings as the thing is set on his lap. It's cute, the way his cheeks puff and eyes narrow into a decidedly non-threatening glare.

“I have busi-ness with you.” Damian stares at Bruce and points to the seat across from him, where Alfred was sitting but has since stood up. “You should sit.”

‘The entrepreneurs just keep getting younger.’

Bruce gives Alfred a questioning look as he slowly takes a seat.

“Master Bruce.” He begins with a polite cough, gesturing formally to the child. “This is Damian, your—”

“No!” The boy’s sudden yell almost made Bruce twitch. “I’m going to do it. Back off, Pennyworth!” He glared and looked down to his toy, mumbling something to himself before looking back up. “Um. Back off, please.”

“Very well.” Alfred easily agreed, seeming more amused than anything else. He pointedly pats Bruce’s shoulder on his way out. “I wish you luck.”

Bruce wasn’t sure if he was referring to Damian, or Bruce.

He left Bruce alone with a two year old playing business.

“So, kid—”

The boy frowned. “Damian.”

“Damian.” Bruce amended, noting the pout on the kid’s cheeks. “What’s your business with me?”

He took a deep breath, like he was about to plunge headfirst off a pool. “As of yest-derday, Ra’s Al Ghul has passed away.”

Out of every crazy thing Bruce expected to come out of the kid’s mouth, that was not one of them. Which begs the question, is this an actual child?

“Don’t play dumb.” Damian interrupted his spiraling thoughts. “I know about you.”

Bruce decided to prompt for more information. “Me?”

“You are Batman.” He holds up his toy, showcasing it as if to make a point.

Bruce laughed as he mentally calculated the potential threat levels of this kid-who-might-not-be-a-kid. And if that bat plushie is actually a weapon in disguise.

“I am not joking! I know! Mother told me!” Damian looked like he was about to start crying from frustration. If he really was a kid after all, Bruce may feel bad. “She said the League of Assassins is not a suit-table environment for me!”

Suddenly, Bruce felt something drop in his stomach. His mother?

“You’re mother.” He switches to League Dialect to see if Damian understands it. He’s glad his voice is steady and slow, unlike his brain which was going through possibilities with what he knows so far. “Who is she?”

Involved with the League. Heavily involved. Whoever his mother is, she’s likely of high rank. Especially if she knows Bruce’s identity. Damian may have come to leverage Batman’s secret in hopes of gaining protection.

He can think of a few people who could meet the criteria. Lady Shiva, who has been associated with the League for a full decade, and…

“Talia Al Ghul.”

For a few long moments, the room went silent after that name was spoken.

Alfred (who knew and left Bruce alone anyway, the traitor) appeared out of thin air and set a tray of apple slices and crackers onto the coffee table that was set between Bruce and this not-kid-who-might-actually-be-a-kid-after all.

Bruce doesn’t react at first. His mind is too busy processing how he should feel about having his ex’s son sitting right in front of him.

Now that he’s actively searching, he can see it. He can see Talia’s eyes, nose, and lips.

And there’s something else about the way Talia’s son is looking at him that feels familiar.

It’s the same face Bruce makes whenever he’s dying for someone in the Justice League to say something when he is ill-equipped to begin non-urgent conversation. Admittedly, he looks awkward and constipated.

He looks around two years old. Either Talia found someone else very quickly, or Bruce is underestimating his age. Maybe he’s actually a really small five year old and Talia conveniently didn’t tell Bruce that she was a mom while they were together.

“How old did you say you are, Damian?” Bruce is not proud to admit his voice was an octave higher than the norm.

He pouted, holding his stuffed bat defensively. “I didn’t say. I turned three in April.”

Huh. So he is a real kid. Closer to a toddler, really.

Wait.

Oh.

Three years old. Since April.

The due date was April 30th.

Oh god.

He rubs his temples to fight off an oncoming headache and stubbornly forces his heart rate not to spike. Nothing’s confirmed. Nothing’s confirmed except the date matches and his mother is Talia.

“You’re my—and I’m your—” He clamps his uncooperative mouth shut. Why do words have to be so hard sometimes?

Damian blinks once, twice, before his nose scrunches into something between confusion and exasperation. “Tt, you only just figured it out? Pennyworth understood in less than two minutes. It’s been over five now. This is unaccep-table.”

And now that Bruce is looking at the kid—actually looking—it’s so obvious. The downturn of his lips. His eyebrows. His ear shape. It’s looking into a mirror.

“How?” Bruce finds himself asking.

How could she? Sure they had their differences, but Bruce loved Talia just as much as she loved him. She knew how he felt about their child, so how could she deliberately deceive him like this?

He doesn’t know what to expect, honestly. The child has already proven above average in intellect, but he’s still only three. Surely Talia wouldn’t have explained her reasoning as to why she lied to him.

The boy’s face twists even further, like Bruce is being the unreasonable one here. He looks at Bruce dead in the eye and says, “Sex.”

Alfred chokes and covers his mouth with a handkerchief. Bruce sympathizes. This three year old is full of surprises and he’s only managing to keep up due to desperate compartmentalizing.

‘I did not mean it like that’ is what he wants to say, but Bruce does not trust himself to make a coherent sentence.

It’s amazing how Damian conveys the emotion of rolling his eyes without actually doing it. “Cleary, this is getting us nowhere.”

He takes something out of the backpack by his feet that Bruce really should have noticed earlier. It’s a piece of neatly folded paper. Damian places it in the middle of the coffee table and picks up an apple slice. “Mother’s letter should suffice to verify my claim.”

A letter from Talia.

He doubts it explains why the hell she lied about the miscarriage. Why she kept this from him. Why—

No. Compartmentalize. He’ll deal with that later.

Rubbing his forehead and knowing he’s going to have a headache soon, Bruce opens the letter. It’s in Talia’s elegant handwriting, but slightly messy as though she was in a rush. And considering how exhausted and uncomfortable Damian has looked this whole time…

Bruce pushes the tray of snacks closer towards the boy. “Feel free to eat.”

“Indeed.” Alfred nods before turning away. “I shall begin preparations for an early dinner, if you would wait a bit.”

Beloved,

Bruce starts to read, then looks up to find Damian has run over to Bruce’s chair and managed to situate himself on the cushy arm. He tilts his head towards the letter, and Bruce sighs as he holds it up so they can both read.

Wait. Can Damian even read yet? He’s barely three. Questions for later.

It was unexpected to send Damian into your care so soon, but the situation has changed. My father has succumbed to the fate he has fought against for centuries. A surprise for him, I’m sure. There will be arguments amongst us on many matters, including leadership. Damian was the official heir, but the child no longer has any relation to the Al Ghuls. See to it there never will be.

Bruce’s eyes shift to the little boy next to him and who’s been watching Bruce, not the letter.

Do not worry in regards to my father’s shadows. I shall keep them away from your city for as long as you care for our son. Damian has a brilliant mind, one in which I’m sure will only grow under your care. There are many things he insists doing on his own. It reminds me of someone, Beloved.

He’s also shown an interest in swordsmanship. I have no doubt he will become a strong warrior if given the correct guidance. Do not deny our son. Give short baths only when necessary, as he has developed a slight fear of water. Watch him closely and do not allow harm to come to him.

Fail him, and I will burn your kingdom to the ground.

Chapter Text

Damian is doing his utmost to endure, but his patience is fraying with every passing minute and it is getting more and more difficult to ignore.

He has spent hours on end on a plane of assassins and driving in an automobile with assassins before being dropped off by an assassin. Trained assassins who, even if they weren’t elite (which they most certainly were), could have slayed Damian with hardly a struggle.

Damian has barely slept, hardly eaten anything more than crackers and apples, and is missing his mother terribly. Under the circumstances, he’d say he has been remarkably patient.

But he is self-aware enough to know his limits, and Father’s floundering is pushing his limits dangerously close to violence.

Does he find it amusing? He doesn’t not (Brown would be so proud of his use of double negatives).

Is it equally disconcerting that Father is so different yet similar in this world? Yes, very much so.

This version of Father is younger, hasn’t quite perfected the blank mask.

It goes from shock to more shock to bafflement to grief to hope and settles on something that he can’t describe other than…soft? Admiring? Disbelieving? An expression that quickly shifts to growing anger when offered Mother’s letter. The anger makes him long for the days in which he could run upstairs and shut himself in his studio and paint in the safety of the claimed space. The thought is fleeting and meaningless, however.

Damian is aware his existence is unexpected and no one will know quite what to do with him. He is aware that this version of Father likely—although he hopes otherwise—hasn’t begun his quest to adopt every orphan he finds, given the lack of Richard-proof chandeliers. He is aware Younger Father may not know how to handle a surprise son. But it’s uncanny how this man shares the same face of his father, yet over a decade younger. With no gray hairs to speak of, or lines covering his face. He sits down with ease where his counterpart would suppress a groan from his aching back. 

Damian has been itching to get closer and catalogue more differences. He’d thought they’d serve as a bitter reminder that this is not the Father he knows. And it is. But it’s also fascinating. So much that it outweighs much of the bitterness. He took the first opportunity presented to him and approached while Younger Father began reading the letter (to which Damian had already inspected). He earns himself a good view of his expression repeatedly switching between worry and shock.

It is an adequate way to occupy his mind from the growing irritation and discomfort. He eats a second apple slice. Then a third. Damian is grateful that Pennyworth thought to be generous with the slices because he is ravenous.

The shock has settled over Father’s face. Settled as in it won’t go away. By the time Damian has eaten over half the slices and on his last thread, it’s been ten minutes and Father is still in this state.

Damian would much prefer not to walk anywhere, and that is the only reason he does not seek out Pennyworth to ask if Father is broken.

He settles on a nearby couch, collecting the decorative pillows to make himself and Bat Plush comfortable. He also takes the liberty of holding Mother’s last gift, the magnificent katana, close to his chest and hidden from view. 

He closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep.

His body does not want to despite not having any proper rest in over twenty-four hours. But Damian is determined and soon achieves victory.

This is not his home, his Manor. This is not his father re-reading the letter for a forth, fifth, sixth time.

But, Damian is safer than he was on the plane. Safer than in Nanda Parbat. Safer than in his mother’s arms, potentially, but he refuses to give this further thought lest he become emotional.

Bruce is a dad.

A dad.

A dad.

This is—this is crazy. Maybe he’s actually in a coma dream after the latest alien invasion. That sure sounds more plausible than being the father of Talia’s three year old son.

It’s a boy, part of his brain whispers in amazement.

Bruce tears his eyes away from the letter he’d been staring at to look at said boy, but doesn’t see anyone. The next thing he knows, he’s on his feet and frantically searching the room.

He spots the head of black hair on the loveseat within thirty seconds, which is too long given that the boy was in plain sight. He’s supposed to be a detective for crying out loud.

The boy, Damian—his son—is cuddling that little bat toy in his sleep, all while surrounded by cushions in what Bruce can only describe as a barricade. He doesn’t even take up half the space on the loveseat.

“Holy crap I’m a dad.” He whispers to himself, gawking at the sight and getting uncomfortably close to tears.

“Considering the company, that is rather inappropriate.” Alfred appears at the doorway without making a sound. Classic. “It would seem our newest addition would prefer to eat at a later time.”

Newest addition. Not a guest. Right, of course, because Damian is a permanent addition now. Permanent as in, staying here for the foreseeable future. Which would be a minimum of fifteen years.

That thought is not helping him in the slightest.

“You knew and you left me alone with him.” Bruce scrubs at his face, letting out a deep exhale to try for some semblance of calm and nope. He still feels like a wreck. “I’m not ready to be a parent.”

“Quite.” He easily agrees as he ushers Bruce out the room. Bruce can’t find it in him to resist. “I believe congratulations are in order.”

Instead of going to the dining room like he’d thought, Alfred brought dinner in the room directly across the parlor.

It’s a simple soup, already cooled down enough that there isn’t a chance to burn yourself. Bruce swallows it down in two gulps. The door is left open, in case the sleeping child decides to suddenly wake up.

“I’m too young to be a dad.” The words rush out before he even puts the bowl down.

“The same could be said three years ago, Master Bruce. And I recall quite a bit of enthusiasm in fostering as of late.” Alfred states, though it is mostly ignored as Bruce is dealing with his crisis.

“I have a son. I’ve had a son this whole time and I didn’t even know.” And he’s less than ten meters away, sleeping for the first time in who knows how long. He’s had a son for three years who’s been living with an organization of killers. He would have been groomed to kill. A baby as small as that almost—

“Bruce.” Alfred says and Bruce quickly looks up. The man almost never calls him just by name. Alfred wraps himself delicately around Bruce and hugs him. Memories of a rain-soaked uniform and breaking a bully’s nose and broken furniture and hot chocolate all come crashing in his head and he’s that child again, held together by the man who never left.

“It will be alright.” And Bruce so badly wants to believe him. “This is far from the worst situation to be in. I daresay it is one of the better ones.”

Hearing the phrase ‘it could be worse’ shouldn’t be such a comfort, but it’s a balm when Alfred’s the one to say it. The man never says something he doesn’t mean.

“What am I supposed to do, Alfred?” He leans into Alfred’s rare hugs, feeling completely lost about everything except for this one tether. He doesn’t know where to start.

“Well, my dear boy. There are only two viable options. The decision is yours.”

Meaning he has two options that Alfred would accept and he will not tolerate the alternatives.

Bruce nods and calms himself with the warmth of his surrogate father as he prepares to listen. He can do this. He just needs to decide on two Alfred-approved options. Decision A or Decision B. Simple.

“The boy will either remain here as a Wayne, or a trusted ‘colleague’ will have to take him in.”

‘Colleague,’ meaning someone affiliated with the Justice League.

It’s simple. Simpler than he could possibly hope for. Hearing it out loud snaps him right out of every denial he can think of why this can’t be happening. Because it is happening. And if he can’t handle it, then he’ll lose this. “He’s staying.” Bruce answers automatically. For all that he’s woefully unprepared, Damian is his. He’s not giving him up.

(He has a son. Is that ever going to stop being a shock?)

Based on his firm nod, Alfred fully supports this choice. “Then there is much to be done.”

While Alfred goes for a quick shopping spree for all the immediate things Damian needs, Bruce is put on surveillance duty.

“The manor is too large to leave a small child unsupervised” was what Alfred said, which Bruce suspects was partially so he wouldn’t go to the Cave. And while Bruce agreed, there were cameras installed in nearly every room that he can access through both his home computer and the one in the Cave. He didn’t need to stay in the parlor the whole time.

If he can’t go out on patrol, Bruce ought to work on something else while he has the time. It's a logical and perfectly reasonable course of action.

Bruce went through the grandfather clock and down the stairs to get to the Cave. He split the screen so he could still watch Damian while he does revisions of the monitor duty roster for July, purposely excluding Batman. He also performed a quick paternity test, just to be sure.

See, Alfred? He can do his job and supervise a sleeping kid. Nothing to worry about.

At first, Bruce routinely checks the screen every few minutes. As the hour ticked by, however, he got absorbed into figuring out how to build a bunker in the Watchtower in case it ever imploded. Furthermore, how to equip that bunker to be capable of space travel so that it can safely land back to Earth.

The next time he checks on Damian, it is 7:15pm and there is no one in the sitting room. He checks the screen again. Nothing.

His first conclusion is breached security and kidnapping.

His second conclusion is that Catwoman has taken to burgling children instead of diamonds, which technically means the same as the first thought but with a slightly less frightening mental image.

His third conclusion is Damian woke up and wandered off. Alfred may have been right when he said the Manor is too big to leave a small child unsupervised.

Bruce pulls up the feeds and combs through the Manor, finding the little boy crying on the kitchen floor.

So Bruce does the logical thing and sprints out of the Cave to make it to the ground floor in record time. It’s only when he reaches Damian that he realizes he hasn’t thought about where to proceed. And Alfred won’t be back for another twenty minutes.

“Are you hurt?” The Batman voice slips in without meaning to. He kneels down and checks for head injuries. Damian lets him.

The boy was crying too much to verbalize a response. Instead, he shakes his head and points to the sink.

It took a little back and forth, Bruce making guesses on what the kid could mean, but eventually he puzzled out that Damian was thirsty and didn’t like that he couldn’t reach the faucet.

Damian quieted down after being set on a chair and handed a glass of water. Thankfully the countertop bar stools are height adjustable, or he might’ve gotten upset all over again.

Bruce couldn’t help but notice how small his hands look while they grip the glass. Everything about this child was small. Did Kal feel this way every time he looked at Jon?

“Where’s Pennyworth?” Damian asked after he got control of his emotions.

“Shopping.” Was Bruce’s award-winning reply.

They sit in uncomfortable silence. Damian sips his water. He keeps glaring past Bruce, in the direction of the fridge.

Clearly, Damian doesn’t want to talk. He’s tired and hungry, which in Bruce’s experience is not consecutive to chatting. Even on his good days, Bruce has a limit to how much he can socialize.

He stands from his own stool and opens the fridge to try and find something. Preferably something that doesn’t require any cooking. He sticks to fruits. Easily washable, in no way needing to use the stove, fruits.

The grapes are probably too sour for kids and Bruce does not want to embarrass himself in figuring out how to peel apples, so he washes some blueberries and hopes for the best. He also finds a package of applesauce laying in the pantry and offers it as well, although he eyes it and the unopened peanut butter with suspicion.

Damian eats (devours) the blueberries and applesauce without a word and jumps off the stool when he’s done. He lands on his feet so gracefully that it should surprise him more than it does. At this point, however, Bruce has reached well past his emotional capacity for one day.

Bruce follows him back to the sitting room, watching him climb back onto the loveseat and snuggle with his bat. Bruce may have taken a picture or two at the sight. The kid is objectively cute; it’d be a shame not to.

Chapter Text

Damian is up long before breakfast is made. The area surrounding the couch he has claimed is untouched, save for the blanket over himself and a new item on the coffee table.

Technological advancement must be further behind than he predicted. The surveillance camera has not even been attempted to be hidden.

Damian frowns into the lens, only slightly tempted to poke it.

Was the Manor’s security system not enough to monitor him? Did they consider him enough of a threat to require more? Is this a diversion to keep him away from standard surveillance, in fear of him tampering with it? That would explain the poor quality of the camera in front of him.

Damian should have been concerned with this result, but this is rather satisfactory. Younger Father’s senses have determined that Damian is not to be underestimated, despite his current stature and weakness. He sees potential. Whether it is a deadly weapon or capable ally is solely up to Damian’s next proceedings.

Hiding his face behind Bat Plush, Damian smiles as he begins to strategize how to integrate into the household. By his estimate, he could solidify his position within the next six months. Less if he doesn’t have siblings to get in the way.

Coming to the conclusion that parading his katana may not aid in quelling Father’s wariness, Damian allows Pennyworth to confiscate it. If the need arises, he knows the most likely places for storage. They truly are younger, less experienced. Neither Pennyworth nor Father searched for hidden weapons on Damian’s person. The counterparts he was familiar with would have known better. While the katana may have been taken, his knives were not.

For his first morning in the Manor, Damian requests toast instead of pancakes or eggs. He has it with jam, a selection of fruits that he is certain were not present in the fridge before, and chilled water. Suitable for summer, though he craves a hot cup of tea.

All in all, it is adequate. Especially since the fork he was given for the fruit was designed to fit into Damian’s disdainful baby hands. He can stab the strawberries for however long he pleases, an exercise in coordination. Pennyworth is generous and allows the playing of food so long as he eats it all.

By the time Damian’s appetite is sated, Younger Father treks to the breakfast nook for his own meal, presumably just after waking up given his zombie-like state. Pennyworth hands him a coffee when he takes a seat. He receives the coffee with not even a plate of salad or oatmeal, which was Father’s typical.

Damian’s eyes narrow as he realizes that this version of Father is having a Tim Drake Breakfast and nothing else. “That is bad for you.”

Father looks up mid-sip and stares at him with befuddlement. “Excuse me?”

Damian dutifully points to the mug. “Drink water before that. It lowers the risk of acid reflux. And you should not have caffeine on an empty stomach. Eggs and oatmeal are an optimal combi-nation with coffee.”

It is both amusing and disappointing how long it takes before Father seems to process his counsel.

