Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On a dark and rainy night in Gotham

Damian Wayne crouched above the city, cape fluttering in the wind, sword sheathed but close to hand. The air was heavy with tensionamd rain, the kind that warned of something unnatural slinking through the cracks of the world.

Then came a loud crash

Something slammed into the rooftop a few yards away loud enough to be heard from where he at

Damian was on his feet in an instant, weapon out, eyes narrowing.

Jumping from rooftop from rooftop he makes it to the area of the noise landing on a roof.

From the rooftop their laid a figure.

Small.

Barely conscious.

White hair. Black jumpsuit, torn and scorched there seems to be covering a wound on his side.

The boy trys to stand up but staggers before dropping back down

Damian approached slowly, guarded. “What happened?”

The boy looked up, and Damian flinched.

His eyes—were bright green- lazarus pitt green

“well.... it looks like I’m dying,” Danny said hoarsely attempting at humor but the pain in his voice makes him sound scared.

Damian froze.

the boy let's out a strained cough his body trembling from the force. He rolls on his back his hand presses down to the now noticeable gash in his ribs neon green blood flows out mixing with the rain. “This... isn't going to heal in time.”

Damian looked around, unsure who he was supposed to call. What do you even do?

Danny looked up again, a bitter, broken smile twisting his lips.

“what's your name" Damian says its the only thing he can say the wound is to fatal, nothing he can do to help.

Danny laughed, soft and tired. “Danny, my name is danny.”

A moment of slient with only dannys rigid breathing being heard after a mintue dannys gaze fixed on Damian.

Really fixed.

“Can I ask you something?” Danny whispered.

Damian nodded once, curt.

“If I give you something… will you keep it safe?” His voice trembled now, “Will you take care of it?”

Damian stiffened. “What?”

“I don’t have time,” Danny said urgently, voice cracking. “I have to go, but I need someone who can hold it. Just... for now.”

“Hold what?”

"Please" danny begs "please can you take care for it" danny says his voice now softer than a whisper

Damian thinks, really thinks should he agree to the boy dying wish to care for something of his or maybe a keepsake. should he say yes.

Damian gives a slow nod moving slightly closer to him.

“Thank you,” Danny said, voice fading.

And then—

He turned into light.

Then it shot forward—straight into his abdomen.

“AGH—!”

His back arched violently. The air left his lungs in a strangled gasp.

Damian doubled over, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

The pressure in his chest—wrong, overwhelming—grew hotter by the second, until he thought his ribs might crack.

His hands flew to his tunic.

Tearing at the seam.

He ripped the fabric himself, yanking down the front of his uniform in desperation, exposing bare skin beneath as steam rose off him in curls. The “R” insignia snapped free and clattered to the rooftop at his feet.

The heat wasn’t leaving—it was growing. His cape twisted behind him, scorched at the edges. Sweat mixed with rain on his skin, but it all sizzled away.

He couldn’t breathe.

He tore at the last of the fabric across his chest, fists trembling.

“GET OUT!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Get out of me!”

But it was already too late.

The white fire burned away in an instant—and the cold came.

Sudden.

Infinite.

It wasn’t just temperature. It was emptiness—a hollow, endless void that filled his veins with frost and drained every drop of heat from his body.

He fell to his knees.

Fingers numb.

Lips blue.

Chest rising in shallow, stuttering gasps.

His uniform hung in rags from his arms and waist, clinging to soaked skin. Rain hit him and didn’t even register.

Then everything went dark.

And Damian collapsed on the rooftop.

Alone.

Chapter Text

Jason didn’t get many calls from Bruce these days. So when one came through his private channel—short, clipped, and serious—he paid attention.

> “Robin went dark an hour ago. Last location pinged just outside Crime Alley.”

Of course it was.

Jason was already on his bike before bruce finished speaking. No backup. No signal from Damian. No standard check-ins. Which was weird.

Robin never went dark. Not without a reason. Not in that part of Gotham.

---

He cut through the alleyways like a knife, letting instinct take over. The city was too quiet, except for the constant thrum of rain on metal. Typical Gotham—nothing spoke louder than the silence.

He finally caught a trace: faint movement, heat signature, one rooftop over.

Jason vaulted the fire escape, landing softly on the slick stone.

And froze.

he saw him.

Damian.

Lying still.

His small form crumpled near the far edge of the rooftop. Rain slicked the concrete around him, water pooling beneath him, making the yellow of his cape look faded and grimy. His Robin suit was in tatters—not slashed like battle damage, but torn, uneven and frayed. Like it had been ripped away.

Jason’s stomach dropped.

“Shit,” he breathed, and ran.

He dropped to his knees beside Damian, yanking off his helmet and immediately checking for vitals. Breathing—shallow. Pulse—there. Weak. No blood. No bruises. No obvious injuries.

But the way Damian was lying, loose-limbed and cold...

Jason’s hands shook.

“Come on, kid,” he muttered, brushing damp hair back from his forehead. “C’mon, you’re a Wayne, you’re a demon brat, you don’t go down like this—Damian!”

He lightly tapped his cheek. Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

His eyes dropped to the state of the uniform. Torn belt, half his tunic missing. No gloves. One boot gone. The "R" insignia lay a few feet away, cracked clean off like it had been peeled from him.

Jason felt a spike of raw, furious panic rise in his throat.

Something had happened up here.

Something Damian couldn’t fight off.

Someone had taken advantage—not of his body, necessarily, but of his powerlessness. Of the boy behind the mask.

Jason swallowed hard and shook his head. “No. No. Not on my watch. Not again.”

He unclasped his own jacket and wrapped it around Damian’s shoulders, scooping him up with a care he didn’t usually show. Damian didn’t stir. His head lolled weakly against Jason’s collarbone, limp and too quiet.

Jason tapped his comm, voice tight. Controlled. Barely.

> “This is Red Hood. I found Robin.”

> “Condition?” came Bruce’s immediate response.

Jason looked down at Damian’s slack expression, at the ruins of his costume, and felt something break in his chest.

> “...Compromised”

He ended the call before Bruce could respond.

Then Jason looked down at Damian again, tightening his grip just slightly, as if trying to shield him from whatever nightmare he’d already survived.

“You’re safe now,” Jason whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Chapter Text

Nightwing

Dick Grayson was halfway through patrol in Blüdhaven when the voice came through his earpiece. Jason sounded breathless, sharp. That alone made Dick stop cold.

He turned off his escrima sticks' charge and crouched low on a fire escape, heart skipping a beat.

Damian.

He’d already been worried. The silence on the shared channel. The way Bruce hadn’t answered his earlier ping. The vague tension that had been hanging in the air since sundown.

Now he knew why.

> “I found Robin.”

The line didn’t go dead. It just… paused.

The kind of pause you felt in your bones.

Dick leaned forward. “Jay? Is he okay?”

Nothing.

No answer.

---

Oracle

Barbara had already pulled up Damian’s last known location the second she’d noticed the blank spot in the satellite grid.

Crime Alley.

Not a good sign.

Then Jason’s voice hit her comm feed, fast and quiet.

> “I found Robin.”

Her fingers froze over the keyboard.

She opened a channel immediately. “Jason, confirm. Is he conscious? Is he injured? What’s his condition?”

Still nothing.

Just quiet static.

She leaned back in her chair and tried not to curse.

---

Red Robin

Tim was tracking meta activity in the Narrows when his comm crackled to life. Jason’s voice. Uncharacteristically careful. Almost… guarded.

> “I found Robin.”

Tim stopped dead on the rooftop, squinting into the rain.

He recognized that tone. Jason didn't speak like that unless something was seriously wrong.

“Jay? Come on—talk to me. What’s his status?”

Nothing.

Tim’s fingers clenched the edge of his cape.

He tapped into the main channel, but Bruce wasn’t responding either.

Why wasn’t anyone answering?

---

Spoiler

Stephanie was in the middle of tagging a weapons shipment near the Docks when the comm lit up. Jason’s voice cut through the static like a knife.

> “I found Robin.”

She dropped into a crouch behind a crate, heart in her throat.

Jason didn't sound victorious.

He sounded like someone trying not to fall apart.

She pressed her earpiece harder.

“Wait—Jason? Say something. What’s wrong with him?”

No reply.

She swallowed. That silence was worse than screaming.

---

Signal

Duke had just finished rerouting patrol drones near Bristol when his comm caught the tail end of Jason’s message. He paused on the side of a high-rise, rain soaking into his hood, waiting.

Waiting.

Listening.

Jason didn’t come back on. And that’s what scared him most.

No wisecracks. No sighs. No anger. No Jason.

Just silence.

---

Batman

Bruce had heard the call first. Before anyone else.

Jason’s voice, tight and flat:

> “This is Red Hood. I found Robin.”

And then nothing.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He waited three seconds—four—five—longer than he should’ve.

> “Status,” he demanded. “Is he responsive?”

Still nothing.

Alfred stood in the doorway behind him, saying nothing—but watching.

Bruce stared at the comms like they might bleed answers. Then—

Jason’s voice returned. But now it was colder.

Resolved.

Deadly.

> “He’s alive.”

Another pause.

Then—

> “He’s been compromised.”

Chapter Text

The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room.

Bruce stood motionless at Damian’s bedside, his eyes locked on the boy’s pale face. His cape was soaked, still dripping at the edges. He hadn’t changed out of the suit.

Not yet.

Not until Damian woke up.

He hadn’t moved in almost ninety minutes.

Neither had Damian.

The medical scan hovered in the corner of the display. Vitals: stable. No signs of concussion. No internal bleeding. Heart rate normal. Brain activity slightly elevated. No visible injuries.

But the boy still wouldn’t wake up.

Jason was standing across the room, helmet off, back to the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest. He looked angry—but underneath the surface, Bruce saw it: the fear. The guilt.

Jason didn’t get scared easily. That made Bruce’s chest tighten.

“What exactly did you see?” Bruce asked finally, voice low.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose. “I found him on a rooftop off Covington. Close to the east block, just outside Crime Alley.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Anyone else nearby?”

“Nothing. Roof was dead quiet. No cameras. No drag marks. It was like he just... shut down.”

Bruce’s jaw worked silently. He hated the phrase just shut down. People didn’t just shut down. Especially not Damian.

“And the state of his uniform?”

Jason’s eyes darkened. “You saw it.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “Torn. Seams pulled. Cape shredded. No blood. No defensive wounds.”

Jason pushed off the wall, fists clenched. “That’s what’s killing me. There’s no sign of a fight. No trace of toxin. But his clothes were—” He cut off, jaw clenching. “Something happened. Someone did this to him. I know what that posture looks like.”

Bruce looked back at the cot. Damian lay flat, arms at his sides, one hand curled loosely toward his chest. He was so still. Too still.

Jason’s voice lowered. “He didn’t fall. He wasn’t taken down in a fight. He was... left.”

The words echoed in Bruce’s mind.