“Hn.” He grunts. “Don’t worry about me.” The bags under his eyes contradict Father’s supposed belief that he is capable of self-care.

“I am not worrying.” To get his point across, he utilizes his most terror-inducing glare. The one that strikes fear into the hearts of foe and hero alike. “If you choose to disobey, I will follow your example and not eat in the morning. And I will begin my journey to caffeine addiction.”

Is it a bluff? That is for Damian to know and Father to risk finding out.

Younger Father looks to Pennyworth for support and finds none. The butler and unofficial head of the house begins to prepare a plate of eggs for Father, the picture of smugness all the while, though Damian does not know why. This was his victory, not Pennyworth’s.

“Also after waking up, you should wait at least 90 minutes before drinking any coffee. Cortisol levels…” The lecture lasted for however long it took for the eggs to be made and eaten. By the end of it, Father seemed to have gracefully accepted Damian’s wisdom.

Drake was good for something after all. Learning and researching coffee’s effects on the human body to be better equipped in keeping him alive and functioning has officially paid off.

He’ll be able to demonstrate his usefulness sooner than planned. The timeline may even be moved up.

Bruce knew early on that Damian wasn’t a normal toddler, back when he thought the kid was here to pitch a business idea. Actually, even before that, when said toddler initiated a formal handshake. He’s clearly advanced for his age, which, knowing his parentage, isn’t surprising.

He’s a dad. A dad. And Talia is the mom.

Observations suggest his emotional self-control to be concerningly good. 

For example, the child went through a long and exhausting flight. Not to mention the stress that surely comes from being separated from Talia and meeting two strangers by himself.

Again, his self-control is concerningly good.

Nevertheless, Damian, as it turns out, is a very demanding, very stubborn child. This makes a frightening combination with his estimated intellect. Alfred says it’s karma, and Bruce is inclined to purchase an apology island for the older man’s eventual retirement.

Never did Bruce think that he’d lose to a three year old. And yet here he was, successfully blackmailed into changing his eating habits. Not even Alfred could do it so absolutely.

Breakfast is spent with Damian telling Bruce everything he knows about coffee and threatening him into eating a “real meal.”

He also followed Bruce around for a full 90 minutes until he haughtily declared that Bruce is “permitted to drink.”

Now, they’re in the sitting room while he has his second cup because he can’t function in the morning without coffee and he needs it for talking to this uncompromising three year old.

Damian mirrors Bruce by sipping at the orange juice Alfred provided, sitting comfortably on the same couch he slept on last night. His clothes are different, but with the same simplicity as before. A plain t-shirt and shorts more suitable for an adult than a child.

“So, ki—” He starts, swallowing one final gulp of coffee. “...Damian. There’s some things I want to ask.”

The boy copies with his orange juice and nods.

Bruce decides to start with easy questions, just so he could get to know him. He’s not interrogating a potential threat, after all. “What’s your favorite color?”

His nose scrunches up before his cheeks puff into what can only be described as a pout. “My superior capabil-ities should not be looked down on due to my appearance. I am not a baby.”

You are a literal, physical baby.

“I’m not looking down on you, Damian.” Bruce has to think quickly before they get sidetracked. “This is an assessment to gauge how complex your cognitive understanding is.”

It’s half true, half bullcrap. But there’s enough big words that Damian won’t feel underestimated.

It seems he understands, or was pretending to, because he nods. “...Very well. I have a prefer-ence for green, but partial to blue and red.”

His excuse worked.

“Any specific shade of green?” 

“Forest. Sage is also agreeable, as is mint.”

“You have good taste. What’s your favorite food?”

“I enjoy rice dishes, but nothing in partic-ular. But,” And this is where he hesitates for the first time. “I…do not eat meat.”

Bruce could feel his eyebrows shoot up. “You’re vegetarian?”

“Yes.” He straightens his back in a way that Bruce can’t tell if it was intentional or not. “Commercial farming practices to feed humanity are highly unethical and unsus-tainable for the Earth.”

“Who taught you that?” Bruce asks. To think this little kid is concerned about that. He’ll have to consult Alfred and a dietician for nutritional substitutes to make up for a no-meat diet. Is it even safe for toddlers to be vegetarian? It should be, but what if it’s not?

Damian looks at him for a few seconds before quietly answering. “I taught myself.”

Bruce waits for him to continue, but he doesn't.

Bruce glances down at the toy on Damian's lap that he was definitely fidgeting with but pretending he’s not. He’s been wanting to ask about that thing since yesterday. “What’s your favorite animal?”

“I have no favorite.” He scowls so hard his whole face gets wrinkles. “Every creature has unique character-istics that could promote them to subjective favorat-ism, although warm-blooded vertebrates have a tendency to be selected as the most beloved, with me being no exception.”

So, Damian likes animals in general and really likes mammals and birds. Maybe he’d enjoy the zoo sometime. 

The kid is starting to look irritated by preference questions. Now seems like a good time to get the answers he needed.

“Do you know where you used to live?”

“Nanda Parbat, primary base of the League of Assassins. Headquarters of the Demon’s Head. I’ve lived there since birth.”

That’s in the Himalayas. Of all places to raise a baby, it had to be there? The League had dozens of bases to pick from, and Talia chose there? Bruce doesn’t know what he’s been hoping for. He took a moment to rub his temples, already dreading what he’s about to hear. “What’s a normal day for you there?” Please tell him that Ra’s hasn’t been giving League training to a toddler. His former mentor wouldn’t go that far, would he?

…Would he?

“Until the beg-inning of May this year, I never left my bedchamber.” Bruce has to use all his self-restraint to keep from interrupting because does that mean his whole life was spent indoors? “After breakfast, Mother would visit for two hours. She’d talk in various languages in various subjects to facil-itate learning. It was pleasant. Playtime was regular, interrupted only with lunch and naps. I learned stretches and basic martial arts forms for additional physical activity and sport. After dinner, Mother would briefly come to consult with my caretaker before it was time for a bath and sleep.”

For the most part, the routine itself didn’t sound concerning. Talia regularly made time for him and made sure he was taken care of. It’s probably the best she could do in Nanda Parbat. Except he’s never been outside . Whatever time he spent on their doorstep does not count. Oh god, has he even felt grass before? Trees and flowers? Animals? He hasn’t, and for some irrational reason that possible fact is making his throat close up.

“Have you ever met Ra’s, your grandfather?”

Damian had a slight smile while speaking of Talia, and now that smile has disappeared into an expression that looks too old with Damian’s pudgy cheeks.

He nods.

Okay, Bruce. Keep calm.

“What was he like?”

His eyes darkened even further, closing them for a minute before sighing before opening again. “He changed the routine when Mother was away on a mission.”

“Hnn.” Bruce takes in a breath and prepares himself so that when—not if—Damian says something that’ll make him want to resurrect Ra’s just to punch him, he will not lash out at the boy. “How so?”

“...”

“Damian?” Did he push too far? Damian had been so cooperative that it slipped Bruce’s mind that he was only three. “We can stop here for now if you don’t want to—”

“Don’t coddle me! I am not a baby!” Contrary to what he claimed, Damian’s cheeks puff up into a pout as he crosses his arms. “I’m thinking.”

A minute passes in silence with Damian looking everywhere but in Bruce’s direction. His eyebrows were furrowed the same way Bruce’s did when he concentrated.

After another two minutes, Damian seemed to figure out how much or how little he wanted to say. “Do you recall how Mother said the environ-ment was not good for me, so she sent me away?”

“Yes, you did tell me that.” Bruce confirms in a way he hoped wasn’t pushy.

He stops avoiding Bruce’s eyes, staring at him with intensity, as if looking to convey something. “Mother intended for me to arrive here in six months, but then Grandfather died.”

“I was not expecting to send Damian into your care so soon, but the situation has changed.”

Yes, the letter suggested as such.

The death of Ra’s and subsequent instability of the League of Assassins was not why Damian was originally going to be sent to Bruce. Likely, it was whatever Ra’s did to Damian when Talia wasn’t present that made her decide. Everything starts from some period in May.

Damian doesn’t elaborate further, but he didn’t need to. Not when Bruce now has enough information to put the pieces together.

As it turns out, his newly discovered, genius, stubborn, and demanding son was also recently traumatized by his now-dead immortal eco-terrorist megalomaniac grandfather.

Definitely not normal.

Chapter Text

“Please, Lucius. I know I’m asking a lot.” Bruce was sitting at his desk, phone in one ear as he typed at his computer. Not his work computer, but the one for his ‘work.’

“No, I understand how hectic everything must be right now.” Lucius, thank every merciful deity out there, is taking this situation with the grace of a saint. “I’m a parent and I know things pop up when we least expect it. Feel free to work at home until he settles in. Take time to bond, get to know each other. We can reschedule most of your appointments.” Yes. Bruce is so lucky to have him. “But, you cannot skip the board meeting on the 10th.”

Rats. He got his hopes up.

But maybe he can still get out of it. “How about—”

“No. I don’t care. You will be there on the 10th, you will be on time, and you will tone down the Brucie.”

So it seems Bruce can’t miss this meeting after all. Great. That’ll sure be a fun day. 

Reluctantly, without any whine in his tone, he says, “I’ll be there.” Even if he has better things to do.

After his talk with Damian this morning, Bruce has made the decision to prioritize the child’s adjustment over everything else. He’s doing what he can to clear his schedule for the foreseeable future. He’d have liked no outside obligations besides Batman until the end of summer, but Lucius can only be so understanding.

Sometimes he wonders who the actual boss is. On paper, it’s supposed to be Bruce Wayne.

But it’ll be fine. July 10th is weeks from now and the meeting won’t even take the whole day.

Bruce says his goodbyes to Lucius and continues to work on Damian’s legal records. For obvious reasons, the kid doesn’t have any. So Bruce has to make him an airtight identity before the press finds out. It will have to be done through less than legal means, but it’s extremely necessary.

The birth certificate and social security number were integral. It was Alfred who found out Damian’s date of birth. While Bruce was busy in the cave, the two of them have been spending time in the kitchen. After just a handful of hours, everything is set, forged signatures and all. For all intents and purposes, Damian was born in New Jersey and has never traveled outside the country. Nothing even remotely suggests any connection to the League of Assassins or to the Al Ghuls.

Now they just need a cover story for the Gazette.

And book an appointment with a pediatrician.

And consult a dietician on how to feed vegetarian children.

And update Bruce’s will.

And take Damian shopping. And research what things a toddler needs.

And order more parenting books.

“Welcome to parenthood.” He sighs and runs a hand through his unwashed hair.

Bruce is out of his depth here, isn’t he. 

He turns off the computer and stands up. The best he can do right now is go upstairs and get the kid outdoors. The rest will have to wait for tomorrow.

Father doesn’t make an appearance until dinner, claiming he needed to handle a legal issue. Presumably, those incompetent fools that call themselves executives have once again failed to do their jobs.

This left Damian under Pennyworth’s scrutiny.

After a rather nostalgic tour of the most relevant rooms in the Manor, Damian was allowed to select a bedroom in the family wing. He chooses Richard’s old room purely for strategic reasons.

They spend the majority of the afternoon in the kitchen. Damian provided assistance in making dinner. It is an adequate distraction from the fact that Pennyworth has hair. Damian has had to resist gawking at the spectacle for the entirety of his stay. Just when he begins to forget, he looks up and receives yet another reminder.

Once Younger Father is done dealing with his employees’ ineptitude, he insists they have dinner out on the terrace. An unexpected choice, but it must be another difference between the two dimensions.

Bat Plush is seated in the chair between Damian and Father. Pennyworth decides to provide the toy with its own tablecloth. Which is childish, but Damian tolerates it with grace. And a surmountable glee that he blames entirely on his current body.

It’s rather pleasant to feel the breeze of what is considered summer in Gotham. The sun is still up as well, and the clouds remind him of cotton balls. He really wants to paint the clouds, perfect the fluffy texture, contrast it with the blue of the sky. It would make a grand background, if he drew himself, Father, and Bat Plush sitting around a table, Pennyworth proudly serving the meal before he himself sits. Damian would make them look small against the sky, their image closer to silhouettes than an exact portrait.

‘Father was right about eating outside’ he thinks, mouth figuratively watering at the sight of Pennyworth’s vegetarian shepherd’s pie. Damian hasn’t tasted it in months, and while this version is not quite the same, it is close. Father seems to enjoy it as well; he continuously compliments Pennyworth and Damian’s work.

Dessert is a blueberry pie that Pennyworth tasked Damian to prepare the filling for. Pennyworth tells Father as such as he serves the plate.

“This is delicious.” Father says after taking a bite off his slice.

Damian frowns at his own piece, then looks up to Father’s face. “I didn’t put too much cinnamon?” He knows he did. Despite his best efforts to provide exact measurements, his despicable hands don’t have the dexterity. And a part of his mind kept whispering to add just a little more, again and again. The taste is overly strong and lacks the pristine subtlety Pennyworth would have accomplished.

“You put just the right amount, Damian. You did a great job.”

“I suppose.” He says with a blandness to his tone. He refuses to display any sort of pride for such a miniscule thing.

This version of Father must be fond of overpowering taste, even if it oppresses the natural flavor.

“I will do it myself.” Damian stands with his arms crossed, his back to the bathroom door and glaring at Bruce.

Bruce exchanges a doubtful look with Alfred. Is there a manual for how to go about this situation? If so, where can he find it? What is he supposed to do here? Let him go? Put his foot down? Pretend to agree and then spy on him?

Neither of them intended to force the child into bathtime. And they didn’t! Bruce would never do that! If he did, Alfred would kick him out of the house for a week!

They didn’t plan for this to happen. They didn’t plan to do anything but observe until they could parse what Talia meant by Damian having a ‘mild fear of water.’ So far, he’s shown so fear at all. Alfred’s been keeping an eye on him all day and he’s had no problems with hand washing. And they’re sure he had no trouble using the toilet.

Bruce suspects it has to do with baths, as that was specifically mentioned by Talia.

It’s not uncommon for children his age to be afraid of water, pools, or baths. But why would she feel the need to tell him that, and not Damian’s dietary preferences or medical information? Talia was in a rush when she was writing the letter, yet managed to include a ‘mild fear of water.’

A traumatic incident would explain a lot. Bruce only hopes it was a normal accident, like a drowning scare—actually no, that’s too terrible. The other, increasingly likely option was Ra’s.

“He changed the routine.”

Bruce is certain that when he eventually finds out what happened to this small, fussy, independent, toddler, Batman is going to need Superman to stop him from doing something irreversible.

He’d thought Damian would spend days, weeks, maybe even months without taking a bath, and that it’d take several conversations to get him to step foot in the ceramic tub.

But of course, their newest addition likes to be unpredictable.

The moment Alfred decided to test the waters by hinting at a bath, the boy enthusiastically ran towards the ensuite without a second thought. Which is really something Bruce should have accounted for, given his tendency to plan for every angle. He also should have expected that Damian would want to do it alone.

Which leads us to this predicament.

“You’re not old enough to bathe by yourself.” Bruce argues. He could easily drown if left unattended, or hit his head against a hard surface, or slip, or set the water too high and burn himself. Yeah, no, absolutely not.

The kid kept his arms crossed, repeatedly shaking his head. He absolutely refuses to acknowledge Bruce’s very understandable, very reasonable point.

Patiently, as though he’s an expert in dealing with stubborn children, Alfred gives the boy an understanding look. “Master Damian, perhaps we can set out a compromise.”

Damian still held onto his stance, but perked up in interest.

“Either I or Master Bruce must be present. This is non-negotiable. However, you may choose who.”

Hearing this, he scowls and narrows his eyes. “That is hardly a compromise.”

“Well, young man, you are free to make demands. But our condition stands firm. Disagree, and you may not have a bath tonight.”

Damian glowers, looking between Alfred and the door behind him. After a few minutes of stewing in irritation, he came to a decision. “Fine. You may ensure I do not perish in the tub, Pennyworth.”

With that, the two disappear into the bathroom. Bruce leaves the room, contemplating the reasoning behind Damian’s actions and thanking his lucky stars Alfred is here. He doesn’t trust he wouldn’t embarrass himself with how to apply the proper amount of soap, or how to dry someone else’s hair.

That’s another thing he’ll have to look into.

Damian stares at the empty bathtub for an indefinite amount of time. He feels no sense of dread currently, but he’s sure that will change once Pennyworth fills it. That’s been the pattern for the last month. Whilst the caregiver scrubs his hair, Damian eyes the exit with mistrust, waiting for an intruder because it’s already been proven his chamber is not defensible.

He is no longer in Nanda Parbat, however. He is in the capable hands of Pennyworth, who must have sensed Damian’s unease. That is the only way to explain why he locks the door, keeping Father and imaginary foes away.

From such a simple action, a considerable amount of tension falls from his shoulders.

He is cautious of the temperature. Damian has had too many crying fits if the water is just the slightest off. If too warm, he’ll be reminded of the scathing temperature that would leave his skin red, peeling off a layer of flesh. But his reaction when it is too cold is worse, and must be avoided lest he humiliate himself. 

Pennyworth dips a hand into the water, humming in satisfaction before suggesting Damian to try. He leans his body towards the faucet so that his hand can reach. The water is acceptable, although he adjusts it to a mild lukewarm temperature.

Now comes the time to enter. Damian removes his clothes with as much efficiency as his current body is capable of, looking forward to the feeling of cleanliness that will result from this possibly-not-horrible bath.

Pennyworth allows Damian to turn off the faucet once the water reaches approximately two inches. He finds no issue in shallow water, cupping his hands to spray it around his body and applying soap.

He stares at the water for some time, not realizing he had begun to shed tears when the water had begun to cool.

“Whatever is the matter, Master Damian?” Pennyworth asks, already reaching for a towel and ready to end the bath.

Damian shakes his head, shivering involuntarily despite the water being nowhere cold enough to warrant such a reaction. He doesn’t know how to say it. How can he when he doesn’t know? There’s nothing particularly wrong. He just feels cold. And he doesn’t want to get out.

He can’t speak. He can’t. So he points to the faucet, lets himself shiver again, and hopes he’s understood.

He is. Pennyworth drains the tub and fills it with another two inches of slightly-warmer-than-lukewarm water. He gradually wets Damian’s hair when it is time to wash it. The shampoo, Damian reads once he gets his hands on the bottle, is tear-free. It smells like lavender. While not his preferred scent, it is as soothing as Pennyworth’s careful motions in his hair. By the time it is rinsed off, he has nearly fallen asleep.

Afterward, once Damian is dressed, Pennyworth agrees to leave his newly claimed room. He locks the door with a satisfying click, returns to the bathroom, locks that door as well, and begins to brush his teeth. And just for the joy of finally having the privacy to do as he wants, he washes his face.

Bruce doesn’t know why he keeps looking at the door. There’s nothing to worry about. The lock is identical to every door in the family wing, and both Bruce and Alfred have the key. The ensuite is as baby-proofed as possible and the baby monitor will pick up any sound of distress.

But he’d rather if the door was open and he could see that the kid hasn’t gotten hurt while trying to brush his teeth.

Alfred was definitely having similar thoughts. He’s been dusting the nearest painting for ten minutes.

On minute eleven, the baby monitor picks up the sound of a door clicking closed and rustling bed sheets. Okay. So he hasn’t drowned while brushing his teeth.

They don’t want to overwhelm the child, so currently they walk a fine line between Damian’s safety and his right to privacy. Yes, his well-being is the priority, but they’re practically strangers to the kid. They can’t force boundaries when he doesn’t feel completely safe in his new home.

That being said, Bruce really wants to go inside. He’d like to talk to Damian before heading to the Cave, even if it’s a short time.

After two minutes of watching him hesitate at the door, Alfred speaks up. “You know, you can knock if it bothers you so much.”

‘You’re one to talk,’ he wants to say, but knows he’d get the sharp eyebrow.

But Bruce does knock. It only takes a few moments before the door is opened, revealing the little three year old in yellow pineapple pajamas, his hair still slightly wet.

“Well?” The boy looks Bruce up and down with his nose scrunched up, cheeks puffing in something close to a pout.

It’s an adorable sight. He’s already decided to print a picture from the hallway’s security footage.

He stops himself from saying something stupid, instead asking, “May I come in?”

The door is opened further and shut as soon as Bruce enters. Damian promptly locks it as well.

Like all others in the family wing, Damian’s room had a closet and ensuite. There’s a dark wood bedside table, matching with the adult-sized dresser, desk, and bed. The bed is set up with fresh white sheets, an Alfred standard that will be changed once they take Damian shopping. All in all, it looks like a typical guest room. Except for the stuffed animal carefully tucked in bed and the night light.

Bruce likes the green dinosaur night light on the bedside table. He says as such in order to break the awkward silence surrounding them.

Damian, for his part, agrees that it is cool. “I did not know lamps could be made with such an appear-ance.”

He talks so formally. It’s as cute as it is unnerving.

The kid frowns at him as he sits on the edge of his king-sized bed. He pats the mattress. “What do you need?”

What does Bruce need? A thorough explanation from Talia who has not answered any of his calls, a copy of Damian’s medical record including immunization shots, allergies, and health conditions, a week to process his increasingly odd life, and a protein shake before he starts patrol. But none of those are things a child can or should provide.

“I don’t need anything from you.” Bruce matches Damian’s frown with his own, sitting where the child wants him to. “This morning, I shouldn’t have kept asking you things without offering anything in return. To fix that, I’d be happy to tell you anything you want to know about me or the house.”

He blinked, the frown melting away into surprise. “Really?”

“Really.”

“And you won’t lie? Even by o-mission?”

Bruce had to suppress a guilty wince. He was planning to leave things out if the topic required it.

“I won’t, unless you’re too young to hear the full story.” He settles on.

Damian blinks again, surprise turning into understanding and then turning into disgust. “I do not want to know of my conception.”

And he doesn’t want to tell it, but once again, that is not what he meant.

“You can ask me now, tomorrow, or whenever you want.”

“I’d like to begin now.” Damian scoots further into the bed, shifting the covers so that he is under it. “How old are you? What is your date of birth?”

“Twenty-seven. My birthday is in February. The 19th.”

“When was Batman born?”

“When I was twenty-four. May 19th was his official debut.” Distantly, Bruce wonders if Damian will be in danger for knowing his identity. It’s certainly possible, but they’ll need to assess further before altering current contingencies. 

His eyes accidentally fall onto the bat plushie as he decides to put the identity concern aside. There is something he’s been meaning to ask. “Damian, care to tell me about your stuffed animal?”

He is answered by a grumpy scoff. “It is not a simple stuffed animal. It is the mighty Bat Plush! Mother got it for my birthday, during her mission to Metropolis. She thought she was being funny.” He frowns, face puffing into a pout. “No questions, Baba. It’s my turn.”

So, Bruce’s thoughts went something like this:

Bat Plush. That is adorable.

A birthday gift from Talia. No wonder he’s so attached to it.

Why, out of all places, does it have to be Metropolis?

Hold on. Did he just call me—

Bruce goes rigid, openly gaping at Damian, who is comfortably lying down and hugging the toy. Bruce might actually start crying if he doesn’t shove down the joy-grief-fear-warmth this—his—child unknowingly reopened.

In a moment of impulse caused by his emotional state, Bruce reaches out to ruffle the little boy’s hair and is shocked to find it so soft. What kind of shampoo did Talia use on him for it to feel like this? He’s so amazed that he forgets to stop. And just when he’s about to do just that, Damian pushes his head on Bruce’s hand and Bruce thinks he might actually die with all the feelings rushing into him.

Is it really possible to love someone in such a short period of time? Bruce never believed it was realistic, but how else could he describe what’s happening to him right now? And oh, he’s about to have a heart attack because Damian has decided to use Bruce’s leg as a pillow, all while wordlessly demanding head pets.

Why is this—his—baby so freaking cute? He doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone as lovable as this little guy.

Bruce keeps petting his hair, pulling himself together so he can fully bask in his son’s cuteness. Eventually, after several minutes, Damian shifts to lay on his actual pillow and breaks the peaceful silence. “Your favorite color?”

“Blue,” he answers and reluctantly retracts his hand.

“Really?” Damian’s nose wrinkles. “Not black?”

Just because Bruce opts to wear black more often than not for the sake of efficiency, he thinks it’s his favorite. Bruce almost laughs. “I like black too, but blue is my favorite.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “Any specific shade?”

“Blue-gray.”

He blinks again, then looks away with a pout. “Do you have other children?”

“Do I have other—what?” What? No!

The answer is obviously no! Damian is the first kid to live in Wayne Manor since Bruce. So what makes him think there might be more kids? Has he been talking to Alfred about this?

Even if it’s confusing to follow along where Damian’s mind led him, Bruce tried to go ahead and tell the truth. “I don’t. It’s just you.” As far as he knows.

“Oh.” Damian’s shoulders deflate in either relief or disappointment. “Do you want other children? Have you considered it?”

No, he has not (the books in his office, the ones he ordered this morning for toddler-raising, and the fact he will be attending another preservice session tomorrow beg to differ).

At least not right now (although Alfred may still be convinced otherwise).

He’s thought about maybe starting a family, whatever that looks like, in ten years. But with, err, recent events, it wouldn’t be fair to Damian while he’s at an age that needs constant attention. And Bruce doesn’t know how he would make time for the child in front of him, let alone another.

He’s about to explain this, but then he catches the look in Damian’s big, green, hopeful eyes. Hopeful, like he wants the answer to be yes.

Maybe, after living in one room with limited exposure to other people, much less children, he’s curious about others closer to him in age. Maybe he's interested in the idea of siblings, if he even knows what they are.

“I have.” Bruce admits slowly and diplomatically. “But it’s a big change. We need to get you used to living here before even thinking about having more kids, and everyone in the house needs to agree. That means you, me, and Alfred.”

His brows furrow and eyes narrow for a minute. He’s biting his cheek to hide the smile growing on his face. To think a child his age is trying to do that, it sends a pang to his chest. There is so much he needs to do for this little child. Including socialization. “But later, I can have brothers?”

Yeah, Bruce definitely needs to socialize him with other kids. And Bruce needs to know if all children are like this because he’s of the belief that this one is particularly unusual. “You want brothers?”

“Yes.” He says like he’s ordering a meal instead of siblings. “Older brothers. And an older sister.”

“You don’t want to be the older brother?” And why specifically brothers, plural, and sister, singular?

He shakes his head. “Too much respons-ibility and stress. I’d much prefer older brothers and a sister.”

“I’ll think about it.” And Bruce cannot believe that just came out of his mouth. It’s too late to take it back though. “Anything else you want?”

Damian hurriedly adds, “A dog, a cat, a cow—”

“Hold on. A cow?”

“Yes. And I’d like a horse as well. I’ve never had one.”

“Sounds to me that you want a whole farm.” It was a joke. One hundred percent a joke. Apparently only one of them knew that.

Damian blinks, then his eyes shine in excitement. He nods in the most enthusiastic way he’s ever seen. “A farm would be appre-ciated, Baba. Though I am not interested in crops.”

“...Maybe when you’re an adult.” As it turns out, Bruce is turning into the parent who can’t say no.

Chapter Text

“No.” Says Batman.

“Come ooonn, Spooooky.” To Batman’s displeasure and Hal’s satisfaction at making Batman displeased, he drags out the nickname. “It’ll be fun! Poker night with a bunch of heroes. You’re the only one who stands a chance against J’onn, what with your poker face and all.”

“No.”

The minute the League meeting ended, Hal has been trying to wrangle the Bat into joining them. Between blocking the Zeta with his body and using every argument he can think of, Hal is on his last leg.

And that is why he calls on his ultimate weapon, which happened to be to the man watching them with amused concern. “Supes!”

The Big Blue approaches slowly with his hands up in a show of peace, as if trying not to spook an asshole of a cat. Which actually, that’s pretty spot-on. “We’d love it if you join, Batman, it’s a good opportunity for the team to bond.”

“No.”

“Alright. Some other time then.” Superman says with easy acceptance and picks Hal up like he’s not a grown-ass man, freeing up the Zeta for Spooky’s quick escape.

Once Bats is gone and Hal’s feet are back on the ground, he sets his hands to his hips and sighs as he decides it’s not worth it. There’s no way he’s arguing with Supes right now, so he points back to the Zeta Tube. “It’s not just me who thought Spooks was extra cranky today, right?”

“If you mean he was using monosyllables whenever we ask a question, that’s pretty normal.” He sighs. “But he did seem to be in a hurry throughout the meeting.”

“Yeah. Thought so.”

Superman raises an eyebrow that was meant to look judgmental, but just can’t be. “Then why get in his way?”

Hal shrugs, knowing anything he says will make him sound like an ass. “Sometimes it’s fun to push his buttons.”

“Right.” He said in a way that meant he totally didn’t understand the appeal of getting under Batman’s skin. Which okay, Superman is the literal definition of a goody-two-shoes. He doesn’t have a bone mean enough to find entertainment in someone’s annoyance.

Hal knew he probably wouldn’t be able to get Spooks to agree to poker night with Ollie, Diana, J’onn, and Barry. But he thought that if it was Superman who asked, they’d get a two-word answer at least. 

Weird. Must be a bad day for him. What could’ve happened?

One day before the meeting: 

Bruce woke up to his alarm at 8:45, just as he does every day. And like any other day, he grumbled to himself as he left the comfort of his bed and went to shave. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and changed into a comfortable black turtleneck.

Normal so far. Pretty good actually, given he had three hours of sleep.

Out of habit, he checks his calendar for whatever appointments he needs to go to. It’s mostly empty due to his three-years-late paternity leave, but the date catches his eye and leaves him with a pit in his stomach. In all the excitement and headaches that came with Damian, he’d completely forgotten.

June 25, it read. In less than thirty-eight hours, it will mark the night.

Bruce doesn’t even think about it. He goes to the study and tries to blink away the images.

Bruce is a horrible parent.

Really, it hasn’t even been a week and he’s already screwed up.

He thought he was doing a decent job yesterday. He had spent a whole day exploring the grounds with Damian. Bruce can’t remember the last time he’s been out in the sun long enough to need sunscreen. Or the last time he took a break from work. It did wonders for his mood. He thought “I’m actually doing okay” when Damian sat on his shoulders, using the view to observe a cardinal’s nest.

But no, today he skipped breakfast. Damian and Alfred were probably waiting for him, and he never showed up. He had spent an hour doing nothing at his desk before doing anything even somewhat productive.

The morning is spent drafting an explanation for the public, trying to call Talia for the eighth time, and scheduling a meeting with an estate planning attorney.

Finally, after half an hour of deliberation, he goes to check on Damian and finds him watching an animal cartoon. It’s called “Charlie The Lizard” and actually has a sophisticated plot for its target audience. He relaxes on the couch and by the time he’s done combing Damian’s hair, an old hurt buried deep inside had mended itself.

Maybe he can do this. Maybe, if he tries harder, he can have this future.

At the end of the night, after putting Damian to bed, doing patrol, and collapsing in bed, he felt fine. He thought he could handle tomorrow like he’s supposed to, now that he has a little child depending on him.

It was Damian’s third day in the Manor that a change occurred. Younger Father was relatively quiet on this day.

Damian paid it no mind, as this is nothing unusual given Father’s disposition to brood. Whether this behavior is due to Damian or his work, it remains to be seen. There is the additional possibility he only requires time alone to recover energy for socialization.

They had spent the majority of yesterday, Damian’s second day here, exploring the grounds. Damian climbed the lowest branch of a tree. He relished the time of a long, mundane walk with his father. Something like this never occurred in the previous world, and it stirred some emotion that he refuses to examine.

Yesterday was enjoyable. Today is quiet.

Father did not join him for breakfast, Pennyworth saying that he required more sleep after a tiring night. Damian understands he typically does not arrive until 9, which is not for another half hour, and unhurriedly eats the blueberry scones Pennyworth prepared.

He spends time in the kitchen, sitting on a stool and sketching on a notebook borrowed from Father’s study with a set of crayons. They are subpar in quality, the portrait of Pennyworth in particular, but he will improve. He will, because he is Damian A̶l̶ ̶G̶h̶u̶l̶ Wayne. In the meantime, he’ll take pride in Pennyworth exclaiming the portrait must be displayed on the fridge. It must mean he at the very least exceeds the skill expected at this age.

Following lunch and a nap, Father makes an appearance in the sitting room where Damian has begun to survey the television programs as a reference to the differences of this world and finds a show centering around reptiles. 

Father greets Damian and stays for a bit, pulling Damian into his side and running through his hair. Something Damian only tolerates because for some unfathomable reason, it seems to soothe Father. The effect was similar to that of petting Alfred The Cat, which Damian is unsure if he should be insulted or proud of.

He leaves to finish reading company emails, then returns to continue watching the reptile show. Pennyworth prepares popcorn and apple slices.

Father was quiet, but it was not concerning.

Damian’s fourth day, however, is a bit different. It is equally quiet. Father is present for breakfast, but is otherwise preoccupied nearly the entire day in the study.

The latter part is what unsettles Damian.

If this present mood was due to vigilante work, Father would remain in the Batcave until the issue is solved. If Wayne Enterprise was the cause, he would relocate either to the library or the desk of an empty guest room unless the company was under urgent threat. 

Only when it has to do with personal affairs that Father voluntarily holes himself up in the study, such as—Shit. Is it that time already? By his calculations, it should be the end of June now.

But if that were the case, Father going downstairs for meals wouldn't make sense. Ruffling Damian’s hair and explaining he needs time to himself wouldn’t make sense. The Father he knew would shut everyone out the entire day before spending the night in search of crime, all without so much as a grunt. Not even Richard or Pennyworth could stop him.

Damian calls out to the older man in front of him.

In response, Pennyworth turned from the stove he’d been in the process of cleaning. “Yes, Master Damian?”

“What is a calen-dar?” He asks with all the innocence that Richard taught him to emulate even while internally scowling at his imperfect pronunciation. “The TV said that everyone should have one.”

Once Pennyworth completes his comprehensive explanation, Damian, who was feigning ignorance for the sake of his goal, strikes. “Do you have a calendar? I want to see.”

It was a matter of minutes before he was shown a planner full of notes and chores spread all throughout the month. Damian’s stomach begins to coil as he glowers at the uncrossed date.

June 26th. His paternal grandparents’ death anniversary.

Of course it is Damian’s luck that the date is a mere four days after he began living in the Manor. Of course. Fuck.

But the displayed behavior still does not make sense. Father has been—not attentive, but he hasn’t behaved as Damian would expect of this occasion. Most notably, Father acknowledged Damian’s presence in breakfast and lunch. Verbally, might he add. As well as a hair ruffle.

Could it be that Younger Father is more competent in communicating and processing his emotions?

No, that would be absurd. Younger Father is still Father.

Perhaps the date has a different significance in this world. Something milder but still unfortunate. The death of a colleague, maybe. Speculation will get him nowhere. Not when he has no way to verify it.

For now, as much as Damian despises the phrase, there is nothing to be done.

Bruce hears a ping go off on his phone while he is distracting himself with studying “The Whole-Brain Child” in his study. He looks at the notification connected to his downstairs computer, and with a sigh he enters the cave to confirm with himself that an asteroid is not about to hit Earth or something equally troublesome.

What he finds is a file, sent by the one person he has been trying to contact all week.

There are no pleasantries or requests to tell Damian anything like “I love you,” or “I’ll come to visit soon,” or even just “hello,” but it contained something extremely important to Bruce. So important that he couldn’t imagine doing anything for the next few hours besides reading through it.

Damian’s medical records. He finally has them.

They can’t be shown to any healthcare professional aside from Leslie since they were done under a League physician, but they’re perfectly documented. The list is thorough and has every test, every shot, time-stamped.

He was born April 15, 3:21 in the morning. 3.3 kilograms, 49.2 centimeters in length.

The baby passed the initial blood tests, the heart screening, and the hearing screening.

Damian has no allergies except for bee stings, with no data suggesting it to cause a severe reaction.

He is due for poliomyelitis, diphtheria, and varicella shots. They’ll have to take him to the doctor soon.

But, Bruce’s son is perfectly healthy. Has been since birth. As Bruce dissects the records, memorizing every word, those three years and two months feel even longer than they did when he first read the letter.

“I should have been there.” He whispers, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Afternoon snack time is given at 16:00, a time that both Pennyworth and Damian found to be optimal for the new routine they are building. After refusing yogurt, a brand that Damian knows does not ethically source their dairy, he is given crackers topped with peanut butter and a sliced orange.

During this time, Damian hears Father coming down the stairs. He walks to the kitchen, pets Damian’s hair, and tells Pennyworth he’s leaving.

Where he’s going, Damian isn’t sure. If the anniversary is the same, then it’s surely to the cemetery.

Damian opens his mouth and ask if he could join, but the words won’t come out. He doesn’t want Father to go alone, but Father may dismiss him.

He goes by himself, neither Damian nor Pennyworth stop him.

Father does not return for an hour and forty-five minutes. Damian sees him for less than a minute before he goes to the study, readying himself for a meeting in the Watchtower.

Likely, Batman will roam the streets after the meeting and Damian will not see him till morning.

Damian cannot sleep. He pretends to be, his years of training capable of tricking Pennyworth into thinking he is, but he cannot. Until tonight, he’s had minimal difficulty in doing so.

He tries for a short time, silently shifting around the bed sheets so the monitoring device does not pick up on the sound. He tries laying still and willing himself to sleep. He tries but he cannot, because it is June 26th and Younger Father is alone. Damian doesn’t like it. 

Even if Father shuts away during the day, the night is different. The night is when they roam the streets, when they battle against the worst of Gotham. Father is supposed to have a partner, an ally to share the burden. After patrol, Richard is supposed to commence the impromptu movie night ritual and force the family to lounge around in Father’s bedroom. They are supposed to leave crumbs on the sheets and commentate on the movies and place wagers on who will lure Father into speaking a full sentence.

This world does not have that. This version of Father will be alone tonight. But he shouldn’t! Damian is growing fond of him, therefore the current state of things is unacceptable!

There is no solution though. Robin cannot go to Batman. Batman has no support, save for Agent A.

In this body, Damian can't think of anything he can do. He has not earned Robin yet. Richard has not created Robin yet. Robin cannot go to Batman because Robin does not exist.

‘Robin doesn’t exist,’ he repeats in his mind, something cold sinking into his stomach.

He slips out of the bed as tears spring from his eyes.

‘What if Robin never exists here?’ He asks himself in growing terror at the sheer possibility.

He needs to leave, or Pennyworth will know he is awake. Biting his lip to hold back the ensuing cries, Damian slowly turns the knob and steps into the hall.

If he can never be Robin, then what the hell is he supposed to do?

Damian rubs at his eyes with the sleeves of his nightshirt. A hiccup escapes and soon he proceeds to weep like a needy infant.

He misses Mother. He misses Richard. Why have they left him all alone in this big place? Why do they always leave him? Why isn’t he enough? His cries intensify. He can’t even seek comfort from Bat Plush because he left it behind.

It’s upsetting to stand by himself in the hall, so he opens the door to the bedroom across and climbs into the bed. It’s only when the cries soften and his baby brain deems now is the time to get tired that he makes note of the black linen quilt he has cocooned himself in. Or the analogue clock set on the nightstand. Or the faint scent of vanilla cologne.

An idea develops in Damian’s mind as he settles onto a flat pillow and resists sleep.

Father won’t be alone when he returns. Damian can initiate movie night in Richard’s stead.

Exhausted in every way possible after bringing flowers to his parents’ graves, pestered by Green Lantern after a headache-inducing meeting, falling into Gotham Harbor and needing immediate decontamination in the Cave, Bruce just wanted to sleep. It was all he could think about as he trudged upstairs and made his way to the family wing.

He barely notices that the door to his room is slightly open. There’s a lump on the bed, but he thinks nothing of it. He probably didn’t reset his pillows this morning.

Bruce changed into a t-shirt and sweats before pulling the blanket, intending to go to bed. But what was under the blanket was not a pillow. His brain was not working at full capacity, so his thoughts were embarrassingly slow on the uptake:

That’s not a lump. That’s a baby.

Oh right. Bruce has a baby now.

Oh shit, Bruce has a baby now. What’s Damian doing in here?