He studied the neurofeedback again. Elevated stress markers. Adrenaline spike around the estimated time Jason found him. No physical trauma. No blunt force.

And yet—Damian wasn’t waking up.

Not from pain.

From shock.

Bruce sat beside the bed, gloved hand resting gently on the edge of the mattress. He wanted to say something. Anything.

But words were too soft. Too slow.

Jason finally broke the silence again.

“Do you think he’ll wake up?”

Bruce stared at the boy’s face—so guarded even in unconsciousness—and said the only thing he could.

“I don’t know.”

Jason swallowed hard and turned away slightly, running a hand through his hair. “He shouldn’t have been alone out there.”

“I know,” Bruce said quietly.

He should’ve tracked the mission closer. Should’ve noticed the shift in Damian’s patrol rhythm. Should’ve realized something was off.

But he hadn’t.

Now his son was lying unconscious in the med bay, not from battle—but from something worse. Something that didn’t leave bruises.

He brushed Damian’s hair back gently, something no one ever saw him do. Not even Alfred.

"You’re safe now," he murmured under his breath. "You can rest."

But in Bruce’s mind, rest wasn’t good enough.

He wanted answers.

And someone was going to give them to him.

Chapter Text

Damian floated.

Endless white stretched in all directions. There was no sky, no ground—just a soft, soundless void that cradled him like fog. He wasn’t falling, but he wasn’t standing either.

He blinked, unsure if he was dreaming or dead.

“You’re not either,” a voice said softly.

Damian turned.

The boy was there again.

White hair drifting like smoke, green eyes faintly glowing. He looked tired—more spirit than person—and his presence felt like static in the air.

“You,” Damian said, sharp. “What did you do to me?”

Danny didn’t move. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was dying. My core was collapsing. I needed to hide it somewhere safe.”

“Inside me,” Damian said darkly.

Danny winced. “Yeah. Sorry. You said yes.

Damian’s hands curled into fists. “Explain. All of it.”

Danny took a breath, even though he didn’t need to. “Ghosts have cores. It’s… kind of like a soul, kind of like a heart, there whole being. When a core is damaged, ghost are at there most vulnerable —so it should be protected.”

"And you are a ghost" damian asks

Danny nods "something like that"

"So what will happen" damain says.

Danny smiles alittle.

“It’s… just like a pregnancy.”

Damian stared. “What.”

“Not literally!” Danny said quickly, waving his hands. “It’s not a baby. It’s just…me. Growing. Healing. Inside you. You’ll feel things—cold, pressure, emotions that aren’t yours sometimes. Damian was silent.

Then, after a long pause, he said, “How long?”

“Nine months,” Danny replied softly. “Give or take. After that, I can separate from you again. But until then, I’ll be quiet. You won’t be alone, but I’ll stay out of the way.”

Another pause.

“So… is that a yes?”

“I already said yes, didn’t I?” Damian said coldly.

Danny gave a small, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

The white began to dissolve—fading into mist, into darkness, into the soft beep of machines.

---

Damian’s eyes opened.

The air smelled like antiseptic, metal, and stone.

The Batcave.

A monitor’s glow painted his vision. His body ached—sore and cold, but not in pain. He was lying on the med table, wrapped in a blanket, sensors taped to his chest.

Something inside him pulsed.

Small. Distant. Alive.

Damian exhaled slowly, fingers twitching.

"I'm awake," he said quietly.

And the cave was still.

Chapter Text

Alfred Pennyworth was no stranger to long, anxious nights.

But this one settled heavy in his bones.

He stood vigil at Damian’s bedside, the glow of the Batcave’s monitors painting soft shadows across the boy’s pale face. A steaming mug of tea sat untouched at his elbow—gone cold hours ago. The medical readings were steady now, but far from normal.

Damian was still. Still in that unnatural way that frightened Alfred more than bleeding ever could. No tossing, no dreaming, not even a twitch of his usually fidgety fingers.

The boy didn’t rest like this.

Not unless something was wrong.

Jason had brought him in after midnight, panicked in that uniquely Jason way—half cursing, half shaking, trying not to look scared and failing completely. The damage hadn’t been physical. Not exactly. There were no stab wounds or gunshots. No blood. Just Damian, cold as winter stone, his uniform torn to ribbons and his pulse barely there.

Bruce had taken one look and gone silent.

That scared Alfred more than anything.

He had done all he could. Warmed the boy, monitored vitals, ran tests—half of which came back inconclusive or simply refused to make sense. The readings shifted subtly, like something inside Damian was... shifting, too.

So Alfred stayed. As he always had. Quiet and constant.

Waiting.

Then—finally—a twitch.

Just a flutter of fingers beneath the blanket.

Alfred leaned in, heart lifting with cautious hope.

And then—

A soft voice, hoarse but clear:

"I'm awake."

Alfred’s breath caught.

He stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Yes, my boy. I can see that.”

Damian blinked up at him, dazed, as if the world was still reassembling around him. His skin was pale, his eyes glassy with sleep, but sharp underneath. He reached up, fingers pressing against his sternum beneath the blanket.

“…It’s cold,” he muttered.

Alfred nodded, brushing damp hair away from the boy’s forehead in a rare gesture. “Yes. You’ve been... quite the mystery, Master Damian. But you are here. And that is what matters.”

Damian’s gaze flicked to the machines, then to Alfred. “How long?”

“Almost a full day. You had us worried.” He said it gently, like a grandfather admitting to fussing just a little too much.

Damian closed his eyes briefly. Then opened them again.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that,” Alfred said fondly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And yet you are never resting in a bed when you do.”

Damian snorted—barely—but it was real.

Then he whispered, quieter this time, “Don’t tell Father. Not yet.”

Alfred studied him for a moment.

So brave. So tired. So young.

“As you wish,” he said softly. “But he’ll be glad to hear your voice.”

“I know,” Damian murmured. “Just... not yet.”

Alfred patted his shoulder. “Then we’ll let you be. For a while.”

He didn’t move far. Just settled into the chair beside the bed again, hands folded neatly, his presence a steady beacon of calm in the cold, humming cave.

He would be here when Damian was ready.

Just as he always had been.

Chapter Text

Jason stood in the center of the Batcave, arms crossed tightly over his chest, trying to keep his voice steady.

This wasn’t like briefing them on a bust. This wasn’t like reporting a body or recounting a street fight.

This was Damian.

He looked around the room. Bruce. Dick. Tim. Cass. Steph. Barbara’s voice buzzed faintly through the comm. All waiting. Expecting answers.

“I found him on a rooftop,” Jason began, voice rough. “North end of Crime Alley. He was off-grid too long, Deuce flagged it. I figured he was chasing something and got sidetracked.”

He paused, jaw clenching. The words felt like glass.

“But when I got there… he wasn’t moving.”

The air tensed.

“He was on his back. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. No obvious injuries. Just…” Jason looked down. “His uniform was ripped to hell. Especially around the chest and waist. Like—torn. Not in battle. Not a fight. Like someone wanted it off him.”

The silence cracked like ice.

“What are you saying?” Tim asked, voice shaking just slightly.

Jason didn’t answer right away. He glanced at Bruce—who hadn’t moved, but whose eyes were burning holes through the air—and then back to the others.

“I’m saying… it didn’t look like a fight,” Jason said quietly. “It looked like someone touched him. Like someone hurt him. And left him like that.”

Cass’s breath hitched. Steph’s hand flew to her mouth. Dick took a sharp step back like the air had been punched from his chest.

Barbara’s voice came over the line, faint and horrified: “No…”

Tim looked like he might be sick.

Bruce said nothing.

Jason continued, softer now. “There were no signs of struggle. No defensive wounds. Just… him. Torn uniform. Cold as death. And not waking up.”

He swallowed hard.

“He looked small. Helpless. Unprotected.” He ground his teeth. “And whoever did it—if anyone did that to him—they’re still out there.”

The weight of it settled like a stormcloud.

Steph turned away, visibly shaking. Cass was stone-still, her hands tight fists at her sides.

Dick finally spoke, voice low and dangerous. “You think he was—”

“I think something was done to him,” Jason interrupted, fierce. “And until we know what, we assume the worst.”

Bruce finally moved.

He walked to the console, gloved hands gripping the edge of the table like he needed it to stay standing. His eyes were fire.

“When he wakes up,” he said, voice graveled and tight, “we don’t push. We don’t interrogate. We listen. And we protect him.”

Jason nodded once, jaw clenched. “Exactly.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

Because nothing needed to be said.

The Batfamily had faced monsters. But this? This was personal.

Chapter Text

The ceiling hadn’t changed in the hours since he’d opened his eyes.

Same dull, sterile white. Same slow, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor beside him. Same soft murmurs from the medbay, where Alfred occasionally stepped in and out with careful glances and warm tea he never drank.

Damian lay still beneath the blanket, arms tucked close, mind racing.

He was awake. He was aware. He was… different.

Not outwardly. His body felt fine, save for the chill that hadn’t truly left. But inside… there was a shift. A weight. A hum beneath his skin like a second heartbeat — low, deep, and not entirely his.

And he knew why.

Danny.

His memory flickered, almost dreamlike. A rooftop. A strange boy. Cold, injured, glowing. Eyes filled with something not even Damian — a trained killer, an heir to assassins — could name. Something desperate.

“Please… can you take care of me?”

He hadn’t thought. He’d only said yes.

Now something rested inside him. A ghost core — whatever that meant. Something alive. Growing. Dependent.

And he had no idea what he was doing.

Damian gritted his teeth.

He’d never been unsure before. Not like this. Combat, espionage, infiltration — those things made sense. Those things had rules, objectives, consequences. But this?

How was he supposed to protect something he couldn’t see?

How was he supposed to care for a person who lived inside him?

He shifted slightly under the blanket, pressing a palm to his abdomen. There was no pain. No glow. Just a faint warmth beneath the skin — as if his body had already accepted the presence it now carried.

Danny had trusted him.

Damian didn’t know why.

But he had.

And Damian had made a promise.

He exhaled quietly and closed his eyes.

I don’t know how…

But I will protect you.

No one else needed to know. Not yet. Not until he understood what was happening. Not until he had a plan. He would research. Train. Adjust. Endure.

That was what he was good at.

Sacrifice.

Determination.

Control.

He didn’t feel like a protector. Not yet. But he would become one.

For Danny.

Because someone had to be.

And he would never break a promise.

Chapter Text

Alfred had always taken quiet pride in how well he understood the children in this family.

Each of them masked their pain in different ways. Dick laughed too easily. Jason lashed out. Tim buried himself in work. Cassandra said nothing at all. Stephanie put on a smile. Even Master Bruce had his tells.

And Damian… Damian usually fought.

Even when sick. Even when injured. Even in grief. Silence was never his nature.

But now, Alfred watched the boy lay still beneath a thin hospital blanket in the medbay, his eyes open and distant, staring upward without focus or urgency.

Not guarded.

Not bristling.

Just… quiet.

Alfred approached with his usual, gentle grace, setting a fresh glass of water on the side table. He waited a moment, then spoke softly.

“Would you like me to inform your father that your awake now?”

There was a pause — not of resistance, but of distance. As though the question took a moment to reach him. Damian’s gaze drifted toward him, and for the briefest second, Alfred saw something flicker in those green eyes — something uncertain, lost, but not afraid.

“…Yes,” Damian murmured. “You can tell him.”

His voice was calm. Detached. Almost dreamlike. Like his mind was somewhere far away.

Alfred inclined his head gently. “Very well, my boy.”

Damian returned his gaze to the ceiling without another word.

He simply lay there. Still. Thinking.

Or drifting.

Alfred stepped out into the cavern above with a frown stitched deep into his brow.

---

The family turned as one the moment he entered.

“He’s awake,” Alfred said softly, and that was enough to draw everyone’s attention sharp and fast.

Bruce rose from the console. Dick stopped pacing. Jason straightened from the wall, arms uncrossing. The tension surged instantly—hope and dread tangled together.

“Is he okay?” Tim asked quickly.

“He’s… dazed,” Alfred replied gently. “Not distressed, per se. But distant. Detached.”

“Was he in pain?” Steph asked.

“No. But he hasn’t moved much. He lay there for some time before responding. Gave me permission to inform Master Bruce, though he didn’t ask for him. He seemed… preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied?” Jason echoed, his voice low.

Alfred nodded. “Staring at the ceiling. Quiet. Not tense, not defensive… Just very, very still.”

There was a long pause.

Cass lowered her eyes.

Bruce didn’t speak, but his hands clenched into fists.

Jason’s voice turned harsh. “Still think he wasn’t… touched?”

“Jay—” Dick began, but Jason raised a hand.

“He’s quiet. Damian. Since when is he quiet unless something’s seriously wrong?”

“He could be in shock,” Barbara added gently over the comm. “Or dissociating. He might not even know how to process it yet.”

Tim turned away, visibly shaken. “And we weren’t there to stop it…”

Alfred remained silent. He did not confirm. He did not deny.

Because Damian hadn’t told him anything.

And sometimes, silence said more than words ever could.

Chapter Text

Bruce didn’t speak for several seconds after Alfred’s quiet report.

Damian was awake. Physically fine. No signs of new injuries. But not talking. Not fighting. Not moving.

It didn’t feel like relief. It felt like dread.

He turned away from the Batcomputer, voice low and even. Bruce stepped forward. “I’ll go to him.” No one argued. Not even Jason. Without waiting for further discussion, Bruce turned and headed for the lift. His shoulders were tight, and though his face was unreadable, the weight behind his silence said more than words could. The others followed — at a distance. Up on the catwalk, they stood quietly in the shadows again. It had become a pattern now: observing from above, hoping for answers.

Bruce descended into the medbay with heavy steps, though he forced himself to slow as the room came into view.

There he was. His son. Small in the hospital bed, eyes open, but distant. Staring at the ceiling like he was waiting for it to speak.

No defensive posture. No tension in his shoulders. Just… stillness.

Bruce’s heart twisted.

He hated seeing him like this. Hated how young he looked. He was only fourteen. He shouldn’t have had to go through whatever had happened to him.

“Damian,how are you"Bruce said gently.

Damian’s eyes shifted toward him. He didn’t speak.

Bruce pulled the nearby chair up beside the bed and sat. Not too close, but within reach.

“I’m here,” he said simply. “You don’t have to say anything. Just know… you’re safe now.”

Damian blinked, slowly. His gaze dropped to the edge of the blanket, then shifted to the corner of the room. Still silent. Still unreadable.

Bruce continued, his voice softer than the cowl ever allowed. “You don’t need to talk about it yet. Or ever, if you don’t want to. But I want you to know… whatever happened… none of it was your fault.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, faintly, as if something in him recognized the weight of Bruce’s words — but didn’t understand why they were being said.

They misread the look. Misread the quiet confusion. Misread the silence as shame.

Dick’s expression was full of quiet pain, his arms crossed tightly.
Jason stood with a fist pressed to his mouth, eyes locked on Damian.
Tim leaned against the rail, eyes shadowed, his brow furrowed deep.
Cass stood still, her face unreadable but focused.
Steph rested her chin on her arms, watching with soft concern.
Duke exhaled slowly, head lowered.
Barbara didn’t blink, gaze darting between Bruce and Damian as if trying to translate silence itself.

“I’m so sorry, son,” Bruce said quietly, reaching out to gently rest a hand on the edge of the bed. “I should’ve been there.”

Damian didn’t flinch. But he didn’t respond either.

And Bruce’s chest ached all the more for it.

---

They head back when bruce left letting Damian get some sleep

“He didn’t say anything?” Steph said.

“No.”

Jason’s jaw clenched.

Bruce didn’t say anything.But his sadness and aching was there.

Cass looked away, her shoulders trembling just slightly. Tim lowered his head into his hands.

“I’ll stay with him tonight,” Bruce said. “He shouldn’t be alone.”

None of them argued.

Because to them, the damage had already been done.

And their youngest brother was doing what so many survivors did.

Shutting down.

Chapter Text

It was colder than it should be.

Not the room.

Him.

Damian lay still under the blanket, eyes half-lidded, breathing soft. But the chill in his fingers had reached deep — settled under his skin like a whisper he couldn’t shut out.

He flexed his hand beneath the covers.
Still cold.

He drew in a breath and held it.

Even that felt cooler. Like winter air resting behind his lungs.

Not painful.
Not wrong.
Just… different.

He pressed two fingers to his wrist.

Thirty-two.

Too low. Too slow. But steady.

It didn’t scare him. But it unsettled him.

He was adapting. Changing. Quietly.

And no one knew.

The door opened.

Bruce Wayne approached with a deliberate calm, the weight of the world stitched into his expression. Damian could see it — the tension behind his eyes, the careful control in his voice.

“Damian, how are you” Bruce said gently.

His siblings appear above him on the cat walk keeping their distance

Damian didn’t answer. There wasn’t much to say. What could he say? "There's a ghost core forming inside me"? "I agreed to protect the last echo of someone else's existence"?

It sounded ridiculous, even in his own mind.

So he stared.

Bruce pulled a chair beside the bed and sat down, hands resting on his knees like he was trying not to startle a wounded animal.

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

A pause.

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

Damian’s brow knit slightly.

What was he talking about?

“Just know… you’re safe now.”

Damian blinked at him.

Safe? From what?

Bruce continued, his voice softer than Damian could ever remember hearing it. “You don’t need to talk about it yet. Or ever, if you don’t want to. But I want you to know… whatever happened… none of it was your fault.”

The words dropped heavily between them.

Damian stared at him, his thoughts cloudy.

None of it was my fault…

Was Bruce talking about the rooftop?

Or… was this about what he hadn’t said? About his silence?

“I’m so sorry, son,” Bruce said, his hand resting lightly on the side of the bed. “I should’ve been there.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. There was grief in his father's voice — grief, and guilt. But not about Danny. Not about the rooftop.

He was talking about something else.

Something Damian didn’t understand.

He looked away.

His father thought something happened.

But Damian didn’t know what he thought had happened.

He wasn’t ready to explain the truth. Not until he understood it himself.

So he said nothing.

And his silence only made his father’s expression tighten and so did his siblings.

When they left telling me to get some rest he did adjusting the blanket around his shoulders better

Let them think what they wanted.

It will gave him space to think. To plan.

Because whatever was happening to his body…
Whatever was becoming of him…
He would control it.

They could keep their theories.
He had his own reality to deal with.

Chapter Text

Dick

The manor was quiet. Too quiet. Even for a house with secret passages and underground caves.

Dick sat on the edge of the bed in his old room, half in costume, gloves discarded, boots kicked aside. The moonlight cast long shadows across the floor, but all he could see was Damian’s face—pale, unreadable, blank.

Not angry.
Not combative.
Just… gone.

He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly.

He’d seen that look before. On victims they’d rescued. On kids who’d been hurt and hadn’t found the words yet.
Damian wasn’t talking. That meant the pain was deep.

“I should’ve called more,” Dick whispered to himself. “I should’ve—checked in.”

He rubbed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he decided. He’d bring him something small. Normal. Something dumb and distracting. His favorite tea. A new puzzle. One of those impossible knives he liked to sharpen.

He didn’t expect Damian to talk. But he’d be there.

And maybe that was enough for now.

---

Jason

Jason had tossed the jacket on the floor and sat on the windowsill, still fully dressed, boots up on the radiator, smoke curling from the tip of an unlit cigarette he kept out of habit more than need.

He stared out at Gotham.

Crime Alley wasn’t far from where he found him.

The image came back too easily—Damian crumpled on that rooftop, uniform shredded, silent and still. Jason had felt pure panic, like he was fifteen again and finding bodies no one else cared about.

And now…

The kid wouldn’t even talk.

Jason ground his teeth.

“Someone did something to him,” he muttered. “And if I ever find out who, they won’t walk away from it.”

He didn’t care what the others said about patience or waiting for Damian to open up.

Jason was already making a list. Already tapping into old channels. Someone had to find out the truth, and if Damian wouldn’t tell them...

Jason would burn the city to get answers.

---

Tim

Tim sat at his desk, glasses halfway down his nose, a dozen search tabs open on his tablet. He hadn’t even changed out of his hoodie, cold coffee sitting untouched at his elbow.

He kept rereading the files. Last GPS ping. Rooftop logs. Heat maps. Surveillance footage. Something had to be there. Something they missed.

Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He hated guessing. He hated being wrong. But the pieces were coming together into a shape he didn’t like. Trauma. Withdrawal. Physical changes.

But no medical markers. No blood. No wounds. Just silence and cold eyes.

Tim sighed.

He didn’t want to push. But if Damian was hurt, and it came back to haunt him later... they’d all pay for missing it now.

He set a reminder to talk to Alfred in the morning. Quietly. Maybe the old man knew more than he was saying.

---

Duke

Duke lay on his bed in the manor guest wing, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. He’d turned off the lights twenty minutes ago, but his mind wouldn’t settle.

He liked Damian.

He didn’t always understand him — the sharp tongue, the stiff posture, the heavy pride — but there was something in him that was real. Solid.

And now… he was so quiet. Still.

Like something had cracked.

Duke turned onto his side and stared out the window.

He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t as close as the others. But maybe that helped.

Maybe Damian needed someone who wasn’t full of pity. Who wouldn’t push.

“Tomorrow,” Duke whispered. “I’ll just sit with him. No questions. Just presence.”

Sometimes silence didn’t mean weakness. Sometimes it was armor.

And Duke could respect that.

Barbara

Barbara sat curled up on her couch in Gotham Clock Tower, knees drawn to her chest, headset silent. The comms had long gone quiet, but the words still echoed in her mind.

“Robin’s been compromised.”
Jason’s voice. Tight. Controlled rage hiding panic.