The little boy was curled up in a fetal position, peacefully asleep and wearing green dinosaur pajamas. With hardly a second thought, Bruce pulls out a phone and takes a picture. Tired as he is, they don’t have enough photos of Damian.

Speaking of, why is he here? A nightmare?

He doesn’t want to carry him back, and the bed has more than enough room for both of them, so Bruce carefully lays down on the mattress. The movement was apparently all Damian needed to stir. His little head bobbed up off the pillow and turned to Bruce, hooking his fingers on Bruce’s shirt and crawling closer without ever opening his eyes.

“Baba. Movie—” He flares his nose in a failed attempt to keep from yawning. “Movie night.”

Bruce pulls the covers over himself and his boy, letting himself yawn before murmuring slowly as his eyes shut together. “Tomorrow, Sweetheart. It’s too late now.”

He can feel Damian grumble softly against his chest, going boneless as he gives up on staying awake any longer. Similarly, Bruce tucks the baby into his arms and feels himself drift off.

Chapter Text

Despite Bruce’s expectations, the following day was good. Right after the anniversary it usually took longer to, in Alfred’s words, ‘stop being such an antisocial recluse,’ but his mood had magically improved almost instantly. The reason? He currently lives with the young Damian Wayne.

The morning after an exhausting patrol, he woke up to a baby stealing his blanket. And by steal, he means that said baby attempted to hoist the whole thing and drag it away to his own room, barely making it to the floor before Bruce caught him.

This led to a (tragically) caffeine-free breakfast debating the morality of theft with a child barely over three feet tall, then to make good on the promise he made the other night. Bruce and Damian spent the better part of the afternoon watching movies, eating popcorn, and drinking orange juice. Their entertainment for the day were Ratatouille and Rio. Damian turned out to be very invested in Rio. He went on an angry rant on poaching and animal smuggling that turned into incomprehensible babbles. The entire thing was recorded by a strategically placed baby monitor, which he will be saving to his file once the child goes to bed.

It was a good time, even if Alfred gave him the side eye when the villain bird was killed off-screen.

He spends the evening on the phone with his PR team and sends the announcement to the Gotham Gazette on a silver platter. By morning, everyone in the city will know. Hopefully when Talia reads it—when, not if—she will respond to his calls beyond a delivery of medical documents.

CEO Bruce Wayne Announces The Existence Of Three Year Old Damian Wayne.
Read Bruce Wayne’s own testament of how little Damian came to be, starting with a passionate love affair in Montenegro.

Off The Market?
Has Gotham’s hottest bachelor found the one? More on page 8.

Gotham’s Most Eligible Man, Now A Single Father?!

The Secret Son Of Bruce Wayne! Baby Wayne Now Sole Heir To Billionaire's Mass Fortune!

Famous Playboy, Officially A Daddy! Meet The Newest Wayne!

Brucie’s Baby Mama?!
Who could be the mother of the newest Wayne? Speculators and rumors have plenty to say!

Gotham's Newest Wayne! The Result of Bruce Wayne's Whirlwind Romance!

Gotham Has A Baby Wayne! The Country Goes Wild!

Romance Abroad: Who Is The Lucky Heiress?

Newest Wayne Reveal Breaks The Internet!

On June 28, Gotham practically combusts at the reveal. In fact, it airs on national news in just a matter of hours.

“You’ve certainly outdone yourself, Master Bruce.” Alfred states while chopping cucumbers for Damian’s morning snack.

Bruce hides a grimace. In Alfred-speak, that translates to You have made a terrible mistake.

Bruce plays innocent. Well actually he wasn’t playing since he has no idea what he’s done to deserve the judgment. “I don’t know what you mean. This was entirely necessary to control the narrative and get ahead of the paparazzi.”

He hears Damian cough to disguise a snicker beside him. He’s ‘innocently’ sipping his orange juice when Bruce looks at him. The fiend.

“Then it must have slipped my mind somehow in my ever-growing proximity to old age.” Alfred raises an eyebrow as he sets the plate of cucumbers and tomatoes down. “When was it that you informed me of your contact with the news-outlet? I can’t seem to recall.”

Huh? But Bruce is pretty sure he told Alfred that the story will be out today. He said so yesterday, after Ratatouille and before Rio.

Oh wait. He told Damian.

Oh crap he didn’t tell Alfred.

“I forgot.” He says, then realizes that if he doesn’t apologize for not communicating properly, he’ll be lectured in front of his child. “I’m sorry. I thought I told you.”

“Mhmm.” Alfred hums.

“And it won’t happen again.” He quickly adds. “You’ll be the first to know, the next time the Gazette is involved.”

“Naturally.” Alfred turns his back to the tea kettle, and Bruce sighs in relief.

He is saved from Alfred’s wrath for another day.

Damian, for his part, has been quietly laughing the whole time. Laughing at Bruce.

“I don’t see what you could find amusing about this, Master Damian.” Alfred huffs without any heat, looking the part of doting grandfather. It suits him. “Now eat.”

The kid nods and gleefully stabs a baby tomato. After he cleared half the plate, he looks between Alfred and Bruce and says something completely out of the blue. 

“I want to see the Batcave” is what comes out of the baby’s mouth.

He wants to see the what?

“Pardon?” He asks, just to make sure he didn’t mishear.

“The Batcave. I want to see it. Take me to Batman’s head-quarters.”

Now, Damian’s existence notwithstanding, Batman does not get surprised easily. Or at the very least, he does not show surprise easily. But he can feel his eyebrows raise upward as he attempts to unpack his son’s (his son’s) thought process.

So because he is Batman, that means his headquarters which happens to be a cave is the Batcave, because bats are known to live in caves. Furthermore, though he doubts Damian knows this, man-caves are a thing.

The naming conventions of children are certainly…straightforward. If Damian were any older, he would judge the lack of creativity.

He sees Alfred’s lip twitch up in amusement, having gone through this train of thought as well. “You cannot go down there. For a lad of your age, it would not be safe.”

“I won’t touch anything!” Damian says, stuffing another cucumber into his mouth in the angriest way imaginable.

“Hm.”

Where Alfred immediately shuts him down, Bruce is seriously considering it.

On one hand, the child is far too young to go anywhere near the equipment in the Cave. There are far too many dangerous items for Bruce to even remotely consider it child-friendly. There is no practical merit in exposing Damian to so many weapons and delicate technology.

On the other hand, getting him access to the Zeta Tube as a precaution to the hundreds of emergencies that could happen would somewhat ease his worry. The Cave is the most secure location in all of Gotham. Locking up all reachable equipment and baby-proofing should make it safe enough to let Damian visit. Briefly.

“Tell you what.” Bruce interlaces his hands together flat on the countertop, looking all like the CEO he is. “You can go to the Cave one time, if you do three things.”

Damian mirrors him, making his back ramrod straight in order to show off his height (he sees Alfred pulling out a camera—since when has there been a camera in the cupboard??). “I am willing to hear what you have to say.”

“One, keep hands to yourself.” He says very, very seriously. “It’s very important you don’t touch anything in there. Two, you have to stay close to me or Alfred the entire time. No running off. Three, you have to go see a doctor for a health check-up.”

“A check-up?” He says it with disbelief, then outrage. “That is completely un-necessary. I am perfectly healthy!”

Yes, but Bruce needs to be 100% sure that you don't have any underlying conditions. They need to keep up to date with his shots, so that he doesn’t suffer from poliomyelitis, diphtheria, varicella, or any number of preventable things at any time. Just thinking about it makes him want to wrap him in bubble wrap and take him to Leslie. If it were entirely up to Bruce, he would’ve taken Damian days ago. He would have if they didn’t have to wait for the Gazette to publish the announcement.

Instead of explaining all this, he chooses to bullshit in a way that a child would understand that this action is necessary. “It’s to maintain the secret identity of Batman by ensuring no one will question why Bruce Wayne’s son has never been to the doctor, which can lead to them digging up the truth.” Or accuse him of being neglectful.

“So if we don’t go, it could comp-romise the secret?” Damian raises an eyebrow…or attempts to. He can’t exactly do it without raising both.

“Correct.” Bruce replies with whole-hearted somberness.

The mini businessman considers this, then nods with matching seriousness. “I agree to your terms, but only if I have Grandfather’s cookies after the check-up.”

He nearly chokes on air at the image of Ra’s holding a plate of cookies, then realizes that the man is not who Damian could have been referring to. Bruce sneaks a glance at Alfred. He’s smirking, eyes crinkled in joy for very obvious reasons.

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Wayne.” Bruce says, suppressing a chuckle when he sees a blush spread across Damian’s cheeks. “But I accept.”

They close the deal by shaking hands, then return to the snacks.

Damian understands the significance of what Father is asking of him.

Not only is it a display of faith in his ability to pose as a clueless civilian child, but a test to see if he is fit for social interaction without revealing classified information. Thus it made an acceptable condition before allowing access to the Batcave.

He understands perfectly, and he will not disappoint.

That said, Damian does not appreciate being handled like an infant. The damned car seat, for instance. Damian makes a fool of himself when Father attempts to lift him up, choosing to climb onto the modest (compared to his vast collection built for speed and luxury) Toyota SUV by himself. Similarly, he screams when Father tries to buckle the harness, demanding to do it himself even if his hands lack strength and dexterity. Perhaps it is for that reason that Damian devotes such intense focus in pushing the clasps. He admits it may be a useful training exercise to consider at a later date.

It is a twenty minute drive to the Pediatric Center. The lack of noise, aside from the drum of the engine, is uncomfortable but manageable. The silence reminds him of the first and only other time he sat in a car in this life, but he squashes the thought and distracts himself with the window.

Damian lasts fifteen minutes in the chair before feeling the urge to squirm. Which is when it comes to his attention that he is essentially imprisoned by the harness. And it wasn’t too bad until he became aware of how restricted his movements really were, and now he can’t stop thinking about it and why can’t he get out he wants to get out and the men are looming over him and there’s no spaceandwhycanthegetout—

“—ow that koalas have fingerprints that are almost identical to humans?”

What? Really?

“Really?” Damian asks with slight skepticism.

Father rubs a thumb around Damian’s cheek. “Really. Even under a microscope, it’s hard to tell.”

Woah.

Wait, when did Father get here? He’s supposed to be driving. Now he is standing by Damian’s side, the car door open. Damian glances to his left, confirming the driver's seat is empty. It seems Father pulled over.

Father’s hand is warm. And he no longer feels trapped. The safety clasps have been undone. He’s free. There are no assassins. And Father is here. Damian is safe.

Knowing this, he tentatively asks, “Did you learn that because of a case?”

He doesn’t know how his inquiry brought on a slight smile on Father’s face, but it feels offending. “No. It had to do with a gorilla, actually.”

A—what?? “How so?” 

He quickly goes through a mental list of all the cases he recalls from his other life, but there is nothing with any mention of any primates. He’s confident if there were, he would remember it.

“I’ll tell you on the way home.” Father’s hand grazes the unbuckled harness, indicating his intent to redo it. “Do you want another minute?”

Damian frowned, attempting to raise an inquisitive brow at him. “No need. Let us go to the appointment.”

Now it was Father’s turn to frown, his brows successfully raising. Tt. “We should head back to the Manor.”

Absolutely not. “The doctor is closer. And I am fully cap-able. There is no need to go home.”

Damian doesn’t know what, but something he said caused Father’s breath to catch. His expression tensed before smoothing into a rare upturn of his lips. Father didn’t move from his spot for a long while, seeming to be in a contemplative state.

Perhaps, he is curious as to the reason behind Damian’s outburst. Perhaps he doesn’t care why, but does not wish to deal with it again. Perhaps he’s beginning to believe Damian has not yet earned the right to go out of the Manor. Will he lock him away, just as Mother did? Just as Father did originally, in the beginning months? Will he also claim it is for his own good?

He suppresses the urge to fold his arms around himself. He wishes he’d brought Bat Plush. “This won’t happen again. I swear it. So let me attend the appointment and prove that…” He trails off. He hadn’t meant to say that last part.

“Prove what?” Father says slowly, in that steady voice Damian is acutely familiar with.

It’s meant to calm. To soothe civilians. And he loathes that it’s working on him.

“Damian?”

“I will prove that I am trustworthy. No one will learn your secret from me.” His eyes search for the minute expressions to tell him what Father is thinking. If deceiving the doctor is a test, he refuses to fail. But how can he prove himself if he is not given the chance? When, if not now, will he be granted the next one?

Father opens his mouth to respond, then closes it shut before saying, “I’m sure you will. Then let’s head to your first appointment.”

Damian’s body relaxes out of the previous tension it held and allows Father to buckle him up if only to save time.

“I was promised cookies afterwards.” He adds only for the sake of having something to say.

Whatever made Father pensive earlier seems to fade from his mind. He lets out a soft, achingly familiar chuckle. “Alfred will make sure you get them warm and fresh. You’ll love them.”

The visit to the doctor is not overtly unpleasant, aside from an infuriating amount of coddling from strangers. He’s treated like an idiotic baby by the front desk and nurses, and it presents a considerable challenge to Damian’s patience. Reminders that this is a form of infiltration is all that keeps him from screaming at the secretary who seemed infatuated with both Damian and his father.

Not to mention the play area that Father attempted to lure him to was infested with slobbery children. Even the older ones were clearly unbothered by germs spread through licked hands, uncovered coughs, and snotty noses presented by those who were supposed to be Damian’s age.

He’s decided, then and there, that he would wait a few years before initiating contact with Jon. Assuming he exists.

The woman Father selected, Dr. Patricia Garcia, is one of the more tolerable of the staff. She speaks to him directly instead of simply to Father, unlike that accursed secretary.

It’s a standard check of blood pressure, weight, height, vision, and physical examination. As per Damian’s expectation, he’s of perfect health with no outward condition.

Blood is drawn for testing at Father’s insistence. He is also administered a number of injections. At the end of it, he is given three stickers of his choosing. Indeed, the tiger, dog, and cow stickers do make the experience somewhat more bearable. He is beginning to understand why children enjoy them.

But Pennyworth’s cookies are a superior reward, and much earned after passing Father’s and Dr. Garcia’s tests. They somehow taste sweeter than he remembers.

Chapter Text

Grandfather paces in leisurely circles around him, glaring eyes never leaving Damian. They glow with the colors of the Lazarus Pit. They seek his unraveling sanity. They seek his body. They seek his soul. The demon with Lazarus eyes continues to pace, his footsteps tapping to the rhythm of a phantom dance.

Tap.

He can’t see Mother.

Tap.

Where is she?

Tap.

Why isn’t she here?

Tap.

Damian breaks away from the circle. His eyes never leave the demon’s.

He breaks away with a step back, not seeing what’s awaiting him behind. A step back is all it takes to fall into acidic green. It burns. He unwillingly swallows the water. He wants to cover his nose, his mouth, but his limbs are lead and refuse to do anything. They sink uselessly to the bottomless pool.

Chains drag him deeper and deeper, condemning him to drown.

Amidst it all, he hears the demon’s delight echoing through the cursed waters.

After a bout of nightmares at two in the morning and spending a full hour silently pacing his room, checking and rechecking the locks on his door and windows, Damian collapses back into bed. Distantly, he wishes to seek out Father for the guaranteed security of his presence. Just the thought of being held close to his chest, hearing his steady heart, feeling arms shield him from the nightmares, is enough to fall into a dreamless sleep.

He wakes, groggy and heavy-eyed, and decides to rest his eyes for a few additional minutes. He’s a child now, so surely he’s permitted to indulge in rest.

A knock on the door indicates it was more than a few minutes. No doubt he won’t have time to do morning stretches today. He slips out of the covers and makes his way to the door, unlocking it to find Pennyworth standing over him.

“Is everything quite alright, Master Damian?”

“Yes. I simply overslept.” Which is the truth, but Pennyworth does not seem to believe him. He scrutinizes Damian and catalogs every one of his movements.

Seeming to find something unsatisfactory, Pennyworth exits the room. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Now that he is alone, Damian allows a yawn to escape before freshening up. One look in the mirror shows how horribly disheveled his hair became and in desperate need of combing. It occupies the majority of the two minutes and forty-six seconds it takes for Pennyworth to return.

Damian frowns when he sees the thermometer in his hand. “I am not ill.” Though he is sure of this, he does not resist when Pennyworth places it under his tongue.

As he waits for the seconds to pass, Damian mentally goes over his plans for the day. He’d like to inspect the Batcave and gain access to Father’s computer so he can begin the search for his siblings.

Looking into Haly’s Circus and Drake Industries—supposing they exist—will be all he can do until the monitoring ceases and he can securely search for anyone named Jason Todd, Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown, and Duke Thomas. Cassandra, if she is still with that wretched Cain in the League of Assassins, will be the most bothersome to recover. That is, if he cannot find a way to persuade his mother for assistance. Surely she would at least consider his request.

“You are no longer my son,” an imitation of her voice reminds him.

Right, of course. He has no mother. He no longer has claim to the Al Ghul line. 

But perhaps he could initiate contact in his father’s stead. However, that would require access to the Batcomputer, which he does not foresee gaining in the near future.

A beep interrupts any further thought as Pennyworth reads the result of this temperature test. 100.3℉.

"A low grade fever.” He finally becomes almost as unconcerned of this as Damian has been for this entire ordeal.

“I told you I was not ill, Grandfather.”

He does not know how his statement could cause any amount of joy, but he sees Pennyworth’s lip twitch into a sparse smile. “That you did, but it is best to be certain when it pertains to our health. You must tell me if you begin to feel unwell. Now, let’s go before your father decides the coffee machine has a stain.”

Damian sprints away even as he knows the chiding he’ll receive from Pennyworth. He arrives to find Father doing exactly as he feared: chugging a mug of coffee with the bowl of oatmeal all but abandoned.

“Tt.” He makes no other sound to make his presence known, sitting down with a seat between himself and the man who is now putting the coffee down and looking at Damian with the expression of a guilty criminal.

“This isn’t what it looks like.” He says even though it’s exactly what it looks like.

What Father has just done is his first mistake.

Damian silently motions him to hand over the mug, and Father reluctantly does so. That is his second mistake.

To Damian’s luck, it is still half full. Not once having his stare leave Father’s Damian swallows the rest of the coffee within three gulps. It is foul, bitter, and offensively hot, but revenge is sweet. The frozen look of dismay on Father's face is worth every drop of that disgusting coffee.

Damian needn't say a word. They both knew that if Pennyworth learns of this, there will be hell to pay. For Father, anyway. Damian has what is known as ‘childhood innocence,’ a weapon honed by none other than Richard himself. If Father makes his third mistake and tells Pennyworth anyway, well, then Damian will have achieved complete and utter victory.

Bruce has been played. He doesn’t know what he was thinking when he gave the cup to Damian. No actually, he does know. He thought the little toddler wanted to confiscate his coffee and would throw a tantrum if Bruce drank any more.

How was he supposed to know his son was crazy enough to down the whole thing without so much as a grimace?

And now that Damian has made good on the threat he made days ago, Bruce realizes he will have to unhappily suffer 90 minutes every day before he can touch any coffee. He has to, or else the little monster will do this again and Bruce shudders to think of what will happen if Alfred finds out.

The kid has a look that, if going by Bruce’s own expressions, means something along the lines of y ou can tell them, but no one will believe you. It’s smug too, before hiding that expression away and innocently asking for orange juice when Alfred comes in.

And because Alfred doesn’t know what just happened, he opens the fridge and pulls out a bag of oranges. “Certainly, Master Damian. It is important to hydrate while down with a fever, regardless of severity.”

At a different time, Bruce would have questioned since when they’ve had an orange juicer, but right now a much more important thing stuck out.

"Fever?"  Bruce immediately turns to the boy and puts his hand on his small forehead. It’s a little warm, but not hot.

Damian doesn’t even huff in complaint. Doesn’t say a word at all, actually. He just…stares at him. And now he’s hoping it’s because the child is mad at him and not a sign that he’s sick. Bruce looks at Alfred.

“A low grade fever, Master Bruce.” Alfred says as he nudges the bowl of oatmeal with a raised eyebrow. “Common after immunity shots.”

Now, Bruce trusts Alfred. He’s been like a father to him for over two decades and has been there at his lowest points. He trusts him more than anyone in the world, and knows for a fact Alfred would never lie to him about something like this. 