She closed her eyes.

So young. Too young.

She’d seen girls come into the GCPD with that same blank stare. Too many times.

Damian hadn’t said a word. And maybe he wouldn’t. Not soon. Maybe never.

But Barbara had survived something too.

She knew the shame didn’t belong to the survivor. It never did.

Tomorrow she’d send him a note. No pressure. Just something quiet and open. A door, waiting to be stepped through.

---

Cassandra

Cass sat cross-legged on the dojo floor, still in her sparring gear, hair damp with sweat, but she hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

Damian’s face was burned into her memory.

Not the usual glare. Not the cocky smirk.
Just… blank. Guarded.

Silent.

She knew that silence. Knew what it looked like when the body went still to hide what was breaking underneath.

Her hands curled into fists.

If someone hurt him—if someone took his control—she would find them. And she wouldn’t need words to make them understand what they’d done.

But for now, she could give him what he gave her when she couldn’t speak: space.

Cass wouldn’t ask questions.

But she’d sit beside him.
So he wouldn’t be alone.

---

Stephanie

Steph lay on her back in her room at the manor, staring at the ceiling with the blanket halfway kicked off.

She felt sick. And guilty. And helpless.

She didn’t know what to say when she saw him. Didn’t know how to be gentle without treating him like glass. Damian didn’t do fragile.

But she also knew that kind of silence. The kind where someone’s barely holding it together inside, too proud to ask for help.

Her chest ached.

“Stupid brat,” she whispered. “You didn’t deserve this.”

Tomorrow, she’d sneak in with something ridiculous. A stress toy. A sparkly pink water bottle. Something dumb and cheerful.

If he threw it at her, that was fine.

If he didn’t… maybe it’d help.

---

They all lay awake in different rooms, across the manor, the city, the cave.

Each one believing Damian had been broken in a way they couldn’t fix.
Each one planning how to help.

They were wrong about the reason.

But not about the love.

Chapter Text

The next morning came softly.

The medbay lights shifted from dim to warm daylight as the cave's artificial systems mimicked dawn. Damian sat up slowly, his movements measured. The stiffness in his body had faded — not entirely, but enough.

Alfred was already waiting with a tray when he turned his head. Quiet as always. Unshakeable.

“You are officially cleared to return to your room,” Alfred said gently. “Though I’d prefer you eat something first.”

Damian didn’t argue. He accepted the tray without a word and sat with his back straight, slowly picking through toast, eggs, and a warm mug of tea.

He didn’t taste much of it. His thoughts were somewhere else.

Alfred stayed close, but didn’t hover. He offered no questions. Just quiet presence — the kind Damian had come to expect and rely on, even if he rarely said it aloud.

Afterward, he stood.

“Thank you,” he said, voice quiet.

Alfred gave a soft nod and stepped aside, letting the boy make his way to the lift.

---

The quiet in his room was different than the quiet in the medbay.

It wasn’t sterile or suffocating — it was chosen. Damian closed the door behind him and stood for a moment, staring at the books on his shelf, the clean desk, the bed with corners still tight and square.

Everything was in its place.

Except him.

He crossed to the desk and sat down, fingers brushing against the edges of his sketchbook. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the blank page.

Then he opened it, flipped past half-finished designs, diagrams, and training notes — stopping at a fresh sheet.

He picked up a pencil.

“…I’ll need to adjust my schedule.”

The words were quiet. Just for himself.

He started to sketch — lines forming the shape of a floorplan. Not of his room. Not the Batcave. Something else.

“A second sleeping space,” he murmured. “No—small. Compact. Hidden.”

His pencil moved quickly, decisively.

“A shielded area. Warm. Secure. Somewhere he can recover if the core grows unstable…”

He paused, the pencil hovering above the page.

“…assuming it does.”

Damian leaned back slightly in the chair, eyes narrowing as he considered.

“I don’t know how long the incubation will last. Nine months was the estimate. But I don’t know if that includes healing time. Integration time.”

He drummed his fingers against the desk, brows furrowed.

“I’ll need more data.”

He turned the page, started jotting down a list.

Nutrient needs. Temperature regulation. Energy consumption. Physical changes.

His fingers paused again over the last one.

He pressed his palm lightly against his abdomen — where the warmth still pulsed quietly. Steady. Present.

“Whatever you are,” he said softly, “you trusted me with this.”

He looked down again at the page.

“I won’t fail you.”

A sharp knock of resolve settled in his jaw.

“First priority: stabilize,” he muttered. “Second: monitor. Third… protect.”

He wrote it down.

Then underlined it.

The sound of his pencil scratching across the page filled the room. No voices. No questions. No one hovering nearby. Just him — planning. Thinking. Moving.

Because whatever had changed inside him, whatever Danny had done…

Damian refused to treat it as a burden.

He’d made a promise. Even if no one else knew it.

And he would see it through.

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor was quieter than usual.

The family gathered for breakfast, but no one really ate. The tension in the room was quiet, but heavy — stretched thin across the long dining table.

Damian hadn’t come downstairs yet.

Jason lingered in the kitchen longer than he needed to, picking at his food. Tim had his tablet open but hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. Barbara stood beside the table, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes flicking to the hallway every few seconds.

“He’s still resting,” Alfred said gently, folding a napkin with careful precision. “Still adjusting.”

Dick exhaled slowly. “He needs space.”

“He doesn’t need to be alone,” Jason muttered, eyes narrowed.

“We’ll stay,” Duke said, his voice steady.

Cass nodded beside him, her fingers already moving.
[I’ll stay too.]

Jason watched her for a moment, then nodded once, jaw tight.

“…Good.”

The others slowly began to trickle out — duty pulling them back to the city, to patrols, to meetings and alarms and the thousand things that never waited. But not before casting one last glance toward the stairs.

Cass and Duke remained.

---

Upstairs…

Damian stood at his desk, adjusting the sleeves of his black training shirt. His hair was neatly combed. He looked composed. Calm.

But the silence in the room wasn’t peaceful.

When the knock came, Damian answered evenly:
“…You may enter.”

Cass stepped in first, Duke close behind. She didn’t speak — just lifted a hand and signed:
[Good morning.]

Damian gave a small nod in return. “I already ate.”

Duke smiled faintly. “Cool. You want to hang out? Stretch your legs?”

Cass added gently,
[Outside. Garden. It’s quiet.]

Damian hesitated — then gave a stiff nod.

---

The garden was still.

The late morning sun filtered through the thick canopy of trees, warming the trimmed hedges and the stone path beneath their feet. Damian walked ahead with precise steps, arms tucked behind his back, posture controlled. Composed.

He was trying very hard not to look like someone who had just spent days unconscious in the med bay.

Cass and Duke followed without speaking. They didn’t trail behind awkwardly or press forward with questions. They just matched his pace — a quiet presence behind him, steady and calm.

When they reached the willow tree near the edge of the property, Damian sat down stiffly, cross-legged in the grass. Cass lowered herself beside him with more ease, plucking a few daisies from the wild border and beginning to twist them together. Duke flopped onto the grass nearby with a quiet grunt, his arms behind his head.

“It’s nicer out here than I remember,” Duke said casually, squinting up at the sky. “Guess you don’t notice when you're usually coming back at 3 a.m.”

Damian gave a tight, humorless hum. It was the closest thing to a laugh he could manage.

“I thought you’d be busier,” he said after a pause, eyes fixed on the tree bark ahead.

Cass looked at him, then made a small sign:
[We’re not.]

“Someone should be training,” Damian muttered. “Or running patrol prep. This—” he gestured vaguely to the garden “—isn’t productive.”

Duke shrugged. “It’s productive if it’s what you need right now.”

“I’m fine.”

He said it quickly. Automatically. Too fast.

Cass didn’t press. She just kept weaving flowers.

Duke propped himself up on one elbow. “You don’t have to talk about anything, Damian. We’re not here for answers.”

Damian’s gaze flicked toward him, unreadable. “Good.”

The silence stretched again — not heavy, just long. Damian’s fingers curled in the grass beside his knee. He flexed them once, then stilled.

Cass finished a small crown and held it out with a questioning tilt of her head.

Damian blinked at it, then slowly reached out and took it. He set it in his lap. Didn’t wear it. Didn’t complain either.

He was trying to be normal.

Trying to sit like he used to. Trying to keep his shoulders high and his jaw set. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t felt something cold and ancient take root in the space just beneath his ribs. Like he didn’t wake up every hour of the night feeling like something was watching him from behind his own skin.

But acting normal was exhausting.

He realized Cass and Duke weren’t saying anything. Not really. Not asking. Not judging. Just existing beside him like they’d always done — in the quiet, in the space between everything else.

He didn’t thank them.

He didn’t smile.

But he didn’t get up and leave either.

Cass shifted closer and gently leaned her head on his shoulder for just a second — then moved away like nothing had happened.

Duke reached out and flicked a blade of grass at Damian’s leg. “Let us know if you want to go back in.”

Damian gave a small nod, the flower crown still untouched in his lap.

He didn’t want to go back in. Not yet.

The wind rustled through the willow leaves. Somewhere, a bird chirped from the hedgerow. And for just a little while, Damian allowed himself to sit — not as Robin, not as a vessel — just as a boy.

Silent. Guarded. Still trying.

And not alone.

Chapter Text

The sun had shifted slightly overhead when Cass stood.

She brushed the grass from her pants with quiet, careful motions. Duke followed a moment later, stretching with a grunt and rolling his shoulders. He offered Damian a short look — a mix between we’ll be back and take your time — before glancing toward the house.

Damian didn’t move. “Where are you going?”

Duke gave a half-smile. “Rest of the family’s back. B wants to talk.”

Cass signed quickly, her hands moving with practiced ease.
[Not leaving you. Just giving space.]

Damian nodded once, slow and unreadable.

Cass and Duke walked back toward the house together, leaving the rustle of leaves and soft flower petals behind.

Damian stayed seated under the willow.

The little crown Cass had made still sat in his lap.

He stared at it for a moment. Then at the spot Cass had occupied. Then at nothing.

His fingers absently touched his abdomen — where the cold lived now, deep and quiet. Not painful. Not obvious. But undeniable. Like the second heartbeat of something not his.

Danny.

Damian closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight.

He hadn’t said his name since waking up.

Hadn’t spoken it out loud even in thought. It felt… vulnerable. Like saying it would make all of this more real.

But it was real.

That moment — that impossible flash of light on the rooftop, Danny’s voice, the heat, the unbearable cold, and then nothing — it hadn’t been a dream. Danny was there, inside him somehow. A piece of him, at least. Resting. Hiding.

Growing.

Nine months, the boy had said.

Nine months to incubate his “core.”

Damian wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t exactly pregnancy in the traditional sense — there was no fetus, no biological shift in that way — but it was close enough to rattle him. He was protecting something now. Carrying something powerful and ghostly and fragile all at once.

And he was the only one who knew.

But it semms like the family thought… something else happened ,something lasting.The looks in their eyes, the way they spoke around him instead of to him — it made his stomach twist.

They didn’t know.

But how could they? He hadn’t told them.

And now, as the faint sounds of footsteps moved deeper into the manor, Damian found himself wondering…

Should he?

Would they believe him? Would they try to separate him from Danny? Would they lock him down, try to run tests, take samples, send him to Zatanna, or worse — try to cleanse whatever this was?

He frowned.

They would mean well. That was the problem.

They always meant well.

But if they didn’t believe him — if they tried to remove Danny’s core without understanding…

He didn’t know what would happen.

And he wasn’t willing to risk it.

His hand curled slightly around the crown in his lap. It was still warm from the sun. Delicate.

Just like Danny’s trust.

Damian exhaled slowly.

Not yet.

Not until he knew more.

Not until he had a better plan.

But maybe… maybe soon.

Chapter Text

The sun had already dipped low, casting golden light through the tall windows of the Wayne Manor sitting room. Alfred had set out tea, though no one touched it. The entire family had gathered there—Bruce, Dick, Tim, Stephanie, Barbara, and now Cass and Duke, just returned from the garden.

Bruce stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back. His reflection was sharp in the glass.

Cass settled on the arm of a chair next to Barbara, eyes thoughtful. Duke leaned against the back wall, arms folded, looking down for a beat before glancing up at everyone.

“He didn’t say much,” Duke started. “But he let us stay.”

Bruce turned slightly. “And?”

“He’s trying to be normal,” Duke said. “Like… textbook normal. Stiff posture, clipped words, that kind of thing. Like he’s playing a part.”

Tim frowned. “He’s always a little stiff, though.”

“This was different,” Duke said quietly. “Like he was watching himself from the outside. Rehearsing being okay.”

Cass lifted her hands and signed slowly:
[Still. Focused. But not fine.]

Dick leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Did he seem scared?”

Cass shook her head.
[Not scared. Closed.]

“Shut down,” Duke added. “Not pushing us away, but not really letting us in either.”

“He didn’t flinch,” Steph offered cautiously. “That’s… something.”

“No,” Duke agreed. “But there’s a wall up. And he’s working hard to keep it there.”

Barbara nodded, eyes scanning Cass’s expression. “Did he seem… angry?”

Cass thought for a long moment. Her hands moved slowly:
[Not anger. Protecting something.]

Bruce finally turned fully, arms crossed. “Protecting?”

Duke hesitated.

Cass gave a single, small nod.

There was a quiet weight in the air.

Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“He didn’t want to go back inside,” Duke said. “Not until we left. He just… sat there. Like he was thinking through something. Over and over.”

“He’s planning,” Tim said under his breath. “You could always tell when he’s plotting something.”

Cass nodded once.

Stephanie folded her arms, her voice a little quieter. “So, he’s not… spiraling.”

“No,” Duke said. “He’s not falling apart.”

“But he’s not okay either,” Dick finished for him.

The silence stretched again. No one moved.

Cass signed softly:
[He’s trying.]

It landed like truth in the room. No one denied it.

Bruce exhaled through his nose, barely audible.

“Thank you,” he said to them both, voice low. “You did the right thing.”

Cass simply nodded. Duke gave a tired half-smile and crossed his arms again.

“Just let us know when it’s our turn,” Dick said, trying for lightness but not quite getting there. “He’s not the only one with a stubborn streak.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tim muttered.

Cass actually gave a small, brief smile.

Outside, the wind picked up in the trees again.

And inside the manor, the Batfamily sat a little quieter, a little closer — waiting.

Watching.

And hoping Damian might let them in… when he was ready.

Chapter Text

Damian stood in the hallway for a long time before he finally stepped toward the dining room.

The soft clink of cutlery and low voices echoed faintly from inside. He could already feel their attention stretching toward the door, waiting for him.

He hated this part — the pretending.

But he smoothed the edge of his sleeve and stepped inside.

They were all there.

Bruce at the head of the table, Alfred standing nearby with a quiet grace. Dick, Tim, Steph, Barbara, Cass, and Duke already seated. A plate waited for him — like it always had — between Cass and Duke.

The conversations dropped off the moment they saw him.

He didn’t flinch. Just walked to his seat, sat down, and picked up his fork.

“Hey, Dames,” Dick said, voice gentle. “You feeling up for dinner?”

“I’m eating, am I not?” Damian replied flatly.

Tim raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. Stephanie offered a faint smile instead. “Alfred made that herb rice you like. The one with the lemon.”

Cass gently nudged a bowl toward his side of the table.

Damian served himself. Slowly. Measured. Normal.

Or what he hoped passed for normal.

The food was good. He didn’t taste it.

Bruce watched him from across the table, quiet but steady. Not pressing. Not asking.

Yet.

“So,” Duke said lightly, “Cass and I got into a debate earlier about who could balance longer on the porch rail without falling off. Spoiler: it wasn’t me.”

Cass signed with a shrug:
[He flailed.]

“You tripped me!”

[You flailed.]

Cass’s face was unreadable, but her eyes twinkled. Damian caught the exchange and fought the twitch of a smile.

“They were out in the garden with you today, yeah?” Tim asked casually, stabbing a piece of chicken.

Damian paused. “Yes.”

There was a short silence. Then Steph said, gently, “We’re glad you’re getting some air.”

Damian gave a tight nod and returned to his food.

“So what did you three talk about?” Dick asked.

“Nothing,” Damian replied.

“Nothing’s a conversation now?” Tim muttered.

Damian set his fork down slowly. “We did not speak much. It was… peaceful.”

Cass nodded slowly beside him, backing him up without words.

The table quieted again, until Alfred appeared at his side with a second helping of roasted vegetables.

“You are not eating enough to sustain a bird,” Alfred murmured, filling his plate. “Humor me, Master Damian.”

“…Thank you,” Damian said softly.

The room stilled at that — the tone. The softness of it. Not defensive. Not sarcastic. Just… quiet.

Dick blinked. Steph’s eyes flicked to Bruce.

Bruce was watching closely now, eyes narrowed ever so slightly — not suspicious, but observant. Studying. Like he was waiting for something to fall into place.

Damian felt the pressure in his chest twist.

They still think something happened. Something worse. Something I won’t talk about.

He hadn’t told them the truth. He wasn’t sure he could yet.

Not until he was sure Danny was safe.

So instead, he picked up his fork again and asked, “What did I miss in Gotham while I was recovering?”

That sparked a slow, cautious return to chatter. Dick and Tim gave him small updates. Steph added a comment about a runaway goat in the Narrows. Barbara mentioned a minor break-in. Duke made a joke.

No one pushed.

No one asked.

But their eyes lingered.

Their glances stretched too long.

Their words were too careful.

And Damian sat there, eating rice and vegetables, pretending none of it weighed on him — while inside, he tried to work out how much longer he could keep this up.

Chapter Text

The living room was unusually warm, full of low chatter, soft light, and the rumble of movie dialogue. Blankets were draped over the couch backs, and someone had popped popcorn — the kind Steph liked, with too much butter and a little hot sauce.

Damian sat stiffly on the far end of the sectional, flanked by Duke on one side and Tim on the other. Cass was curled up on the floor near the coffee table, her head resting on a pillow. Dick had taken the middle seat like he always did, leaning back with one leg over the armrest.

“Seriously,” Stephanie said, pointing at the screen. “If the main character survives this fall, I’m calling plot armor.”

“Called it twenty minutes ago,” Tim said, voice dry.

“You would be tracking the plot’s internal logic like it’s a mission report,” Duke said with a grin.

Damian wasn’t watching the movie.

His focus kept drifting. Not to the plot, not to the conversations — but to the feeling simmering just beneath his skin. The odd flush in his cheeks. The way the room seemed too warm and too cold at once. His fingers twitched faintly where they rested on the couch.

He tried not to shift too often, not to draw attention.

But then Duke leaned closer, reaching across him to grab a soda from the table, and his arm brushed Damian’s for too long — skin on skin.

It was barely a second.

But Damian flinched, the contact sending a spike of cold through his veins like ice water.

It wasn’t pain.

Just too much.

Too strange.

Too different.

He jerked slightly, inhaling sharp through his nose. Too sharp.

“You good?” Duke asked, blinking.

“I’m fine,” Damian muttered, withdrawing his arm.

Duke gave him a look but didn’t press.

Cass glanced over from the floor, brows narrowing slightly. Tim, already suspicious by nature, sat up straighter.

“You sure?” Steph asked from across the room. “You look kinda—”

“I said I’m fine,” Damian snapped, sharper than he meant.

The room quieted.

Dick raised an eyebrow.

Bruce, seated in the reading chair nearby, didn’t say a word — but his gaze settled on Damian with that same heavy, unreadable weight he always had when he sensed something wasn’t right.

And then the nausea hit.

It came fast and deep, curling in his stomach like a wave of bile and heat. Damian blinked, sat straighter, then immediately pushed himself off the couch.

“‘Scuse me,” he muttered, already halfway out of the room.

“Damian?” Tim called after him.

But he was gone — down the hall, through the quiet shadows of the manor, and into the bathroom where he dropped to his knees and braced himself over the toilet bowl.

He barely managed to shut the door before the nausea took over.

Cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

His heart thudded too fast. His skin tingled like static. His body was wrong — off-balance, alien, heavy and too light at the same time.

He knew it wasn’t illness. It wasn’t food. It wasn’t nerves.

It was the core.

Danny’s core — pulsing quietly inside his stomach, reacting again to his own emotions, flaring when he wasn’t careful.

I need more control, he thought bitterly.

I can’t keep doing this. Not around them.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sat back, breathing in slow through his nose. He could still hear muffled voices from the hallway.

He locked the door.

Chapter Text

The movie was background noise.

Tim was watching it — technically — but his attention kept slipping sideways toward Damian.

His younger brother sat next to him, stock-still and sharp-edged like a coil of wire pretending to be a person. It was obvious to Tim, if not to everyone else, that Damian was trying very hard to look like he belonged in the room. Feet tucked under him neatly. Hands folded too precisely. Breathing shallow. Watching the screen without seeing it.

He’s performing normal, Tim thought. Which means he doesn’t feel normal.

It wasn’t a new pattern. Damian had always been wound tighter than the rest of them. But this time, there was something… off about it.

He wasn’t tense in a battle-ready way.

He was guarded. Caged.

When Duke reached across Damian to grab a soda and brushed his arm by accident, Damian flinched.

Not a blink-and-you-miss-it twitch. A jolt.

Tim saw it. Felt it in the way the cushions shifted slightly. Damian’s jaw tightened, and for just a second, his pupils contracted like someone had touched a nerve.

“You good?” Duke asked casually.

“I’m fine,” Damian said quickly — too quickly.

Flag that, Tim thought.

Then Steph made a comment, light and well-meaning, but Damian snapped back at her with a sharpness that cut the room clean in half.