Still, Bruce excuses himself.

One phone call and many questions to Dr. Garcia later, Bruce is assured that Damian really isn’t in the beginning stages of poliomyelitis or the chicken pox. By the time he comes back, a glass of orange juice is sitting beside his neglected oatmeal and no one but him there. From the window, he sees Damian on the terrace, flipping through what look to be catalogues with Alfred.

As he brings his meal outside and watches the boy get some much needed sun, Bruce ponders if he should go ahead and order a book pertaining to childhood illness. Or he could sign up for a class meant for that specific topic. Or both.

Yes, both sound good.

And Damian probably needs books for his age. He’d probably enjoy picture books if they include a lot of animals. Is Bruce supposed to read to him before bed? Did Talia read to him? Maybe they could do that before Bruce goes out every night.

It turns out they’re looking at children’s furniture to replace everything in Damian’s room. One bed in particular catches Damian’s eye. A low height platform bed with a tufted sleigh bed frame. At least that’s what it says in the description. The only detail Bruce cares about are the partial safety rails. The color options are black, gray, cream, seashell pink, royal blue, and olive green. Damian chooses the gray. And Bruce has no idea why he would do that when he had at least three more interesting options.

Alfred is the one to ask, though he sounds a lot less bothered than Bruce. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like the green?”

“I am.” He looks back to the catalogues and points to the image of a rectangular rug with numerous shades of green blending together seamlessly, all while maintaining the contour of bubble-like circles. “Can we buy this?” He finally looks at Bruce.

He is fairly certain the rug is not part of any children’s collection. But it has more color than the bed, so he is inclined to agree. At least he’s not asking for gray carpet, gray paintings, and gray curtains.

Damian finally talks to Bruce when he suggests painting the walls green. His son declares he will allow one wall to be “recolored,” then goes back to giving Bruce the silent treatment.

He and Alfred spend the next half hour looking for a children’s desk with “suitable sophistication” and “complimentary to the wood of the nightstand and dresser drawers” while Bruce goes online and searches for child-appropriate books.

Damian Al Ghul Wayne is not known for patience. He is capable of it when necessary, of course, but he prefers to ‘strike while the iron is hot’ whenever possible.

In the seven days he has been staying in the Wayne household of this world, he has been collecting information. He has concluded that the structural design of the Manor is identical to the blueprint he is familiar with. Even so, plenty of minor differences can be found, such as the flowers in the garden, and the fact that the curtains were white instead of red. For some indiscernible reason, a gate is installed at the top and bottom of every stairway, though that may be for the best once Drake is integrated. That buffoon is a magnet for accidental and ridiculous injury.

There was no trapeze for Richard, no elevators and ramps for Gordon, no miniature library exclusively built for Todd, no dance studio for Cassandra, no gallery dedicated to Drake’s photos, no waffle maker for Brown, no art studio for Damian, none of those displays for the stupid card games Thomas liked to collect.

There’s no proof that any of his siblings and not-siblings ever lived here. Which is to be expected, but nonetheless leaves a sense of emptiness in each room. An irrelevant observation, Damian decides.

What is relevant is obtaining a tour of the Batcave, something to which Father finally gets around to doing after Damian’s afternoon nap. As he is led into Father’s study, he catches a glimpse of the computer sitting at the large wood desk.

That is his next target. For now, he must be shown the Batcave. He waits, frowning when Father has yet to turn the clock and activate the opening mechanism.

Two minutes pass, and Damian is beginning to have doubts. Could it be that Father has changed his mind? But they had an agreement! Damian performed suitably in the doctor’s office! Father was honor-bound to uphold his side!

Before he could express outrage for this betrayal, Father placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Remember, keep your hands to yourself. Ask me before touching anything. And stay close to me the whole time. It’s not safe to run around. And—” Damian stopped listening to what other rules were to be adhered, sighing in relief that Father has not backed out of their deal.

Once Father is done, Damian nods and only briefly protests being carried down the staircase. It is a testament to his own size that Father only requires one hand to keep him secure. This position, if necessary, would allow Father use of the other hand to fight off enemies while enacting strategic retreat. Depending on how he is carried, Damian could also throw his knives at the assailants.

Hm. The viability would need to be tested later on. He could propose it as a training exercise at a later time. But not now. Not while descending the stairs.

“You should build an elevator.” Damian suggests as Father adjusts his hold on Damian.

Unlike the times before when he abruptly shares his thoughts, Father doesn’t even spare a startled look. He must be adapting well with Damian’s newfound presence. “What? Why?”

Because Gordon should not have to suffer a lack of amenities for her constitution when her discomfort is entirely preventable. But given that Damian has yet to meet this version of Oracle, he cannot say that.

“When you get injured, it will be easier to go upstairs.” He explains the secondary purpose, then the third. “And it is more conven-ient for Grandfather when he delivers snacks.”

“What makes you think I eat snacks down here?” Younger Father asks.

“Why would you not?” He suppresses the urge to scoff. He has seen the stash of cereal, popcorn, protein bars, dried apple chips, cheese crackers, pop tarts, and pretzels in the Batcave. It had been around throughout every Robin’s tenure. There is no point in Father trying to hide it.

Before Father was able to make some inane argument against the existence of the box imprinted with the bat symbol, Damian’s eyes swept throughout the cave. Because that is what it was: a cave. Not the Batcave he knew.

The walls and floor were still out of chiseled stone, not reinforced a hundred times over in case of any number of world-ending catastrophes. The Batcomputer, while still undoubtedly the most advanced piece of technology he has yet to encounter in this universe, is egregiously out of date.

And no matter where he looked, he couldn’t find the Joker card, the Giant Penny, or the—

“Where is the dino-saur??”

He hears a faint chuckle from over his head, then feels a large hand comb through his hair. “Sorry, son. There’s no dinosaur here.”

Damian has the vague urge to slap the placating hand off his head. He wants to scream “What do you mean, there’s no dinosaur here??” but that would stoop too close to an infant's tantrum. No, he must handle this like a reasonable, generous person.

“Tt. For now. You have one year.” There. Plenty of time for Father to correct this offense. Damian can accept the lack of the penny, and he is more than content never to see the Joker card again, but the dinosaur is too magnificent a trophy, garnering both fear and awe. It is also a favorite of the Robins and Batgirls, voted as the second ‘awesomest’ feature of the Batcave. Todd once told him it has a fire breathing mechanism and although he doubts this is true, that doesn’t mean he can’t make it so in this universe.

As promised, Damian is given a tour once he is set to his own feet. The medbay, training area, vehicle storage, and Batcomputer were where they’re supposed to be. It seems this is prior to the renovations that expanded the Batcave to what it would be later. Now, it is a glorified cave with a computer that would make Gordon go on a coffee rage before building a better one herself.

He notices a lack of tools and parts on the tinkering bench, and thus far has yet to see a single weapon. He does not know what to make of this observation. Perhaps Younger Father is not as hands-on as his counterpart?

Before he has the chance to explore his surroundings further, Father ushers him further into the cave, in the direction of something that should not exist yet.

But it does exist, and for that reason Damian would like to scream at someone for this backwards logic. Can someone explain how the hell they have Zeta Tubes here? No, really. Why does this cave still have a fax machine and a faulty portable heater, yet simultaneously hold technology capable of inter-continental teleportation?? The Zeta were not supposed to be around until Richard became Nightwing!

“This is the Zeta Tube.” Father types something onto the machine, then picks him up again. “It can act as a teleporter that can take you to certain locations. I use it for Batman work.”

Rudimentary explanation aside, Damian still does not understand why they are so close to the machine. It’s not like Damian can access it.

“We’re here so I can give you emergency access to the Zeta.” Father explains casually, as if he does not plan to grant a civilian child authorization to possibly the most advanced piece of equipment in the continent. “Alfred has it too. If the house becomes unsafe and you need to get far away quickly, use this.”

He holds Damian’s hand onto the access pad, pressing it firmly onto the cool tile. Father repeats this with his other hand, then maneuvers the scanner onto Damian’s retinas.

“Where would it take me?” He asks once it is done.

Father answers with a slight uptick of his lips. “To space.”

“Space!?” They have the Watchtower here too?? Why is he surprised at this point. Of course they have the Watchtower several years earlier than they should.

Despite Damian’s best efforts, his visit to the Batcave remained brief. But he does have another goal today, and he finds an opportunity once they return to the study.

While Father resets the grandfather clock, Damian runs quickly toward the desk. He manages to climb the chair before Father turns around and approaches.

“What are you doing?” He asks, but refrains from removing Damian off the chair. Damian has the sneaking suspicion that he is amused.

“Computer.” Damian points to the black screen. “I want to use it.”

Younger Father looks at him with an expression that he is beginning to think means mild bewilderment. “This equipment is rather advanced for you. Do you know how to use it? Actually, can you even read?”

What kind of question is that? Can’t most children read by now? “Tt! Of course I can!”

“Hm.” Father grunts as he inputs the password, which turns out to be Pennyworth’s birthday. Father then proceeded to search “preschool reading” and clicked until he found a satisfactory worksheet. “What does this say?”

Damian deadpans. “I see a cat.” Father makes an encouraging sound. Damian sighs and resigns himself to making this small sacrifice. “I see a big dog. I see the big dog chasing the cat.”

This goes on for another five minutes until Damian feigns several mistakes before Father ceases the tests(?) and clicks through until he finds this horrendous website full of games for children of all ages.

He brings them to a page titled 'Flappy Dragon Jr.'

As the continuous music embed into his ears while they learn the rudimentary mechanics of the game, Damian has many regrets. One of those regrets is that he got a score of 42 and was praised for it. All he did was click enough times for the dragon not to plummet and die; why does Younger Father insist he did a good job?? And the worst part was that he wanted to play more of it, on the condition the music is turned down. The game is extremely distracting.

In order to end this madness and achieve his mission objective before his mind surrenders to the game and forgets its purpose, he needs Father out of the way. And so, Damian turns to desperate measures. “Baba, can you fetch Bat Plush?”

Father, ever the cautious and suspicious man, considers him with contemplation. He then produces one of those monitoring devices out of nowhere and places it at the desk.

“It’s in your room, right?” Father asks once he’s at the doorway. Damian makes a show of ‘accidentally’ muting the volume of 'Flappy Dragon.'

“Yes.” He lies. Damian last left Bat Plush in the living room.

Father opens the door and sends a calculating look down the hall, then strides away.

Damian immediately opens a new tab and begins his search. He has roughly five minutes—potentially less—until Younger Father returns after failing to locate Bat Plush.

First things first: Haly’s Circus.

It exists.

An advertisement catches his attention. The circus is coming to Gotham in two weeks. One of their featured performances are the Flying Graysons. If he wants any hope of Father bringing Richard home, he will need to ensure they attend.

In two weeks' time, he'll get to see his brother again.

Very aware that he doesn’t have much time, Damian searches for Drake Industries’ major shareholders.

It barely takes a minute to confirm Jack and Janet Drake have a son by the name of Timothy. He finds an image of them, taken from a gala. While Damian does not know his exact age, it is a relief that it seems he is at least older than Damian.

He spends his remaining time in hiding his search history and returns to 'Flappy Dragon' just when Father enters the threshold.

Soon, the empty rooms will be filled once again.

Chapter Text

Bruce has been called many things. Batman, protector of Gotham, founding member of the Justice League, minor celebrity, debauched playboy, adequate businessman, generous philanthropist, son of Martha and Thomas Wayne, sole heir to their mass fortune, a witness to their murder, and, most recently, a father. With everything that makes up his identity, sometimes he forgets that he’s also unquestionably a Gothamite.

And as a Gothamite, he is obligated to express his displeasure for having to set foot onto Metropolis.

Damian, on the other hand, is positively ecstatic to go so Bruce doesn’t really have a choice.

Now that his medical concerns had been settled and Damian’s fever harmlessly passed, it was time to take the toddler out for a shopping spree. The essentials had already been taken care of on the first night, but Bruce has three years’ worth of toys he would like to make up for.

Also, Alfred decided to donate every single toy sent to the Manor by well-wishers (an astounding twelve trash bags worth of items), so all they have at home is the teething popsicle, Bat Plush, a packet of crayons, and maybe Bruce’s old train set in the attic. So, shopping spree. Alfred opted to stay in the Manor to ‘finally enjoy some peace.’ Which, Bruce assumes, means smothering the landline with a thick quilt and setting up Damian’s newly arrived furniture without having to worry about either Waynes.

For reasons beyond comprehension, his son wanted to go to Metropolis for the planned shopping trip. And Bruce agreed because they should avoid public outings in Gotham for at least a couple more weeks. Otherwise they’d be most certainly kidnapped by an amateur yet ambitious gang.

They enter Superman’s city after driving across the bay for an hour. Damian gets a bit carsick, but there is no repeat of last time. He attributes the success to distracting music and Damian’s comfort object (Bat Plush), adding that to his notes once they check-in to the hotel.

So far, everything’s been going good. Too good. It’s tempting fate and Batman has already made a list of all the ways this day could go wrong. From best to worst, the top five possibilities that he’d rather not happen are as follows:

5) Getting recognized and subsequently kidnapped.

4) Encountering Clark Kent.

3) Being called for a sudden alien invasion or other League-level emergency.

2) Encountering Superman.

1) Getting separated from his three year old son.

There’s little to nothing he can do to stop the third least horrible scenario (which is arguably the worst possible situation). The others, however, can be prevented with some situational awareness and planning.

While Damian is busy staring at the window of the hotel, Bruce changes into an oversized plaid shirt, breezy khaki shorts appropriate for the weather and poor fashion decisions today, and tops off the look with thick rimmed glasses and a bum bag. If anyone recognized him as Bruce Wayne, voted Sexiest Man in Gotham two years in a row, they would have earned the chance to kidnap him.

“What on earth are you wearing?” He hears Damian say somewhere behind him. He sounds so offended that it’s endearing.

Bruce turns around, messing with his own hair until it is egregiously unkempt. “I have a matching set for you.”

“You didn’t answer the question. What on earth are you wearing?”

“The Clark Kent Disguise.” Bruce deadpans, knowing Damian won’t get it. He takes out the child-sized glasses he’d prepared before coming here. “Here.”

The look of irritated disgust on his son’s face is so comical to see on a three year old’s pudgy face that Bruce has to hold back a laugh. Wordlessly, with a very deep scowl, he accepts the thick green rectangle glasses and the bum bag Bruce offers him.

One valuable but unsurprising thing that Bruce has learned during this experience is that, in no uncertain terms, Damian does not like crowds. Bruce would go as far as to say that he actively hates them. Entirely understandable even without considering his previous environment. Crowds are the exact reason why Bruce avoids going out whenever possible.

Almost immediately after they passed through the mall’s revolving doors, Damian initiates Bruce to carry him. This proves to ease both of their worries; Damian being surrounded by tall strangers, and Bruce believing Damian will wander off and get lost in this horde of Metropolans.

He sees teenagers. Teenagers all over the place, whether they’re on dates, or gathered in friend groups drinking smoothies, or alone and scrolling through their phones. There were a lot of teenagers.

He sees strollers. Strollers everywhere. With infants and toddlers and exhausted parents wrangling two, three, four, five school-age kids away from what looked to be animal scooters. 

As soon as that catches their eye, Damian unblinkingly forgets about the crowd, squirms out of his arms and demands to ride one. Bruce hands over his wallet and watches his toddler climb onto the cow scooter. Damian has the time of his life while Bruce hovers closeby, wary.

Bruce could not tell you when was the last time he’s ever been to a mall, if ever. It’s loud, crowded, pungent with sweat and too many perfumes, and carries a moderate security risk with how open the space is. There could be a robbery or robot attack. Superman could crash through the ceiling, fending off a high priority threat. A villain could walk through the entrance at any moment and take these civilians hostage. All sorts of accidents could lead to a large-scale fire that would bring enough panic that the crowds won’t be able to file out safely through the various emergency exits.

But the unease is partially worth it when they head into the first store. At first, Damian looks for the plainest designs for himself. Meanwhile, Bruce picks out every animal themed piece of clothing he encounters. His son scowls when he notices, muttering something about babies, but doesn’t take out the animal clothes in the cart. In fact, after a few minutes of grumbling, he runs all over the store and adds a black shirt with three traffic light-themed birds. A little red bird, followed by yellow, followed by green. He also hunts down an oversized black long sleeve with a big blue sparrow on the front.

“I think that’s meant to be an autumn shirt.” He says, looking at the blue sparrow shirt in Damian’s little hands.

“Then I can wear it in autam—autemn—automm—fall! I can wear it in fall!”

Bruce leaves it in the cart.

Damian finds a cute hedgehog shirt and fuzzy cat socks in the girl’s section and adds it to the growing pile of clothes. Again, they look more suitable for autumn.

“I can’t find any dino-saur shoes.” Damian complains in the footwear section.

Until Bruce found himself staring between yellow duck rain boots and pink teddy bear sneakers, he hadn’t known shoes could look like this. “Maybe the next store will have them.”

Do they sell dinosaur shoes in adult sizes, he wonders. There must be a market for stylish animal and dinosaur-themed footwear. He could just imagine what people would say if he attended a gala with a stegosaurus pinned on his polished dress shoes. It would easily make the front page. He’d have to consider it further.

Bruce convinces Damian to try on at least three of the items before they go to the checkout. ‘To see how they fit’ was the excuse, but really it was to take photos for Alfred. The three items Damian changes into are a green and white striped shirt, a blue short-sleeved button down, and the traffic light birds tee.

All of this just reminds him that they seriously need to start an album. From this trip alone, he’s collected no less than sixty photos.

“Which one is your favorite?” Bruce asks while they’re in line. 

Damian frowns as he turns away from the candy display he was eying. “My favorite of what?”

“Of these.” He waves a hand at the entirety of Damian’s new wardrobe.

“Hmm.” The toddler glances at the two bird shirts that were given a special spot in the pile, then points to a different shirt. “The cow has a word bubble that says moo.”

“So that’s your favorite?”

“Do you have an issue with that, Baba?” Damian asks defensively, cheeks puffed into a cranky pout. He’s probably hungry by now. “My taste is at least better than yours. Do you see what you’re wearing? What you co-erced me to wear alongside you?”

And that’s another word he thinks normal toddlers don’t know.

“I did not coerce you.” Bruce can feel the woman behind them listen in on their interaction. “And my taste is impeccable.” It usually is. The Clark Kent Disguise is atrocious on purpose, after all.

Damian doesn’t look like he believes him. “You need a mirror.” Bruce thinks he hears his stomach growl.

“The rumpled dad look is in right now.” He replies dryly, mentally weighing the merits of driving to the restaurant inside the hotel, or eating at the mall. The couple in front of them cover their mouths.

Damian points an accusing finger at Bruce’s feet. “You’re wearing socks with sandals.”

He moves the cart forward once it’s their turn to pay. Without looking, Bruce starts putting the clothes onto the counter. “You’re three. You can’t possibly understand the intricacies of grown-up fashion.”

Hm, the restaurant would be better, both in terms of personal comfort and the convenience in putting him down for a nap.

“I’m three, not an idiot.” Which is true. Damian is very smart for his age. “You look terrible.”

Bruce is about to retort when the cashier, who couldn’t be older than twenty, snickers to himself as he bags the items.

They leave the store and Bruce decides they have enough clothes. His hands are already full of bags and it’s only noon. Bruce carries everything to the car and takes them for lunch, which is a large serving of stuffed zucchini with sweet potato fries and salad.

They return to the hotel room for Damian’s nap. Bruce had been planning to work on a case in the meanwhile. Unfortunately, Damian has trouble staying asleep. Bruce was in bed, looking through a suspect’s bank statements when the little lump next to him started quietly shaking. Bruce didn’t notice until the lump attached itself to his thigh and refused to let Bruce see his face. He moves the laptop he was using to the far end of the bed.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce cringes at the harsh gravel of his voice. To make up for it, he brushes a hand atop the toddler’s blanket-covered head.

And Damian, for the first time since he arrived, calls out for his mother. It’s a desperate cry that makes something in Bruce ache as he attempts to help.

Part of him wonders how Talia dealt with Damian’s nightmares. She would know what to do better than him. She would know what to say.