“I said I’m fine.”

Tim sat up slowly. His fingers stilled around the edge of the blanket in his lap.

Everyone was watching Damian now, heads turning.

Damian didn’t meet their eyes. He stood abruptly, saying a quick excuse me, and left.

He moved too fast.

Way too fast.

Tim was already on his feet before the others had even finished reacting. He didn’t say anything, just followed, keeping his steps silent — part instinct, part concern.

The hallway was dimmer, quieter.

He tracked the soft shuffle of footsteps and the familiar click of a bathroom door down the corridor. A second later, he heard it:

A muffled sound reached Tim’s ears — harsh, wet, and unmistakable.

He stopped in front of the closed bathroom door, heart sinking.

He’s throwing up.

The realization came with a cascade of questions: Was it something he ate? Stress? A panic response? Something more serious?

His brain raced through data points — the odd flinch, the pallor in Damian’s skin, the slight sheen of sweat near his hairline, the way he’d been sitting as if holding himself together by force.

Why now? Why tonight?

Tim leaned back against the opposite wall and sat on the floor, folding his arms loosely over his knees.

He didn’t need to knock. Not yet.

Because this wasn’t about answers — not right now.

It was about watching patterns. And every one of Damian’s patterns had changed.

And that scared him.

Chapter Text

When Tim stepped back into the living room, no one noticed at first.

The movie was still playing, half-watched and mostly ignored now that Damian had left. Stephanie was scrolling on her phone, pretending not to glance toward the hallway. Dick had one elbow on the arm of the couch, staring blankly at the screen. Cass sat cross-legged on the floor, her eyes tracking every movement.

Tim crossed the room and leaned down toward Alfred, who stood at the edge of the room with a folded blanket in his arms — the ever-watchful shadow of comfort and order in the manor.

“Alfred,” Tim said quietly, voice just above a whisper.

The butler turned instantly, gaze sharp. “Yes, Master Timothy?”

“It’s Damian,” Tim said. “He’s in the hallway bathroom. He… he’s throwing up.”

The room stilled. No one spoke — but everyone heard.

Alfred’s face didn’t change much, but his hands folded the blanket tighter, fingers suddenly tense. “I see. Thank you.”

He moved swiftly toward the hallway, not with panic but with purpose. Controlled, efficient — but urgent.

The movie kept playing.

No one watched it now.

Tim sat down on the edge of the couch. He didn’t say anything else, but the crease in his brow spoke volumes. He kept his hands clasped, elbows on his knees, eyes flicking toward the hallway every few seconds.

Dick was the first to speak.

“Did he say anything?”

Tim shook his head. “No. I followed. He didn’t know I was there.”

Stephanie pulled her legs up under her. “He was fine earlier today, wasn’t he? Cass? Duke?”

Cass nodded once, then signed:
[Acted fine. Not fine.]

Duke added quietly, “He was trying hard. That’s all I’ll say.”

Silence returned as the sound of Alfred’s footsteps faded down the hall.

Bruce hadn’t moved from his spot near the fireplace. He’d been listening — of course he had — but now his jaw was tight, and his hands were clasped behind his back, the way they always were when he didn’t know what to do yet.

He hated not knowing.

They all did.

A soft noise echoed from down the hall — maybe a knock on the bathroom door, maybe not.

The rest of the family didn’t get up. Not because they didn’t care. But because Alfred was there. And when Alfred was there, you waited.

Cass finally shifted, watching Bruce.

“Do we… think it’s stress?” Steph asked.

“No,” Tim said before he could stop himself. Then softer, “Maybe. Not just that.”

There was something else going on. Something none of them had figured out yet. But they all felt it — just out of reach, sitting like a stone in the middle of the room, too quiet to name.

Duke rubbed the back of his neck. “When he was in the garden, he kept checking his pulse. Or maybe his temperature. Something like that.”

Cass signed:
[Touch made him flinch.]

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, just slightly.

Stephanie curled her arms around her knees. “So… something’s going on. And he’s not telling us.”

No one disagreed.

Because the thing was… when Damian Wayne stopped talking, it wasn’t because he had nothing to say.

It was because something was too big to say out loud.

Chapter Text

Alfred approached the closed bathroom door with quiet, deliberate steps. He paused just before knocking, listening to the heavy stillness behind it — not the kind that comes from absence, but the kind that follows pain someone doesn’t want witnessed.

He knocked, soft and precise.

“Master Damian,” he said gently, voice calm as a rippleless sea. “It’s Alfred.”

Silence.

Then a sound — faint movement on the other side. And, at last, the door unlock. It creaked open just a few inches.

Damian stood there, barely — pale, damp at the hairline, dark circles under his eyes. His breathing was shallow, his expression slack. But his eyes met Alfred’s with the quiet awareness of someone trying very hard to stay composed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, barely audible.

“No apology is necessary,” Alfred murmured. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Damian nodded, almost imperceptibly.

He didn’t resist the hand Alfred placed gently against his back as they walked the hall. No words. No objections. Just tired steps echoing down the manor corridors, heavy with something unspoken.

They passed the family in the living room — all eyes turning, concern etched in silence.

Alfred met their gazes briefly and gave a small, subtle shake of his head. Not now. Let the boy breathe.

He led Damian up the stairs and into his dimly lit bedroom. The lamp on the bedside table cast a soft amber glow, washing the corners with warmth.

Damian sat on the edge of the bed without prompting.

Alfred straightened the blanket at the foot of the bed. “Try to rest tonight,” he said softly. “Your body needs it.”

Damian didn’t respond. But when Alfred gently touched his shoulder and guided him to lie back, he didn’t resist either.

Alfred pulled the blanket over him with careful precision, not too tight, not too heavy. Just secure enough to feel safe.

“I’ll bring you tea in the morning,” he said. “And check in after sunrise.”

Damian blinked slowly, already halfway between exhaustion and sleep. “Alright.”

Alfred lingered for a moment, making sure Damian’s breathing began to steady. Then, quietly, he turned off the lamp and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

---

Downstairs, the air had shifted.

All eyes turned to Alfred as he reentered the living room — Bruce, Cass, Tim, Dick, Stephanie, Duke.

“He is unharmed,” Alfred said plainly. “Exhausted, certainly. Sick. Withdrawn. But he allowed me to help him. He is in bed now and will sleep.”

Cass relaxed only a fraction. Tim’s eyes darted toward the hallway again. Stephanie curled her arms tighter around her legs.

“Did he say anything?” Dick asked.

“No.” Alfred’s tone was calm. “But sometimes words are not needed to understand that something is weighing on a person.”

Bruce’s jaw was tight, but he nodded. Quiet acceptance.

Alfred folded his hands in front of him.

“I shall check on him again in the morning,” he said. “For now, allow him rest.”

And with that, he left the room — leaving the Batfamily to sit with their fears, their guesses, and the quiet dread that whatever Damian wasn’t saying… it was already changing everything.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Damian submitted to a full examination with barely a word of protest.

Dr. Thompkins ran her usual battery of tests at the manor — bloodwork, vitals, reflexes, scans. Bruce hovered quietly in the background, arms crossed, gaze flicking from the monitor to Damian’s expressionless face.

Everything came back normal.

No internal damage. No signs of infection or trauma. No bruises. No fever.

Healthy.

And yet… not right.

He said little. Answered what he needed to. Eyes slightly unfocused, like he wasn’t entirely grounded in the room.

When asked if he felt pain, he shook his head.

When asked if he remembered getting sick the night before, he simply said, “Not really.”

---

Week One

Stephanie watched Damian carefully over the breakfast table.

He still took his seat at the same time. Still drank tea with that perfectly straight posture. But something was… off.

For starters, his plate was different. Damian, who once refused “processed starch” with an expression of disgust, was now eating toast.

Plain toast.

No muttering about refined flour. No snide comments about cholesterol or "wasting calories."

Just… quietly eating.

Steph stared as he took a slow bite, as if trying to convince himself it was food. He noticed her watching and looked up. Not defensive — not irritated — just… blank.

“…You good?” she asked carefully.

“I’m fine.”

The lie was neat. Clean. Practiced.

She didn’t push. Not yet.

---

Week Two

Cass sat beside him in the garden. No mission today. No patrol. Just sun and grass and space.

Damian was sketching in a notebook. She watched his hands — slower than usual. Less sharp. His grip on the pencil was careful, like he was overthinking it.

Cass didn’t speak.

She signed, "You okay?"

Damian paused his sketch. Nodded once.

Then added, "Just tired."

She didn’t press.

But when he reached for the glass of water beside him, his fingers twitched like they were colder than they should be. She noticed. He noticed that she noticed.

Still, neither said anything.

---

Week Three

Tim saw it in the way Damian avoided touching people.

He always had a preference for space, sure. But this was different.

At the cave terminal, Tim had handed him a report. Their fingers brushed.

Damian flinched. A fraction of a second, a blink — but Tim saw it.

Not from fear. From something else. Like the contact had burned or chilled him too much. His skin was always cold now.

He wore more layers, even indoors. Thicker shirts. Hoodies. Sometimes gloves.

Tim made a note of it in his own mental file. Said nothing out loud.

Yet.

---

Week Four

Dick watched him in the training room.

Damian still trained every other morning, alone or with Bruce. He still followed the forms. Still struck the dummies with precision.

But something had changed.

His movements were slower, more measured — like he was conserving energy. Or like he was balancing something delicate inside himself.

He used to be fire: sharp, aggressive, tightly controlled.

Now? He moved like he was trying not to spill.

And for the first time in a long time, Damian asked to end training early.

“Stomach ache,” he said.

Dick nodded. But the way Damian touched his abdomen — not painful, but protective — didn’t escape him.

---

12 weeks later

Duke saw him walking the halls late one night, barefoot, hoodie drawn over his head, silent as a ghost.

He didn’t stop Damian. Just nodded as they passed.

Damian nodded back.

It wasn’t awkward. But it was strange.

This new version of Damian wasn’t angry. Wasn’t defensive. He didn’t snap or growl or bark at them anymore. But he also didn’t talk much. Didn’t push.

It was like he was shrinking inward. Like he was trying not to be noticed — but still needed to stay close.

Present, but removed.

---

They each saw it, in their own ways:

Bruce, in the way Damian stared too long at nothing.

Cass, in the way his silences got heavier.

Tim, in the changes to his eating and temperature.

Steph, in his forced calm.

Dick, in the loss of fire.

Duke, in the quiet wandering.

Each member watched him try — try to act normal. To do chores. To train. To eat.

To sit through family movie nights.

He’d laugh sometimes. A tiny chuckle. He’d answer questions. He’d nod when spoken to. But it was like watching someone wear a mask of who they used to be.

And no one knew yet what he was hiding underneath.

But they all felt the truth:

Something had happened.

Something was still happening.

And Damian wasn’t ready to speak it out loud.

Chapter Text

The examination meant nothing.

They couldn’t measure cold burning from the inside out, or the phantom ache of something ancient coiled beneath his ribs.

So Damian nodded. Cooperated. Pretended.

Healthy. That’s what they wanted to hear.

He gave it to them.

---

Week One

He tried toast.

It sat like lead in his stomach. But he chewed and swallowed and didn’t complain.

Stephanie stared at him like she was expecting a snide remark.

He didn’t have the energy for one.

He told himself he was conserving strength. That it was a strategic adjustment to a shifting physiology. Nothing more.

It wasn’t weakness.

It was containment.

---

Week Two

The cold was getting worse.

Not on the surface — no frostbite, no shivers. But inside. Beneath the skin. Like a glacier had bloomed inside his chest, and every heartbeat had to push around ice.

Sometimes, if someone brushed against him too long, they flinched. Too cold.

He started wearing long sleeves. Layers. Gloves when he could get away with it.

Cass sat beside him and didn’t say anything. Signed gently.

“You okay?”

“Just tired,” he signed back.

It was close enough to the truth.

---

Week Three

His body moved differently now. Training revealed it most clearly.

Balance had shifted. Center of gravity lower. Strength flickered at odd intervals. Like some days his core burned with excess, and others it was hollow.

He trained alone more.

Father watched him, silent, when he bowed out early.

He hated the pity in that silence. But worse was the not knowing.

Because none of them did.

Not yet.

---

He hadn’t told them about Danny.

Not the rooftop. Not the light. Not the heat. Not the cold. Not the boy’s name. Not the promise.

“Take care of it,” Danny had said, as his body unraveled into light.

“Protect it.”

And Damian had agreed. Before he even understood.

Before his body had started to change.

---

He’d been reading.

Researching. Ancient texts. Cult scripts. Stories of vessels. Spirit cores. Dormant energy and soul merging.

Incubation. That was the word Danny used.

It felt wrong. But it was accurate.

There was something growing inside him. Not a child. Not yet. But something sacred and volatile, and it was his to protect.

---

He didn’t flinch because he was scared.

He flinched because it hurt. The contact. The unexpected heat of others when the core was icy and unstable.

But they didn’t know that.

They saw his silence, his new clothes, his changed appetite, and they assumed.

And he let them.

Because this — whatever this was — was too strange, too heavy, too not human to explain.

Not yet.

---

Week Four

He caught Tim watching him again.

Tim always watched when he thought no one noticed. Observant. Calculating.

He’d follow him eventually. He already had, once.

Damian filed it away.

He didn’t want them worried. But he also couldn’t lie much longer. Not as this… presence grew stronger inside him.

He could feel it at night now — a pulse that wasn’t his own. A pressure in his stomach like a heartbeat made of ice and light.

He placed a hand there sometimes, over his abdomen, and whispered apologies.

He didn’t know if Danny could still hear him.

But he hoped.

---

12 weeks later

They’d all noticed.

He saw it in their eyes, the quiet fear. The way they whispered when they thought he couldn’t hear. The way Cass watched his hands. The way Duke lingered nearby without speaking.

They knew something had happened.

They just didn’t know what.

And maybe, tomorrow, he’d tell them.

Maybe.

But not tonight.

Tonight he just lay in bed, eyes on the ceiling, hand over his stomach.

And whispered:

"You’re safe. I promise."

Chapter Text

Damain takes a shower.

The steam clung to the mirror.

Hot water always helped lately — helped his limbs relax, helped chase the frost from his skin. He didn’t stay long in showers anymore, though. The heat left him dizzy, off-balance.

He dried off in silence, stepping out carefully, dragging the towel over his face. He caught his reflection by accident.

And froze.

The mirror had cleared just enough. The lighting was soft — dimmed, warm. But his eyes went immediately to his torso.

His stomach…
It wasn’t flat anymore.

Not bloated. Not obvious. Just — fuller. A barely-there curve, like tension held under skin.

He stared.
Brow furrowed.
Towel forgotten.

It wasn’t fat. He trained daily. Controlled his diet. He knew his body with military precision. There was no mistake. This wasn’t softness.

It was change.

And it was real.

---

His fingers moved on instinct, brushing against the curve just above his navel. Cool skin. No pain. But something… shifted, deep beneath the muscle. A pressure. Not movement, not yet — but presence.

The ghost core.

Danny’s core.

Life.

He stepped back, heart hammering. His mouth opened, closed. He didn’t know what he was trying to say.

Was it revulsion?

No. Not quite.

Fear?

Yes. Maybe. But not for himself.

He gripped the counter, staring down at the marble, breathing through clenched teeth.

He wasn’t ready.
He wasn’t ready.

He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t expected… any of this. Danny hadn’t even warned him what this would feel like — the shift in temperature, the sickness, the weight. The subtle changes in instinct.

He was just a vessel.
A protector.
But now… it was more.

It wasn’t just responsibility.

It was creation.

His jaw clenched. The towel was damp in his fists. And yet, he didn’t move.

His thoughts were a whirl of contradictions:
I can’t do this.
I have to do this.
This isn’t right.
This is my duty.
This is not who I am.
This is exactly who I must be.

---

He looked at himself again. At the curve.

It was so small.

So quiet.

So alive.

“I don’t know how to feel,” he whispered to the mirror. “I don’t know what you are.”

And to his own surprise — his voice cracked.

“But I know I’ll protect you.”

Even if he didn’t know how.

Even if he still wasn’t sure whether this made him a guardian… or a prisoner.

Chapter Text

Damian wasn’t eating more — at first.

He was simply… hungrier. Small things. Extra toast in the morning. A full glass of milk instead of half. A second helping of rice at dinner, and finishing it without his usual quiet disapproval of "pointless carbs."

But by week five, it was obvious.

He needed the calories. Desperately. No matter how much he trained, how light he tried to keep his meals, the hunger returned sharper than before. He started raiding the fridge at night, quiet as he could — not because he was hiding it, but because he didn’t want to be asked why.

---

Tim noticed first.

Not because of the food — but because Damian almost snapped at him over a missing fork.

“Use another,” Tim had said absently.

Damian had glared at him like he’d insulted his ancestors, muttered something in Arabic under his breath, and left the room with the plate untouched.

It wasn’t the anger that struck Tim. It was the way Damian’s eyes had looked — wet, confused, furious and embarrassed.

---

Stephanie noticed next.

She didn’t comment on the eating. But during movie night, when Damian curled up in the corner of the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a thick blanket — silent, still, distant — she stared longer than the others.

He didn’t yell when someone brushed against him this time.

He just… pulled away. Quietly.

---

Cass noticed the way he sat with his arms crossed more.

How he wore hoodies now, even in the warmth of the manor. She could see it — not shame exactly, but protection. Covering. Guarding.

The sharp lines of his body had softened. Slightly.

Barely.

But enough for her to notice the difference.

---

Even Duke, busy with school and patrols, caught the changes. Damian was quieter. He didn’t argue as much. Didn’t glare as often. But when Duke had made a joke at dinner about someone eating all the cookies, Damian’s shoulders had tensed.

He didn’t speak.

He just stood up, left the room, and didn’t come back for dessert.

---

It was subtle.

The weight gain wasn’t dramatic — just enough to round his cheeks, soften his waist beneath his black sweatshirts, and make his usual posture seem a little heavier.

But it wasn’t just his body.

It was his mood.

He cried once — quietly, quickly, in the back hallway after hearing a song Alfred played on the piano. He covered it well. Wiped his face before anyone saw.

But the emotion was always right there now. Close to the surface. Irritation. Sadness. Confusion.

Like his instincts were shifting out from under him, and he didn’t know how to balance.

---

They were watching him. He knew that. His siblings. His father. Alfred.

They didn’t speak of it.

Not directly.

But he could feel their concern whenever he entered a room. The subtle hush in their voices. The way they paused when he reached for a third biscuit.

He hated it.

But he didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.

His body was no longer only his.

Something inside him was growing.

And he couldn’t stop it.
Only protect it.
Whatever it would become.

Chapter Text

Damian stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, dressed in black — hoodie, pants, sleeves tugged past his wrists like always. But he didn’t look away this time.

He let himself see it.

The faint curve at his middle. The shift in his face. The weight he carried differently now — not as armor or training, but something else.

Something alive.

For weeks, he’d felt adrift. Distant. Waiting. For the nausea to pass. For the guilt to fade. For his family to stop looking at him like they were one wrong word from breaking him.

But this morning was different.

He’d woken up… calm.

Still afraid. Still unsure. But underneath the confusion, there was something clear and steady humming in his chest.

Resolve.

He knew what he had to do now.

The whispers in his head — Danny’s last words, the cold flicker of the core, the constant ache in his stomach — had finally settled into clarity.

This wasn't something he could hide forever.

And maybe… he didn’t want to.

He didn’t want his siblings to keep watching him like glass.

Didn’t want Alfred quietly changing meals to match his cravings without comment. Or his father stiffening every time he entered a room, like he was bracing for something broken.

They thought someone had hurt him.

They were wrong.

And they deserved to know why.

---

He exhaled slowly, drawing his shoulders back.

He wasn’t going to ask for their approval. He didn’t need their protection. But they deserved the truth. And the child growing inside him — the fragment of something left behind, something powerful and strange — deserved a family that understood what it was, and why it mattered.

Tonight.

At dinner.

He would tell them.

Whatever came after… he would face it.

Because he wasn’t afraid of their judgment.

He was afraid of lying to them.

And if they loved him — really loved him — they would listen.

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor — Late Morning

Damian found Alfred in the study, polishing a tray in the quiet sunbeam that cut across the antique carpet.

The old man looked up instantly when the boy entered, always attuned, always watchful. “Master Damian,” Alfred greeted, offering a small, familiar smile. “You’re up early.”

Damian hesitated only a moment before speaking. “I want to request a family dinner,” he said evenly, voice low but steady. “Tonight. Everyone. No exceptions.”

Alfred’s hand slowed against the silver tray.

He looked Damian over once — the pulled shoulders, the worn hoodie sleeves, the faint tension at his jaw — and gave a soft, measured nod. “I’ll see to it.”

Damian didn’t elaborate.

He simply turned and left the room.

---

Midday — Notifications Sent

Alfred’s quiet message reached every member of the family through the usual channels: “Family dinner. Mandatory. 7 PM sharp.”

That was all it said.

But that was all it needed to say.

---

Tim

Tim blinked at the message, then sat frozen at his desk, half a spreadsheet open on one screen, half a crime scene photo on the other.

Family dinner. Mandatory.

That meant something had changed. After weeks of subtle distance and thick, unspoken dread, Damian was ready to talk.

Tim didn’t know if he was ready to hear it.

His gut twisted.

He closed his laptop.

---

Stephanie

Steph groaned when her comm buzzed, until she saw the message. Then she sat up straighter.

“Finally,” she murmured.