The best Bruce could do is gather all the animal trivia he can think of and use them to soothe the baby. Eventually, Damian calms down enough to fall asleep again. Bruce can’t move if he wants him to stay that way, so he’s staring at the ceiling and wondering how Talia is doing right now.

Once Damian has enough rest and eats the fruit Alfred packed, they return to the mall. Despite the nightmare, he seems to be in a good enough mood, though that might be from the promise of toys.

The toy store is both bright and colorful. Damian takes the liberty of exploring every inch of the place. Interestingly enough, it takes some coaxing to convince Damian to touch any of the stuffed animals.

“I cannot betray Bat Plush,” He argues even as his big eyes keep glancing back at a stuffed tiger twice the size as Damian’s head.

So apparently his child knows the concept of betrayal well enough to use it correctly in a sentence. He’s not even surprised at this point. Bruce finds himself smiling fondly at the seriousness Damian is displaying. He’s worried about hurting his toy’s feelings.

“I don’t think ‘Bat Plush,’” Bruce says the name carefully, pausing momentarily to hold back a laugh, “would be offended. In fact, he might like the extra company.”

A contemplative look passes through Damian’s features as he mulls it over. “But would it not be careless to take in someone new without the consent of the entire household?”

Bruce does not like the intense gleam in his eyes as he stares him down. He doesn’t think he can refute that, not when this whole buying a plushie is turning into a metaphor. Especially when Damian hasn’t been subtle in voicing his wish for siblings. Or that the toddler just repeated exactly what Bruce had said a few days ago.

He clears his throat. “You make a fair point. Does that mean you won’t bring him home?”

To Bruce’s amusement, Damian scowls at him before proceeding to pluck the tiger plush off the shelf and gently lowering it to the cart. They walk through the rest of the aisle in silence until they’re away from the stuffed animals.

“I had a tiger in Nand—in my previous housing.” Damian says, looking over his shoulder suspiciously in case anyone overheard his slip. “Not a real one, of course. A toy. They didn’t let me bring it. There wasn’t enough space.”

“What other toys did you have?” Bruce asks.

“Blocks, books, puzzles...” Damian trails off as something catches his eye, practically running towards the aisle full of children’s art supplies. Bruce catches up to him easily. He watches as his son swivels all around, marveling at the different paint sets and markers.

By the time they walk out of the toy store, Bruce has purchased a set of Play Dough, a construction playset, a walking T-Rex, puzzles, hand puppets, a generic black eye mask (to which Bruce raised a questioning brow but made no comment on) a sketchbook, a ninety-six pack of crayons, a hundred pack of colored pencils, and the tiger.

They go for dinner and spend the night at the hotel. Following his excitement in familiarizing himself with his new things, Damian falls asleep on the bed, colored pencils strewn all over the sheets and both his plushies within arms reach.

The outing goes surprisingly well, overall. The Clark Kent Disguise has proven to be effective.

Chapter Text

“What?” Bruce turns around to find Alfred looking over him. At first, he thinks the man is searching for wrinkles in his suit. There was a meeting that despite his best efforts, Bruce could not skip. Hence, he was about to leave when he caught Alfred giving him the stink eye.

“Have you, perhaps, forgotten something?” Alfred asks him, somewhere between amused and exasperated. He thinks his blank expression is more on the exasperated side.

Bruce runs through his mental checklist. Seeing as Alfred hasn’t commented on his suit or readjusted his tie, that isn’t the problem. Damian will be fine with Alfred, so that's not it. He has his phone, wallet, and briefcase. The bruise on his chin is covered by makeup. He’s not carrying any weapons on his person (mostly). He’s wearing his watch. His hair is combed. He’s clean shaven. He brushed his teeth. There isn’t much else that he could have possibly forgotten unless…

Bruce looks down at his feet.

Nope. His socks aren’t mismatched.

“What did I forget?” Bruce decides to just ask because he genuinely doesn’t know.

“Me.” Damian ‘menacingly’ appears from somewhere behind Alfred. He’s wearing what looks to be a red drawstring bag, but covered in black polka dots. He’s holding the sketchbook he’s been constantly using for the past week.

Bruce frowns down at him, now confused for two reasons. First, “You?” And second, where did he get that bag? Bruce is sure he didn’t buy it.

He looks at Alfred.

“Today is cleaning day. Master Damian must go with you, as I will be too preoccupied to watch him.” As Alfred clears up the first part of his confusion, Bruce feels a headache coming on. With all the people coming over to the Manor, he’ll have to take Damian to the office. Which would be fine any other time, but this isn’t just about Wayne Enterprises.

“The whole day? Alfred, I have an appointment at 6.” He has two meetings today; one in an office, the other in space. For the latter, he won’t be able to justify the presence of a baby.

“Dinner is 7:30 sharp, and I will not see either of you until then.” Alfred starts pushing him towards the garage. “Now run along before the gardeners arrive.”

“But—”

“Not to worry, Master Bruce. I’ve ensured Master Damian is fully prepared for a day out.” He passes Bruce the keys to the Toyota, their only vehicle with a car seat. Once he and Damian have stepped into the garage, Alfred shuts the door.

They’ve been effectively kicked out.

Bruce heaves a sigh as Damian climbs into the seat, sketchbook in hand.

How can he attend the evening meeting without bringing Damian to the Watchtower? During the drive, he finds that unless he can find a trustworthy babysitter within the next seven hours, his options are limited.

“Did Alfred really pack your bag?” Bruce takes a quick look from the rearview mirror for any signs of distress.

Thankfully, Damian seems fine for now, quietly humming along with Symphony No. 5 playing on the radio. “No, I packed it. Pennyworth only checked it.”

“What did you pack?” He asks as he changes lanes and accelerates.

“Art supplies, wipes, water, money, and Alexander.” Alexander is what Damian decided to name the tiger plush. “Grandfather added extra clothes, snacks, and cookies.”

“Cookies?” Wow, Alfred is being more generous than he originally thought.

“They’re bribes.”

“Bribes? Alfred bribed you?” Why does his three year old know bribery? He mentally adds it to an ever-growing list of words his son knows that he probably shouldn’t.

“No, I shall be using them as bribes. Keep up, Baba.”

“Okay, but in what way?” He asks, furrowing his brows.

Damian doesn’t grace him with an explanation as to how Alfred’s cookies will be utilized as bribes, and Bruce decides for his own mental wellbeing that he doesn't want to know right now. He turns up the music.

When they arrive, Bruce unbuckles the car seat, picks Damian up, and uses his other hand to carry the briefcase. They are a full fifteen minutes early, and he has that much time to go inside, leave Damian in his office, and get to the meeting. The closer they are to the actual building, the more sure he is there’s a spectacle waiting to happen.

He is proven right, of course. The second they step into the lobby, all heads turn towards them. Bruce is used to the attention, but it’s not him they’re looking at. It’s Damian, face hidden in Bruce’s shirt. By the time they make it to the elevator, Bruce has ten minutes before he’s late.

As he is speed walking to a secure location, he notices his executive assistant following them with a manilla folder full of papers and a notepad.

“Hi Angela!” Bruce offers his executive assistant a gratingly cheerful smile once they make it to his office. “Could you please find someone who can watch this little guy? I'm afraid we couldn't find a babysitter on time.”

Of course, considering the short notice of this request and their current time crunch, Angela’s tight smile is more than he can ask for. She hands him the folder and goes to hunt down an intern. Probably either Sarah Kim or Ryan Wilkes. Once she’s gone, Bruce drops Damian onto the chair and checks his watch. Five minutes.

“Okay, I need you to be good while I’m gone.” He says as he makes eye contact with his toddler. “Can you stay here and draw until I come back?”

Damian scoffs haughtily, already opening to a fresh page on his sketchbook. “Of course I can. I’m not a baby incapable of enter-taining myself for a few hours.”

Bruce knows better than to disagree when he is in a rush. He also knows that his toddler energy won’t let Damian stay still for too long. A miracle would have Damian fixating on the interior of his office so much that he doesn’t leave. Otherwise, Bruce will be lucky if the toddler doesn’t manage to ditch the poor intern and learn to work an elevator.

“Do not go exploring by yourself and don’t bother the people working here. Be nice to the intern that’s going to stay with you. Please, please stay away from the elevator and stairs.” He says, then has another horrifying thought. “And if anyone tries to take you outside, even if they say I said it was okay, you scream for help.”

“I shall bite and scream.” Damian promises, and Bruce probably shouldn’t be glad about his son potentially biting anyone, but it’s not like Damian knows any other self-defence.

“Good,” he nods instead of discouraging it. Hopefully he doesn’t regret this decision, but he has exactly three minutes to make it to the meeting. “We’ll go wherever you want when I’m done. Just stay here.”

Damian huffs and makes a little shooing motion with his hand. “Go already!”

Bruce sees Angela return with a young intern and hurries out, Angela right on his heels as they quickly review the agenda.

“Hi there!” Damian’s current minder smiles down at him with an irritatingly bright voice. “My name is Ryan. What’s your name?”

Damian assesses his appearance and threat level. The man in front of him looks somewhere between Drake and Todd’s age. Either currently in college or recently graduated. Red hair. No remarkable features. No calluses. Average build but notable height. Hesitancy in his movements that suggests a lack of training.

In conclusion, Damian could defeat him with ease.

“Damian.” He replies while opening his travel bag and sets the crayons on the desk.

“Damian! That’s a really nice name!” The intern called ‘Ryan’ seems to be attempting conversation as though he is an infant. “Do you like to draw?”

“Yes.” Damian resolves to ignore him in favor of creating a portrait of Bat Plush. “Now stop talking.”

‘Ryan’ continued to talk, although it was now to himself in a jumble of sullen mumbles. Good. Damian would like to stew in his thoughts.

There is an issue he has been trying to overcome for the last two weeks with very limited success. An issue of the utmost importance.

He must find a way to make himself and Father attend the circus performance that is quickly approaching. The circus performance that Damian is not supposed to know about. The plan to simply manipulate Father into believing it is his idea has been a failure. Thus far, his efforts to bring up the subject naturally have been met with…unintended results. Such as repeated promises to see the zoo. It may have been his own phrasing that made Father come to the incorrect conclusion. He should not have expressed the desire to see an elephant.

For now, he will have to wait for an opportunity to bring up the circus. And he must do it soon. He has less than a week until Richard arrives in Gotham.

Damian begins to outline with black crayon, careful to ensure the proportion of the head is nearly equal to the round torso. The wings are not as symmetrical as he would have liked, but that is to be expected. He nearly ruins the portrait before he remembers to switch out the black crayon for something else to fill in the body. Once it is complete, he frowns at the sudden need to relieve himself. He hastily writes his signature in the corner and closes the sketchbook.

“What are you doing?” ‘Ryan’ looks at him with slight panic whilst Damian collects his belongings and makes his way off Father’s chair.

“I need the restroom.” He motions for ‘Ryan’ to lead him there. The man seems to understand his urgency as the look of panic intensifies and he swiftly navigates them to the required destination.

Damian hardly hesitates to claim a stall, lock it, and do his business. The relief is immediate. It is only after he exits the stall and looks up at the row of sinks that he realizes, with indignant mortification, he has no means to wash his hands.

He looks down at his hands, up at ‘Ryan’ whose body stiffened as he seemed to come to the same realization, then up to the sinks.

This is for the mission, he tells himself. He’s supposed to be an ordinary civilian child. This is for the mission. And for the sake of hygiene.

Damian opens his eyes in a mimicry of innocence and points to the line of stone. He pretends the flush on his cheeks are intentional.

“You want me to pick you up?” The man’s expression looks unduly frightened. It’s not as though Damian had threatened him with a knife.

Eventually, ‘Ryan’ comes to his senses and follows his simple instructions. He wraps his arms around Damian’s middle—pointedly not touching his arms—and sets him down on the flat stone of the sinks. Damian lathers the soap and washes in silence.

On their way back to Father’s office, Damian is struck by a thought as they pass by the door of what he believes to be the break room. Before his minder could stop him, Damian turns around and opens the door.

He finds two employees in the room. One is pouring himself a cup of coffee, the other is a woman listening to something on what appears to be a set of earbuds, but with wires. Damian considers his options, then rushes towards the woman before ‘Ryan’ thinks to catch him.

“I’m Damian.” He climbs to the seat next to her.

Damian startles her enough that she jumps. “Fuck!” The progression of facial expressions when she sees who scared her is amusing. First confusion, then understanding, then embarrassment. “Shit—sorry.”

“Sarah!” ‘Ryan’ hovers over Damian as though afraid he will fall off the chair from the sudden use of language.

“I said I was sorry!”

“You just sweared in front of a child!”

“First of all, it’s swore.” ‘Sarah’ corrects as she puts away her device. “Second, calm down. He’s not going to repeat it after hearing it just once.”

She was correct. He wouldn’t have thought to do something as pointless as that. That is, not without suggestion. But given the reaction it may undoubtedly cause, how is he supposed to resist when he has been presented with such an opportunity? He would dishonor every generation of Robin if he didn’t take it. Damian puts an effort to maintain a guileless expression.

“Oh God, Sarah.” ‘Ryan’ groans into his hands. “You jinxed us.”

She scoffs. “No I didn’t.”

Damian flicks his gaze back and forth, back and forth between them, thoroughly entertained thus far.

“We’re in Gotham. Of course you did!” ‘Ryan’ makes an argument that is not entirely groundless.

Damian pulls his eyes away only for a moment in order to open his travel bag. He takes out the container of cookies and offers ‘Sarah’ the one with the least chocolate chips. “Here.”

The young woman momentarily stares at the cookie with suspicion, then plucks it out of his outstretched hand. “Thanks?”

“Fuck.” Damian proceeds to witness the break room go deathly quiet. Even the man on the other side of the break room, mixing creamer into his coffee, has ceased his movements. Damian allows a childish laugh to escape as he gleefully repeats himself. “Fuckfuckfuck. Shit shit, fuck fuck. Fuck Fucky fuck fuck shit. Fucka fuck shit fuck fuck shit.”

Complete silence. ‘Ryan’ has his face covered with his hands, body shaking in what one can only assume are out of satisfaction of being right, or utter fear. Based on Damian’s assessment of him, it’s more likely the latter. ‘Sarah’ has gone entirely still, her open mouth still containing the one bite she took of the cookie.

The coffee man recovers first. He turns to ‘Sarah’ with almost pity. “His parents are going to kill you.”

“Yeah.” She sighs and remembers the cookie in her hand. She chews the rest of it with vigor. “Holy cow, these are fantastic.”

“Sarah!” ‘Ryan,’ to some relief, is not crying at least. Although he looks pathetically close to it. “You could lose your internship for this! I could lose my internship for this!”

Damian rolls his eyes. Younger Father would never be so unreasonable for something that occurred on accident in the break room. In fact, Father may insist these people be compensated for the interruption to their break and the emotional damages Damian has evidently inflicted upon ‘Ryan.’

‘Sarah,’ it seems, also believes her peer is overreacting. “Relax, relax. It was an honest mistake. He’s probably just the marketing manager’s brats again. He’s a reasonable guy, we’ll be fine. Hey kid, do you know who your daddy is?”

Damian frowns at the term, but answers nonetheless. “Bruce Wayne.”

The pause that follows is long enough for Damian to realize something glorious. Of the three in the room, only one of them had known who Damian was.

Sure enough, he hears a light-hearted: “Oh yeah. We’re so fucked.”

“Sarah!” ‘Ryan’ attempts to cover Damian’s ears as though that would have any effect at this point. He slaps the hands away.

“What! Can’t reverse the damage, so might as well say it like it is!”

The man with the coffee makes eye contact with Damian, looks back at his coffee, drinks it all, and flees without turning back. Meanwhile, Damian is eating his cookie and watching the fruit of his effort.

“You don’t have to make it worse though!”

“How is me expressing how fucked we are making it worse!”

“Stop, stop swearing!”

“Why! We’re fucking doomed anyway! Might as well kiss our careers goodbye! Sayonara, financial security! Hello, Falcone!” She laughs shrilly, then stops and turns to Damian with a considering look. “Actually, we might pull through if we get the kid to forget what he heard.”

“Tt. I can hear you.” Damian attempts to raise his eyebrow. ‘Sarah’ must be a fool to think she could plot against him while he’s in such close proximity.

His comment goes ignored. ‘Sarah’ gives him such a wide smile that Damian is almost concerned she has been hit with Joker Venom. “Hi there big guy!” She greets, uncomfortably cheery. “My name’s Sally Jackson! Do you want some chocolate?” She holds out a piece of wrapped chocolate that she pulled out of her pocket.

Ahh. She hadn’t been conspiring to abduct or alter his memory. She intended to use the methods of distraction and bribery. It seems Damian will not require any more of the bribes he prepared. How fortuitous.

...Unless the chocolate is laced with something. The chances are low, but not impossible.

“No.” He declines the bribe(?) and shakes his head. “But I need help.”

She leans just slightly closer. “What do you need help with? Tell your Big Sis Sar—Sally.”

‘Ryan’ quietly suggests she “knock it off.”

Damian purposefully begins to play with his fingers and blinks up at them. And because he is an excellent actor, he knows he looks like the picture of innocence right now. “Baba said he’ll take me anywhere I want after he is done with work. But I don’t know where to go.”

“Oh I see! You’re new to Gotham, so you’ve never been to our greatest attractions.” Damian catches her sarcasm. Similarly, ‘Ryan’ stifles a scoff. Regardless of the universe or time period, the city has always been, and will always be, a hellhole. They have far more deterrents than attractions to boast about.

Damian nods as though he is ignorant of this. “I want to go somewhere fun. With food. Like popcorn. I like popcorn.”

He, in fact, does not like popcorn. Not the buttery kind that his intended event will sell at least. Pennyworth’s are far more agreeable.

“I like popcorn too.” ‘Sarah’ offers him a fist bump. Damian begrudgingly reciprocates.

“Oh!” ‘Ryan’ instructs ‘Sarah’ to supervise Damian and leaves. When he returns, he holds out a poster that consists of show dates and times, promotional lines, and images of the show's highlights. Haly’s Circus, Damian recognizes with a thrill. The Flying Graysons are displayed on the corner right, a younger Richard posing with his parents on the trapeze. “You might like the circus. They’re coming to Gotham in a few days.”

“The kid needs a place today, Ryan. Not a few days from now.”

“Can I have that?” Damian speaks over ‘Sarah’ and reaches for the Haly’s Circus advertisement.

“Can I, or may I?” ‘Sarah’ raises an eyebrow, only to receive Damian's glower.

‘Ryan’ seemingly knows better than to protest. He willingly hands it over.

Once it is in his hands, Damian immediately sees all the creases the paper suffered from being placed in the intern’s bag without any consideration of preserving it.

Damian dutifully flattens the paper in between the pages of his sketchbook. He turns to ‘Ryan’ and rewards him with a cookie. The man had been somewhat useful, after all.

Now that he has discovered the perfect way to suggest the circus to Father, he returns to the office, his minder trailing behind and licking crumbs from his fingers. ‘Sarah’ waves them away before resuming what she had been doing prior to her break. Damian passes the time drawing a replica of the poster now in his possession. His accuracy is atrocious due to his current dexterity, but the activity is nonetheless relaxing.

By the time Father returns, he has just finished signing his initials on his newest work.

“Goodbye,” Damian offers his hand when he is ready to leave. ‘Ryan’ unprofessionally stares at him for approximately four seconds before he takes his hand and shakes it.

He walks toward the door as Father also shakes ‘Ryan’s’ hand, a vapid smile on his face.

“Thank you for this, Brian. Or was it Robert?” Father asks as though he doesn’t know. “Robert Walker? No, that’s not it. Help me out here.”

“Ryan, sir.” He is clearly uncomfortable with standing in Father’s presence. Damian imagines part of it may be the incident in the break room. “Ryan Wilkes.”

…

Oh.

Oh shit.

Damian has never gaped at anyone as much as he does at that moment. Surely it is a coincidence that he has encountered a man with the same surname as someone he knows…who happens to share his red hair, nose, and chin, now that Damian takes a proper look at him.

He sighs as Father carries him to the elevator. At least now he has a possible lead on Colin Wilkes.

“I should have given him more bribes.” He says to himself, ignoring Father’s undignified snort. “I want to go to the zoo.”

Gotham Zoo, Damian soon discovers, is entirely different from the alternate that he is familiar with.

For one, the entrance does not have armed guards to defend against the inevitable rogue. There was not even a weapons check on the ticket line. This lax security will surely result in the disastrous escape of lions, leopards, crocodiles, hyenas, or penguins. Possibly all at once. And the animals will be the ones put into danger when such an event occurs.

“They need better security.” Damian informs Father after they have procured the tickets.

Father has the gall to laugh at such a grave matter. How naive of him. “I’ll email the establishment about it.”

Two, there is a bird house now. A bird house in which Damian was permitted to handle and feed the budgerigars. Father appeared vaguely horrified when five landed on Damian’s head and arms. He attempted to pick them off, much to their refusal. The white one resting on Damian’s hand kindly allowed him to pet her for a short time. Soon after, three more parakeets deemed him worthy as a perch.

“This is getting ridiculous.” Father sighs when Damian momentarily stumbles against the additional weight.

A pale yellow budgerigar flies from the thin branches and lands right atop Father’s head. The eight on Damian then perched themselves on Father’s shoulders and arms.

“Stay still.” He orders, lifting his toes to reach the bird on Father's finger and caress his feathers.

Three, the zoo is lacking in conservation information and proper space for the lions. They require at least another hundred meters of floor space. The elephant showed signs of depression and loneliness, partially from being the sole resident of her (rather small) exhibit. The sheep and goats in the petting zoo also need a more varied diet. According to the young guide stationed there, they eat solely pellets and rarely are given proper vegetables. Several of the reptile exhibits also require more enrichment and hides. And—

“You can help me write the email when we get home.” Father interrupts his list of the zoo’s failures. They were at the eating area of the cafe, consuming Pennyworth’s snacks and an order of fries before seeing the monkeys and then resting in the penthouse until Father leaves for the Watchtower.

Four, there is no bat exhibit. Damian searched everywhere on the map, and it is simply not here. When he pointed this out, Father was far too amused for his liking.

“They don’t have enough space for that, Sweetheart.”

“Then buy the zoo and give them more land.” He presents the perfect solution. If they were to manage it, he could be rest assured the animals’ needs will be met and a bat exhibit will be built.

Father is far, far too amused. “I am not buying the zoo.”

“Tt.” He will just have to find a way to threaten them.

“We can make a donation though.”

“Tt.” They can donate and threaten them. He supposes the carrot and the stick is a promising strategy.

The zeta announces the arrival of Batman, as well as another code. His entire body is shrouded by his long cape, his expression as neutral and emotionless as always. Batman surveys his environment, determining that the hall is empty, as expected. Aside from those on monitor duty, there should be no one else until the meeting. He arrived as early as he typically does, although for a differing reason.

Batman walks the halls, not bothering to check on the monitor room and instead approaching the living quarters. When he reaches the door to his room, he inputs the code and is greeted by the familiar sight of a utilitarian bed and every surface covered in tools, schematics, and case files. Batman locks the door and grimaces at the hazard.

Batman opens his cape, revealing the room to the baby tucked in his arms. “Do not touch anything here.” He tells the boy wearing a cheap domino mask from the toy store.

The three year old huffs grumpily at him, having insisted on a shorter nap today in order to fully explore the zoo, then refusing to sleep in the two hours spent in the penthouse. He stares at Batman’s face, and Batman realizes this is the first time the boy has ever seen him in the cowl.

“What is it?” He asks, noting that the boy is not afraid of his appearance. He looks more…curious. Contemplative.

The baby looks at him with a rare display of openness, vulnerability. A trap, Batman’s instincts tell him. “What is a circus?” He abruptly asks.

Batman has no way to answer that, so he removes the cowl. Bruce sets him down on the small but clean bed. “What brought this on?”

Damian wastes no time in opening his sketchbook and revealing a crinkled advertisement to the upcoming circus. “I see.” Bruce says even as he wonders where in the world he got his little hands on that. “A circus is a performance done by a traveling group of skilled entertainers.”

“Can we go?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He hides a wince.

Damian’s hopeful face turns disappointed and incensed. “Why not?”

“There will be a lot of people there.” Bruce tries to explain. “The loud noises and bright lights will be overwhelming. It won’t be enjoyable for either of us.”

Maybe when Damian is older, he’ll enjoy a high-energy crowd such as this, but they’re still working on getting him comfortable with anyone besides Bruce and Alfred. There is no way Damian is ready for the circus.

That does not stop Damian from trying. He looks at Bruce with those big green eyes, so cute that Bruce’s heart melts without permission. “We could wear sunglasses and earplugs.”

“You’ll get tired.”

“No I won’t!” Big green eyes sharpen in indignation before widening again, pleading. “I can take a longer nap. And I swear I will not flee into the crowd on my lonesome, and I will not ask for any popcorn or souvanar—souvenair—sue-van-ears.”

“Hm,” is all he says. Damian’s efforts to pronounce ‘souvenir’ coupled with those eyes starting to look suspiciously teary was almost enough to break him. Almost. But Bruce is stronger than that. He stands by his belief that taking Damian to the circus is a bad idea. Even the baby eyes won’t convince him to agree without doing some preemptive research.

But Bruce was too confident in himself. Too blind to see Damian’s true cunning. His son deals a killing blow, tugging his cape with watery eyes and a small “Please?”

And it is then that Bruce learns that he is in fact a weak, weak man. Trained for years against all forms of emotional manipulation, and now look at him. “I’ll think about it,” he says, watching Damian revert back to his naturally grumpy face with no sign of those tears Bruce swore he saw. Bruce is certain he’s been played once he sees the ease with which his son puts away those lethal puppy dog eyes.

By the time Wonder Woman enters the meeting room ten minutes early, Batman had already been seated, cape concealing his frame and the toddler entertaining himself with a tablet and playing a fruit slicing game on Batman’s lap.

“Batman.” She smiles at him, taking her seat with an elegance that many would envy.

“Diana.” He nods slightly to her, aware this is when Kal is supposed to enter and the three of them would exchange pleasantries and information until J’onn made his way in, five minutes early. Then, if he was Earthside, Green Lantern would stroll through, disturbing any air of professionalism with a decidedly-not-charming grin. Either right after Lantern or before him, Green Arrow would waltz to the meeting room, taking his seat next to Jordan. And finally, sometime between one and ten minutes after the meeting was supposed to begin, the Flash would speed in and sit on Lantern’s other side.

Today there was no Superman. That was to be expected; Kal had long since informed them he would be absent today (to spend time with his wife and son, which it seems he hasn't had the chance to do as of late). The same in regards to Martian Manhunter, as he had a case that required his full attention. The predicted lack of the Martian with telepathic abilities and the Kryptonian with super hearing was ultimately how Batman rationalized his choice to bring the child rather than leave him in the hands of an unvetted babysitter.

Regardless, without either Superman or J’onn to interrupt, Batman is left ‘alone’ with Wonder Woman, who is excitedly proposing a team bonding exercise involving her leading them all to a swordsmanship lesson. He can feel Damian repeatedly nodding against his abdomen, quietly giving his approval to her suggestion.

“Hng,” is all Batman grunts, already imagining what sort of a disaster it would be to attempt to teach the Flash or Superman how to swing a sword.

Taking it as the end of that discussion for now, Diana moves on to the upcoming diplomatic mission that would take them three galaxies away for two weeks. While she is in the middle of asking if Batman will be joining, Green Lantern announces his presence with loud footsteps.

“Lantern.” Wonder Woman greets, unbothered by the man kicking his feet up on the table.

“Hey, where’s Supes and J’onn? Don’t tell me they’re running late.”

Batman wills himself not to grind his teeth and insult his inability to read the briefing that told everyone they would not be here. The meeting hasn’t even started yet and he can already feel his headache worsening.

“They will not be joining us today.” Wonder Woman informs him before turning back to Batman. “As I was saying, we must be careful of who we choose to represent us in Moxifolax. Lantern, you have information about the planet's customs, yes?”

“Yep. The ring’s got everything we need to know. Actually, I found out about this moon. They have this massive sex ritual to worship it. Basically a huge orgy in the caves. So we need to avoid going when that happens unless we wanna get freaky with the Moxifolaxans.”

“Hn.”

“Fascinating. Are there any other events we should be aware of before finalizing our departure date?” Wonder Woman asks exactly what Batman was thinking about.

“Oh yeah.” Jordan adjusts his feet off the table and onto the floor. “So there’s also this blood ritual where the queen takes some sacrifices and…”

Precisely after three minutes of detailing a disturbing sequence of events that involve bloodletting, sex, and more bloodletting, after which Jordan offers to buy Diana a drink for the twentieth time since the League’s founding, Green Arrow arrives just barely on time and takes all of Lantern’s attention by regaling the latest news on Hal Jordan’s celebrity crush. And because Batman’s life is destined to be complicated, the celebrity crush in question is Bruce Wayne. The story of him coming to work with his newly revealed child made the headlines within a matter of hours.

Batman makes a conscious effort to ignore Green Arrow’s joking comment about Bruce Wayne being a ‘sugar daddy for Bats, now with an emphasis on the daddy,’ waiting for—

“Sorry I’m late but something came up and look I got doughnuts!”

—The Flash. Thank the lord, they can begin the meeting now.

About halfway into it, the child shifts his weight down to Batman’s knees until his little feet silently hit the floor, still covered with Batman’s cape. Batman’s legs are grateful for the reprieve, but he does not appreciate Damian’s swift escape from the cape and the subsequent giggle that slipped out of the toddler, leaving Batman motionless and waiting for a hero to be alerted by the presence of a child quite literally under their feet.

Fortunately for Batman’s heart, Jordan is talking in his loud, obnoxious way about all that he learned of Moxifolax. The sound of another giggle goes unnoticed as the child discreetly kicks Green Arrow’s foot, causing Oliver to assume it was Jordan and kick him back, causing Lantern to cut himself off to yell “What was that for?!” and kick Oliver, causing Oliver to kick again and force Barry into playing intermediary and getting kicked by both sides. Diana watches just as Agent A does whenever Damian opens his mouth; amused by the youth and not willing to ruin their fun. Batman, unable to move his head under the table and locate the instigator, is forced to accept how little control he has of anything anymore.

He should have insisted on a full nap after all. Between going to the office, the zoo, and being in space, this was inevitable and he only has himself to blame.

And then it gets worse, because of course it does.

Just as Jordan and Oliver have resorted to wrestling like children and roped Barry into the middle of it, the zeta announces Superman’s arrival in the Watchtower. In the ten seconds between Kal flying to the meeting room, Barry manages to de-escalate the squabble, Diana shares an amused look to Batman in regards to their colleagues, Damian runs to latch himself on Batman’s legs, and Batman envelops the toddler in his cape just as the door opens for Superman in all his red and blue glory. Damian has gone completely still, almost holding his breath.

‘Do not use your x-ray vision, Kal.’ Batman thinks as he grunts in greeting. ‘Only the cowl is lead-lined. Do not use your x-ray vision and find him.’

“Hey Blue! Thought you weren’t coming!” Lantern waves at him.

“I wasn’t going to, but something came up and now I have the time.” Kal smiles, walking towards his seat next to Batman. “Sorry for the interruption. Don't mind m—” He stops, sniffs confusedly, furrows his eyebrows, and sniffs again, this time slow and loud enough for everyone to hear. His head snaps to Batman, eyes lowering down for half a second before going back up to meet Batman’s white lenses, which he believes properly articulates what he wants to say, which is ‘Keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.’

Kal’s mouth opens, closes. He coughs, then opens again. “Actually, Batman. I. I need to talk to you. Right now, please.”

“Should we be concerned, Kal?” Wonder Woman’s eyes flit between them as she sets her hands on the table, ready to stand at a moment’s notice. “You are acting strange.”

Meanwhile, Batman has gone back to all the meditation techniques he has learned in order to slow his wildly beating heart. For a fleeting moment, he considers using his override on the Watchtower to incapacitate his colleagues and flee with Damian and Agent A to the safehouse he keeps in Gotham’s sewers. Never to be seen again. Safe.

But no. He’d never hear the end of it from either of them if they had to live somewhere as fundamentally repugnant as the sewers. He’d have to settle for the isolated island with the underground bunker.

“Yes. No!” Kal, stop being so obviously flustered. “I just remembered there’s something Batman needs to know. About the Watchtower. It can’t wait. We’ll just be a few minutes.”

Diana looks at them, looks at Lantern and Arrow who are still eying each other with accusation, and sighs. “No need. We have derailed so much today that it might be best to adjourn and leave this for the next meeting.”

“Hn.” Batman grunts, the toddler silently climbing up to his abdomen and secured in Batman’s hold. He stands from the seat and begins to walk.

Superman leads him into his quarters, bright with sun lamps and uncluttered save for a short stack of books on his desk. Once the door slides shut, Kal returns to staring at Batman. Intense. Thoughtful. And Batman is convinced this is how he will be found out. This will be how someone will learn about the child, about Agent A.

In the worst case, he would need to use his kryptonite, then his override code, then relocate to the remote island.

“So,” He starts, eyes darting down to where Damian is hidden. “Are you planning to introduce me?”

The toddler in his arms squirms to be put down. Batman tightens his hold. “No.”

“If you can’t trust me—”

“Kal.” He warns.

“No, listen. If you can’t trust me with this, it’s fine. I understand.” The smile Superman offers is quirked, less certain of itself. It’s not Superman that’s smiling, Batman realizes with a start. It’s Clark Kent. And he hasn’t moved like he normally would. Hasn’t tried to get closer.

“I trust you with my life.” Batman finds himself saying, even if it feels like a lie, when just a second ago he was calculating the flight time to his private island.

“I believe you.” Clark’s smile softens to something melancholy, still standing away with hands open at his sides. “But that isn’t the same as trusting me with your family’s lives.” His eyes are so understanding that Batman imagines what would happen if he took off his cowl right now and just talk to the man. About fatherhood. About hiding behind a persona. About how to balance family, work, and heroic exploits without neglecting one or the other. Batman is so tired and so sure he will ruin everything he has, that someone will take it all away, and there is no one he knows who would understand more than Clark Kent, son, husband, and father. “I just need to ask. Are you doing okay? Do you need anything?”

Dammit Kal. Stop being such a good person.

“I’m fine.” Just slightly, Batman shifts his cape to reveal a head of black hair poking out of the opening. Teeth gritted to suppress the storm of anxiety and suspicion, Batman nods to his colleague, quiet permission to come closer. Kal notices and brightens up immediately, eagerly taking a slow step towards them.

Batman fervently hopes he does not regret this horrible decision in exposing this weakness.

“Hi there. I’m Superman.” He lowers himself to one knee, hands still open and appearing as non-threatening as a man with his size and powers could look. “I like your mask.”

Damian glances back at Batman, face furrowed in deep thought, lets out a tiny gasp, then turns back to Superman with a thoughtful frown. “I don’t have any more bribes for you.”

Batman watches Kal’s face shift as though not even sure what to think about this three year old’s statement. “Bribes?”

Batman clarifies. “Cookies.”

Kal blinks. He laughs all of a sudden, showing off his dimples and resembling nothing of the Superman Batman had come to know. This is just Clark. “Cookies. That’s…brilliant! Do you usually bribe people with cookies?”

The toddler narrows his eyes in concentration, taking the question with the utmost seriousness. “No, but today we went to work and I bribed the interns for information.”

“That’s…nice.” Clark glances up to Batman, clearly trying not to laugh. Probably at his expense. “You are so much like Batman.” Definitely at his expense.

“Of course I am.” Damian huffs, pulling against the cape until Batman acquiesces and puts him down. “But I will be better than him.”

Clark smiles indulgently at him. “Oh really.”

“Yes. My taste in clothing is already superior to his, and I am far more refined.”

“Untrue.” Batman states.

“Agent A said so.” His son glowers at him, chest puffing up as he addresses the Kryptonian. “Do you have any children?”

“Um.” Clark looks at Batman with a panicked expression. “No? No. No, I don’t.”

Batman stifles a long sigh.

Predictably, Damian does not believe him. He scrunches his nose to hide the concerning amount of glee in his eyes. “You are lying.”

Before Clark is forced to attempt to lie again and Damian decides he would like a half-Kryptonian little brother, Batman intervenes. “Enough.” He scoops up the child and the tablet that Damian had abandoned to the floor at one point during his interaction with Superman. “We need to leave.”

“Unhand me!” He demands imperiously. He squirms, throwing his hands and feet around in well-placed hits.

Batman grunts as a foot hits his armor. “Stop, or no more cookies.”

The toddler ceases his attacks, freezing. “What?”

“You heard me. What did you say about bribing the interns?”

“What is an intern?” He asks, eyes widening and lips pouting. An epitome of innocence that were it not for the compartmentalizing he does for his identities, Bruce would have crumbled like wet tissue paper. Unfortunately for Damian, Batman does not crumble.

If Clark were not in the room, he would have full-named the toddler for trying to lie to him. As Batman could not say Damian’s name, he chooses to simply stare at him and hope the message gets across.

Interestingly, Damian lasts a full fifteen seconds before grimacing and refusing to look at Batman. “...I, perhaps, did not remain in the office as re-quested.”

“And?” That cannot be it.

“I may have incon-veni-enced some of the staff during their break. And emotionally scarred the man charged with watching me.”

No wonder Wilkes looked so pale. Whatever Damian did to the young man must have given him a heart attack. “And?”

“And nothing.” Damian huffs sulkily. Batman chooses to investigate at another time.

Well, at least this was within his expectations of what could happen in the hour and a half Bruce left him. Not even his worst case scenario. “We’re leaving.”

“But, Father!”

“No.”

“Let me walk you out.” Clark floats to the door. Batman covers himself and Damian with the cape once more. Clark is about to open the door for them, but then he frowns as though he just thought of something. “It’s a bit strange. Lately I feel I’ve seen a lot of fathers with children around his age.”

Batman gives away nothing, about to grab the handle himself and walk out. “Hn.”

“First Bruce Wayne, then that man on the internet, and now you.” He looks at Batman. So they're doing this now. Fantastic. Well, he made his choice the moment he opened his cape. Any moment now, Batman expects Clark’s eyes will widen with realization.

“Hn.” He’ll briefly gape at Batman in shock, wondering how his colleague could possibly be the playboy of Gotham. But it won’t even take a second for him to see through the persona, to see that Batman having a child the same age as Bruce’s is not a coincidence. To see how Batman could have access to the technology he does.

Predictably, Clark’s eyes do widen. His palm covers his mouth as he gasps. He exhales and hums in thought, nodding to himself and opening his mouth.

Batman steels himself. For an investigative journalist of Clark’s talent, the few hints they dropped in the conversation are more than enough for him to put the pieces together. 

“You’re the Rumpled Dad!” Is not what he expects Clark to exclaim.

Batman has never been more disappointed in his colleague. Damian pokes his head out from the cape, making a very audible “Tt” sound.

“And you are…Damian Wayne?” Clark blinks down at Damian then up at Batman, and Batman can’t even tell if his identity has been figured out or not.

“Yes.” Damian begrudgingly offers his hand to shake. “It is nice to meet you, I suppose.”

But surely Clark has come to that conclusion, right? Damian even called him Father. He must have somehow connected Batman to 'the rumpled dad' first, then to Bruce Wayne.

Clark happily shakes Damian’s hand. “If your parents agree, I’d love to bring you over to my home in the Arctic sometime.”

Batman feels Damian freeze at the mention of parents, plural, then purposefully relaxes. “That should be no issue.”

“Talk it over with Batman and Bruce. I’m sure we can set something up.” Clark says, and he does not like that warm, sentimental look he is giving Batman. 

He dissects his colleague’s relieved, happy expression, his words, and everything that had been said in the last ten minutes.

Oh.

Oh no.

He thinks—

The toddler in his arms starts shaking. Shaking in poorly concealed laughter. Batman would join in if he weren’t reassessing his life choices.

He has now lost all respect for Superman.

“We’re leaving.” He states, pulling the boy back into the cape and opening the door. “Goodbye, Superman.”

He closes it in the man’s face. Agent A said they could only return at 7:30 for dinner. He could make his way back to the Cave now and wait another thirty minutes. Damian would be fine to stretch with him on the training mats.

With this in mind, he walks away from the living quarters. It isn’t long until he encounters Arrow and Lantern bickering with each other while eating donuts in the hall he unfortunately needs to walk through.

“Yo Bats, you good?” Green Arrow asks as he passes them, voice muffled with a large bite of chocolate sprinkle donut.

“Fine.” Batman answers, keeping his brisk pace towards the zeta and away from Kal’s simultaneously hilariously idiotic and disappointingly wrong misunderstanding.

Arrow trails right behind him. “You sure? What about Supes? He was pretty bothered by whatever you had to talk about.”

“Hn.”

“See, I told you!” Green Lantern has evidently decided to also follow, waving his jelly donut and getting powdered sugar on both himself and on the floors. “He’s only speaking in monosyllables.”

Just for that, Batman decides to say a full sentence. “It’s astounding you know what a monosyllable is.”

“Fuck you, Spooky.” The man says automatically. He obnoxiously leans forward, powdered donut pointed far too close to Batman’s cape.

“Language.” He glares at Lantern’s direction and to his irritation, looks entirely unbothered by it. He feels a slight movement from the little body hiding in his cape and adjusts his hold accordingly.

Jordan merely scoffs at him. “You’ve never cared before. Oh don’t look at me like that, I heard you swear like a sailor when the Javelin malfunctioned last year. Point is—”

“There is no point.” Batman bites out as he inputs his code and steps into the zeta.

Finally, he is in the Cave. Quiet except for the hum of the computer, the fluttering of the bats, and his own breathing.

He sets Damian down on the mats. He removes his cowl while Damian takes off the mask he got from the mall.

How this is his life, Bruce doesn’t know. His headache has gotten even worse and he just needs time to unwind before patrol. As for the issues on hand, they are perfectly manageable. Kal, he can speak with in the future. It's a non-urgent misunderstanding. Now he just has to hope his very intelligent child did not just learn—

“Fuck.” His son says mildly when he accidentally drops his domino mask.

Damn it, Hal Jordan.

Chapter Text

On the morning of July 15th, Damian is awake precisely at eight.

He has exactly thirty minutes to meditate, brush his teeth, stretch, hone his muscle memory until he can perform a basic kata without misstep, and dress himself. It is a time he cherishes greatly, as it is one of the rare moments he is left with no adults watching his every move (although he has yet to be rid of the listening device in which he has grown to abhor ever since he heard Father refer to it as a ‘baby monitor’).

By eight thirty, Damian brings himself, Bat Plush, and his sketchbook to the kitchen. He greets Pennyworth, places his items on the chair beside him, and accepts the hard boiled egg and toast. He spreads the jam himself, careful in his (improved, albeit unimpressive) coordination. After he has eaten everything, he sketches and waits for Father. When he arrives, he does not hide his displeasure in the simple act of being awake. A typical morning.

Barely any words are exchanged throughout the meal, the three of them content to simply eat in peaceful proximity. Younger Father is dead on his feet whilst he waits for the mug of coffee to appear in his hands. He sips with a satisfied sigh, appearing marginally more awake. Damian watches him with judgement, just as he does on most days, until Father attacks him with a ruffle to his combed hair.

Father bids him farewell, making his way to the study while Pennyworth retrieves the blueberries. “Alright, which shall we make today?” He asks. Damian is handed a whisk. “Blueberry scones, or muffins?”

Damian considers for a moment before responding. “Scones.” He places himself on the step stool so as to properly reach the countertop.

The edge of his mustache twitches. “I was thinking quite the same. Now, you will mix our dry ingredients while I grate the frozen butter.” Pennyworth measures out the flour, sugar, and baking powder into the bowl, then hands the salt and cinnamon to Damian. “Do be less generous with the flavoring, Master Damian.”

Pennyworth has been telling him this ever since he added too much cinnamon to the pie. “That was weeks ago. It is unbecoming of you to hold onto this petty grudge.” He tells the man, eyes narrowed at the task in front of him and debating the appropriate measurements.

“I hold no such grudge. I am simply reminding you.” Many believe Pennyworth to be the most prudent of the Wayne household. This is quite true, however, let it be known that Alfred Pennyworth also takes immense pleasure in the suffering of others.

Damian wrinkles his nose. “Then why won’t you just tell me how much I am meant to put?”

“Hm, well. It is my belief that children your age benefit in making such judgments yourself.”

He blinks, having never heard any version of Pennyworth say such a thing. In fact, he has never heard anyone say such a thing. “Elaborate.” He orders, staring at the older man for any change in expression.

“Even if mistakes are made, such as adding far too much cinnamon, or the destruction of my oven and near burning of a centuries old mansion,” Judging by the thinning of his lips, Pennyworth must be recalling a particular incident. If Damian had to guess, it was prior to Father's kitchen ban. “These actions are not done malevolently.”

“I do not see what point you are trying to get at.”

“My point, Master Damian, is that I would like you to remember this: Learning from your mistakes, regardless of how long it takes, that is how you grow. I happen to find great pleasure in watching my charges grow. And so, I choose to watch you improve your judgement, starting with the essential skill of putting the correct amount of salt and cinnamon to blueberry scones.”

The memory he sees in that moment is hardly comparable to the present.

And yet. He remembers the last time Pennyworth had begun a sentence with ‘I would like you to remember this.’ 

“I would like you to remember this: He is not afraid of what you will do, but of what may happen to you. He is fearful of your safety, to a degree that may seem irrational.”

And of course, a harmless conversation brings about other things he had not wanted to think about. Like on the night of his death, Pennyworth hadn’t been on comms during the breakout. He had been in the kitchen, preparing snacks. Was he alerted of Damian’s condition and rushed to prepare the med bay? Or was he unintentionally left unaware, only to discover three of his grandchildren huddled in the Batmobile, the youngest of them unmoving whilst the others cry for him to wake? Did Pennyworth see this as a mistake on his part, haunted by the choices he allowed his charges to make? What happened to them after he—

Damian shuts down those thoughts and clears his throat. He recalls what the Pennyworth in front of him just said, and decides to point out, “You have no other experience with my age group.”

Pennyworth must see through him. He must, because he gives Damian a long look before deciding to leave it be. “Admittedly not. Master Bruce was six by the time I began working in the manor.”

“But you applied this philosophy to him at that age.”

“Indeed I did.”

“And you still believe, despite how my father turned out, that you were right.”

By some miracle, this earns a quiet chuckle from the man. Damian had not even intended to be humorous. “I was not perfect, but he grew into a fine, responsible gentleman.” Pennyworth responds.

Damian cannot even tell if he is being sarcastic or not. Regardless, his spirits uplift somewhat.

“Would you also call him well-adjusted?” He asks.

“I didn’t realize we were telling jokes, Master Damian.” Pennyworth eyes his progress in whisking flour, sugar, and baking powder. “You forgot to add the salt and cinnamon.”

Damian frowns down at the dry mixture. “How can you tell?”

He hums, sly and amused. “Oh, a butler has his ways. Now unless you want the scones overly sweet, I suggest you complete your task.”

“I would still prefer you provide some measurement. Guidance and boundaries are also beneficial.”

“Not to worry, I will intervene if you put too little or too much. In food and in life, few things are truly unsalvageable.”

“Like the oven.”

Pennyworth sighs forlornly. “Yes. Like the oven. The poor thing was brand new, too.”

“Tragic.”

“The blender suffered a similar fate as well. Your father is a man of many talents, but not in kitchenware.”

Damian weighs the merits in pouring the entire seasoning just to see what Pennyworth would do. He decides against it and adds roughly a teaspoon of salt and two teaspoons of ground cinnamon. Soon after, the dry ingredients are mixed with the cold butter, then with the wet ingredients and vanilla extract. Damian gets to pour the blueberries inside and is careful to mix them into the dough. He works with Pennyworth to shape the individual scones, chill them in the fridge for a short time, then place them in the oven.

After they have cleaned up and the scones are ready to apply the vanilla icing, Pennyworth prepares tea and serves them together as a late morning snack. With his favorite tea in hand and the hours slowly approaching the time to see Richard, Damian has very little complaints. Except, in the background, he wonders what Pennyworth did when the Batmobile arrived in the cave.

Astute as he is, Pennyworth must see something in his demeanor because he sets his teacup down. “I can’t help but notice your mind is elsewhere, Master Damian. Might you be thinking about the performance we are attending tonight?”

“We?”

“Is that an issue?”

“No.” He doesn’t think it will be. In fact, Pennyworth may be helpful in getting Richard to adapt to his new life quicker.

On the evening of July 15th, Damian consumes his dinner with efficiency and very little care of the taste. As soon as he is done, he picks up his black and red travel bag and urges Father to eat faster. Father makes a point to chew slower after that, and Damian takes Pennyworth to wait in the car. Once Father sits and Pennyworth maneuvers them out of the driveway, Damian is counting the minutes until they arrive.

He has been waiting days, weeks, months for this moment.

It was a cloudy Wednesday with a fair chance of rainfall, and Damian had been excited. His thoughts were solely on reuniting with his brother and ultimately, this had been his gravest mistake.

They arrive in time for the pre-show, but not as early as Damian would have liked. He unbuckles himself out of the seatbelt harness as soon as the car is put into park. It is only the inner door lock (which is for babies and entirely unnecessary for him) that prevents Damian from exiting the vehicle on his own.

When he is not set on his feet and instead carried through the parking lot, Damian climbs out of Father’s hold and onto his shoulders.

“Baba, you are very tall.” With this vantage point, Damian will spot Richard far easier than he would have in his natural height.

“Thanks.” Younger Father says, tone dry but nonetheless allows Damian to remain in what Richard would call the bird’s eye view.

Outside the big top are temporary concessions set atop the grass, ranging from extremely unhealthy food, memorabilia, and face painting. He also sees an inflated bounce house and many children happily jumping inside, faces painted in tigers, butterflies, and cats. In bold letters across the souvenir stand, he sees a sign indicating meet-and-greets with the performers. Damian scans the area, searching for a younger Richard, but all he sees are clowns, children, jugglers, and a performer doing a back bridge stretch. No sign of Richard.

Damian keeps looking, around the bounce house, the face painting stand, the tent, the portable toilets, and then he sees it. Near the food stand, there is a man, a woman, and a boy walking by. All of them have black hair, bright yellow capes, red tunics, and green boots. With their backs turned to him, Damian cannot see their faces. But that does not matter because he is sure of who they are. Those colors are unmistakable.

“This way!” Damian pulls Father’s hair in the required direction.“Go faster!”

“I feel like a horse.” Father grumbles something about Ratatouille but regardless, he picks up the pace, Pennyworth trailing behind far more leisurely.

Damian does not take his eyes off them. The family of three walk together harmoniously, the boy in the middle holding each parent’s hands and swinging them around. Damian watches as a woman and a different boy approach the Graysons, and it takes Damian a moment to truly understand what he is witnessing.

That black hair. Those baby blue eyes staring wide at Younger Richard as the older boy sits him on his knee and he and his parents pose for a picture.

Drake is here.

Timothy Drake is here!!

Damian cannot let this chance go to waste!

As soon as Drake is set back on his feet, Damian demands to be let down and immediately runs to attach himself to Richard’s waist, simultaneously catching Younger Drake’s shirt with his hand.

“Woah there! Hi.” Younger Richard, albeit surprised, instantly moves to support his legs and lifts him higher. Younger Drake yelps when this tugs his white polo up. Richard laughs and pats his back. “Kiddie, I think you need to let Tim go.”

“No! He cannot escape.”

“Damian, you’re being rude.” His Father’s voice is exasperated behind him. Then, presumably to Richard’s parents and the woman who Damian can only assume is Drake’s mother: “I am so sorry.”

The Graysons laugh and take it in stride. The man who is most certainly Richard’s birth father positions himself into Damian’s sight and smiles at him. “Want to take a picture with us?”

He quickly nods, evaluating the man. John Grayson shares the same eyes, build, and laugh with Damian’s Richard. It is so uncanny that for a moment, the images overlap.

“We can do that!” Younger Richard bounces him higher, earning another surprised noise from Drake. “Just let go of Timmy’s shirt.”

So the offer was a diversion? That will not work on him. Even on pain of death, Damian will not allow either of his brothers to leave his sight. “I want him in the picture.”

“We’ll have to ask his mom first if that’s okay.” Mary Grayson says, and when Damian sneaks a look at her he sees her smile. It looks exactly like Richard’s. Warm, dimpled, and loving.

“Oh, no! I’m Timothy’s nanny. Jennifer Roberts. I work for the Drake family. I’m not sure you’ve heard of them, Mr. Wayne?”

While they are pointlessly chatting, Drake attempts to pry his fingers off, but Damian refuses and forces Drake to surrender.

“Last I heard, the Drakes were taking a trip to Paris. Why didn’t they bring Timothy with them?”

“They worry he’s too young to handle the flights.”

In his ear, Richard promises if he releases the shirt, he will keep Drake here for the photo. Damian agrees because his Richard has almost never broken a promise to him.

“That’s a shame. France is beautiful this time of year.”

They reposition so Damian has his hands secured around Richard’s neck. 

“Sorry again about my son. I’ve never seen him be so forward with strangers.”

“It’s not a problem. He’s too young to know any better.” Mary Grayson says, booping both Richard and Damian on the nose. Damian scrunches his nose in response, resulting in the identical cooing from both mother and son and more boops.

“He most definitely knows better. I think he just got excited by Timothy and…”

“Dick.” John Grayson smiles and puts a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “He’s the Flying Graysons’ most talented member.”

“Dad! Stop bragging about me.” Richard pouts, but he is clearly not upset. In fact, he looks distinctly proud.

“I have a right to brag. Let me tell you, our boy is only twelve and he can already do a quadruple somersault."

Father’s eyebrows go up. “Oh? Can I assume that is a particularly difficult move?”

Damian frowns in their direction. What is Father doing, being friendly with John Grayson like this? Of all people? Does Damian have to look into finding Father more friends just so he can socialize?

“Very, very, very difficult.” John Grayson nods exaggeratingly. Damian watches Richard and Mary Grayson roll their eyes, then share a wink with each other. “Including the three of us, less than half a dozen people in the world can do it!”

“Goodness.” Pennyworth hums admiringly. “And your son can do it at twelve years old. You must be boasting to anyone who will listen.”

“Haha! That’s the idea. He’s the greatest talent you’ll ever see.”

“Oh please.” Mary Grayson cuts in with a teasing lilt, intertwining her hand into John Grayson’s. “You’ve been showing him off ever since he was a little baby.” She turns to Father. “When Dick took his first steps, John called Dick the greatest walker on Earth.”

“He really was the best baby to ever walk!”

“This is so embarrassing.” Richard cringes.

At the same time, Mary Grayson smacks her husband’s arm. “Silly.”

“So what? I’m allowed to be proud.”

“I completely understand.” Father says, and Damian senses that if he does not intervene now, he will dearly regret allowing Father to continue talking.

And so, Damian opens his mouth and says the first thing on his mind. “Baba, I am keeping Grayson and Drake!”

The adults pause in their conversation to look at him. Father sighs, long and deep, muttering, “I was afraid of that.” And then, out loud: “No, you cannot make random people your brothers, Damian. That’s not how it works.”

“Has this happened before?” Mary Grayson asks.

“He’s been wanting older siblings for as long as I’ve known him, but no, he has never shown an interest in any particular child. I don’t know why he’s suddenly latched onto your son and Timothy.”

“Because they are my fated brothers, obviously.” Damian frowns as he looks upon said brothers and remembers he needs to make a positive first impression. He reluctantly releases his hold on Richard and Drake, then offers his hand to shake Richard’s. “I am Damian Wayne. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Richard makes an indecipherable face, then bursts into a wide smile and enthusiastically shakes his hand with both of his. “I’m Dick! You’re soo cute, Dami!” He turns to his parents with a bright smile, picking Damian by the armpits and holding him up. “Mom, Dad, look! The storks finally gave me a little brother!”

In his peripheral, he sees Younger Father facepalm.

“That’s great Dickie!” John cheers. In a more hushed voice, he asks, “Mary, does this mean we have two kids now?”

“Don’t think so. Unless Wayne wants to share?”

“Call me Bruce. And no, thank you.”

Richard, arms outstretched, continues to dangle Damian as though he is a lion cub. “Do you like cotton candy? What about funnel cake? I love funnel cake! Do you like elephants? We have one named Zitka and I can introduce you! She’s the sweetest! Everyone in the circus loves her! Is this your first time at the circus?!”

“Put me down!” He demands, but unlike what he would do if Father had tried this, Damian generously does not kick his excitable brother.

Richard does not put him down. “Want to see me do some tricks? I’ve been working on my juggling and now I can do three balls! Oh! And I can teach you how to do a handstand! I’m great at handstands!”

Damian continues his efforts to escape Richard’s grasp when he sees Drake attempting to quietly distance himself. “Halt, Drake!” The boy freezes. Damian is finally released and he immediately moves to offer his hand. “I am Damian Wayne, and from now on you shall be my brother.”

“Uhh.” Drake gapes at him, then shuts his open mouth and shakes his hand. “I’m Timothy Jackson Drake. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Indeed. How old are you, Timothy Jackson Drake?”

“I’m five. But I’m going to be six.”

“His birthday is this Sunday.” Roberts explains.

Damian nods when he hears this. “I will celebrate with you.”

“Really?” Younger Drake blinks, smiling shyly at Damian and then averting his eyes. “I’ve never had friends come to my house.”

“Drake, I am not your friend. I am your brother.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ve never had a brother before.”

“That is fine. I shall be a superb younger brother. Your job is to do everything I say, love me uncondit-ionally, and give me money.”

“Your son is so…assertive, Mr. Wayne.” Roberts says. “How old is he again?”

Father sighs. “Three.”

“Ahh. A difficult age.”

“Okay. What do I get?” Drake asks him.

“You get to enjoy the honor of my company, of course. And I will introduce you to Bat Plush and Alexander.”

Drake tilts his head, considering. Then he shakes his head sadly. “Mom said I should never say yes to a bad deal, and your offer sounds like a bad deal. So I can’t be your brother if I have to follow your orders and give you my piggy bank.”

“Tt. It was worth a try. Fine.” Damian huffs. “Love me uncondit-ionally, and I will do the same for you. Is that a fair enough exchange?”

Drake smiles and offers his hand. “Deal. So we’re brothers now?”

“Yes.” Damian shakes it. When he releases the boy’s somewhat larger hand, he points directly to Richard. “And because he agreed to be my brother too, you now have two brothers.”

“Wow. Two for one special!”

“Precisely. Unless Grayson has any objections?” Which he better not if he knows what’s good for him.

Richard’s eyes shine with joy as he towers over them, hands holding the edges of his cape as though they are yellow wings and flapping them. Parts of the cape repeatedly brush against Drake’s shoulder and Damian’s head. “Two little brothers! This is the best day ever!”

Tt. Twelve years old and he still acts like a naive child. Damian certainly wasn’t like this at his age.

Drake flushes pink as he looks up at Richard, metaphorical stars in his eyes. “Does that mean you’ll come for my birthday too? Because brothers go to each other’s birthdays?”

“Oh.” Richard visibly deflates. “Sorry, Timmy. We’re hitting the road tomorrow for the next show.”

“Oh. Ok.” He says, and Damian does not like the sudden resignation in Drake’s body language.

Richard doesn’t either, judging by the bite to his lip. “But if you want to, you and Dami can join the circus! We’ll have lots of fun together!”

Damian glances towards Father, just to see how he would react.

“Absolutely not.” He says, rubbing his temples.

“Tt. I will have to decline. But regardless, we have yet to take that photo I was promised. I would like the three of us to do it now.”

Richard picks him up by the stomach and hefts him until Damian can loop his hands around Richard’s neck. “Sure! And then we can play!”

One of Richard’s hands supports his legs while the other traps Drake into a side hug that is eagerly reciprocated, the Graysons on either side of them as Damian turns to face Pennyworth’s camera. Damian thinks he smiles as he feels Richard’s pulse beneath his fingers.

This is an excellent day, he decides.