She’d been waiting for weeks — hoping Damian would say something, anything. He’d barely looked her in the eye since that night on the couch. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the worst… but she couldn’t keep pretending he was okay.

She texted Cass.

You see this?

Cass replied with one word:
Yes.

---

Jason

Jason was silent for a long time after reading the notification.

He’d been the one to find Damian, after all.

The image of him — curled on that rooftop, uniform torn, unconscious and vulnerable in a way Jason never wanted to see again — still clawed at the back of his mind.

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“He’s finally gonna say it,” he muttered.

And a part of him hated that they’d have to hear it out loud.

---

Duke

Duke reread the message twice.

He wasn’t sure what Damian would say, but… he had a bad feeling it would confirm everything they feared.

His stomach turned.

But he’d show up. Of course he would. Damian deserved support — especially now.

He just hoped the kid wouldn’t shut down the second they asked how bad it was.

---

Barbara & Dick

Barbara frowned when she got the message, sitting next to Dick in the Clocktower. He read it over her shoulder and immediately stood up, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You think this is it?” she asked quietly.

Dick’s expression was unreadable.

“If it is… he’s ready.”

But his voice was tight.

Because they weren’t.

---

Bruce

Bruce had known something was coming.

Still, when Alfred told him quietly in the cave that Damian had requested a full family dinner, Bruce felt something in his chest lock into place.

There would be no more waiting.

No more assumptions.

No more avoiding what happened.

He stood there for a long time after Alfred left, the glow of the Batcomputer flickering against his jaw.

His son was going to speak.

And Bruce only hoped he was strong enough to hear it.

---

Evening approached. The table was set. The family gathered.

No one said it aloud, but every chair felt heavier than usual.

They were ready for answers.

And none of them expected the truth that was coming.

Chapter Text

The dining room was painfully quiet.

Plates clinked gently. Silverware scraped softly against fine china. Alfred had made something comforting — roasted chicken, vegetables, warm rolls — but the food sat mostly untouched.

Everyone was here.

Tim glanced up, eyes darting to Damian and away again. Steph pushed her peas around. Duke tried to keep his face neutral. Cass sat beside him, calm but observant, quietly watching Damian’s every move.

Damian, meanwhile, sat perfectly straight in his seat, his hands folded in his lap, barely touching his food. He wasn’t glaring. He wasn’t scowling. He was... quiet. Too quiet.

Bruce sat at the head of the table, elbows on the wood, watching his son without speaking.

The air was thick. Bracing.

Like everyone was waiting for a storm to hit.

Finally, halfway through the meal, Damian’s fork stilled. He didn’t look up. “I… meant to speak during dinner,” he said quietly.

Everyone froze.

“But—” he continued, voice steady but not cold, “I would prefer to finish eating first. Then I’ll say what I came to say.”

A beat passed.

Bruce gave a single, small nod.

“Of course.”

No one objected.

The rest of the meal passed in fragile silence.

---

Thirty Minutes Later – Wayne Manor Living Room

The room was dimly lit. A quiet fire crackled. The whole family had relocated — spreading out on the couches and chairs, leaving Damian standing across from them, near the hearth.

He hadn’t sat down.

He kept his arms crossed, posture tighter than usual — like he needed to hold something in or hold something together.

The Batfamily watched him with unreadable expressions.

Bruce sat forward slightly. Jason leaned against the armrest. Cass stood nearby, unreadable. Tim sat stiffly beside Steph. Duke crossed his arms but stayed open.

And Damian finally spoke.

“There was someone on the rooftop,” he said finally, voice soft but steady. “The night I was found.”

No one moved.

“He was hurt. Badly. I didn’t recognize him. But… he looked Scared. He asked for help.”

Damian swallowed, gaze fixed on the carpet.

“He gave me something. I didn’t understand what it was. Not at the time. I didn’t ask questions. I just… said yes.”

Steph let out a shaky breath.

Jason’s jaw clenched.

Tim didn’t blink.

“I didn’t know what he would do to me,” Damian said. “I didn’t know how to handle it. So I hid it. I told no one.”

He looked up, eyes tired. “I thought… Maybe it wouldn’t matter.”

A pause.

“But it did.”

The room felt frozen.

Bruce leaned forward slightly, brows furrowed in barely-contained alarm.

“What did he give you?” he asked cautiously.

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t have the words for it. Not the real ones. But… the closest thing I can say…”

He hesitated.

Then, finally:

“…is that I’m pregnant.”

The words hit the room like glass shattering.

No one breathed.

Not at first.

Steph’s hand flew to her mouth. Duke blinked, stunned. Tim flinched like the breath had been knocked out of him. Jason stared, not comprehending. Barbara leaned forward slowly, processing.

Bruce looked stricken. Not from anger — but something deeper. Protective. Alarmed. Grief, even, for what his son had kept hidden for so long.

“I understand now,” Damian said softly. “I didn’t then, but I do now.

He looked at each of them, eyes hard with conviction.

“I’m not asking for opinion. I’m telling you what’s happening.”

The fire popped behind him.

Silence reigned.

Then Bruce stood up slowly and walked toward him — not reaching, not forcing.

Just... standing close.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

Damian didn’t speak. He just nodded, jaw tight, blinking once against the burning behind his eyes.

And this time, when he sat down, he didn’t brace himself.

He let himself rest.

---

The silence after Damian’s confession had stretched long — not uncomfortable, but heavy. The kind of silence where everyone was trying to breathe again. Trying to think again.

Trying to catch up.

Damian sat on the edge of the couch now, his shoulders no longer squared like armor. Bruce was still nearby, standing protectively, but letting the moment breathe. Alfred stood quietly in the archway, ever steady.

Dick finally broke the silence, his voice soft — gentle in a way only an older brother could manage.

“Dames…”

Damian looked at him, eyes calm, but wary.

“…How far along are you?”

For a moment, Damian didn’t speak.

Then, in a move that startled them all with its quiet finality, he reached for the zipper of his hoodie.

Slowly, he tugged it down.

The fabric fell open.

Underneath, a plain black T-shirt clung faintly to the curve of his abdomen. It wasn’t obvious at first glance — but now, in the warm living room light, there was no denying it. A small, rounded swell that hadn't been there before. The beginnings of something that could no longer be ignored.

Every breath in the room caught.

Steph’s eyes widened. Tim looked stunned, as if the visual had hit harder than the words. Jason blinked and leaned back slightly, jaw tight. Duke sat forward, hands clasped, eyes locked on the small curve in quiet disbelief.

Cass didn’t move, but her expression softened — gently, deeply.

Bruce stared.

Not with judgment. Not with fear.

But with something quieter. Something heavier.

Understanding.

Damian zipped the hoodie back up without saying anything, tugging it closed like it was armor again — but not angrily. Just… protecting.

“I started noticing about a month ago,” he said quietly, almost more to himself. “The sickness. The appetite. The weight.”

He looked down at his hands, thumb brushing his palm.

“I didn’t know how to explain it. Not without… everything.”

Another silence passed.

Dick cleared his throat, his voice thick. “You don’t have to tell us everything now, okay? Just… thank you. For trusting us with this.”

Damian didn’t respond, but the faintest nod answered him.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

“I’m going to bed.”

Damian’s voice was soft, distant. His hoodie hung loose over his frame, the faint curve beneath it now unmistakable. But his face gave nothing away — no anger, no tears. Just exhaustion.

“You can talk without me. I know you’ll need to.”

Damian had barely left the living room when the silence collapsed in on itself.

The door clicked softly behind him. His footsteps disappeared down the hallway. And for a few suspended seconds, the Batfamily sat frozen.

Then—

Stephanie choked on a breath.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and the tears she had been holding back all through dinner burst free. She stood up too fast, knocking her chair back, and turned away from the others, pressing her face into her hands as silent sobs wracked her shoulders.

Tim looked helpless.

Dick had gone pale during Damian’s confession — the kind of pale he got when adrenaline crashed. Now, with Damian gone and the weight of what he’d said finally settling in, Dick stumbled to the side and collapsed into a crouch on the floor.

His hands gripped his hair, his shoulders shaking as he doubled over.

“God,” he whispered, voice cracking. “God, he’s just a kid…”

Cass sat still. Still and trembling.

Duke stared ahead, stunned, processing every word Damian had said. His hands were curled tightly into fists in his lap. He didn’t even realize he was shaking until Barbara put a hand on his shoulder, her own face drawn and pale.

Jason stood behind the couch, unmoving, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. He hadn't spoken once during the entire confession — and still didn’t now.

Then Bruce—

Bruce swayed where he stood.

His hand gripped the back of Damian’s chair like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

He hadn’t said anything since his son had left. Not one word.

Now, his breath hitched.

He sucked in air, like someone drowning.

“He thinks… he thinks he agreed to it,” Bruce said hoarsely. “He thinks it was his fault.”

That broke something in the room.

Stephanie turned back around, still crying, voice high and raw. “He would think that—because he’s Damian. He always thinks he has to be in control—he always blames himself for everything.”

Dick was still on the floor. “He didn’t even cry. He just said it like—like it was normal.”

Tim finally spoke, quiet and sick. “He said there was someone on the roof. That they gave him something. He didn’t even name them.”

“He’s hiding the worst parts,” Jason said darkly. “He’s protecting whoever did this. Or protecting us.”

Bruce didn’t move.

“He kept it to himself for a month,” Barbara whispered. “Planning. Trying to manage it alone. We kept thinking he was just… distant. But he was scared. Pregnant. Alone.”

“We failed him,” Cass signed, hands trembling.

Bruce looked like he’d been hollowed out.

“No,” he said finally, voice a low rasp. “We don’t get to break yet.”

He straightened. The grief, the guilt—it didn’t vanish. It burned behind his eyes. But something else settled over his features now:

Resolve.

“Damian told us because he’s ready to stop hiding,” Bruce said. “Which means we need to start protecting him better and watch over him more efficiently.”

The room was still, save for the sound of quiet tears.

Then slowly—painfully—they nodded.

No more guessing. No more hesitation.

Their little brother needed them.

Chapter Text

The door clicked softly behind him as Damian stepped into his room.

For a long moment, he just stood there in the dim light, the muffled hum of conversation still echoing faintly from downstairs. He didn’t bother turning on the main light. The warm amber glow from his bedside lamp was enough.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. His fingers shook — not from fear, exactly, but from everything else. Nerves. Fatigue. The sheer weight of what he’d done.

He told them.

Not everything. Not the whole truth. But enough. The part that mattered.

They knew now. About the pregnancy. About that day. About how he hadn’t known what to do, so he hid it. About how long he’d carried the secret alone.

And he hadn’t broken. He hadn’t crumbled.

He was still here.

Damian slipped off his hoodie and set it carefully on the back of a chair. Then he paused and looked down at himself in the mirror. The slight curve of his stomach was visible beneath the shirt now. Barely. But to him, it was everything.

He brushed his hand over it — a light touch, cautious. Still strange. Still surreal.

He hadn’t wanted this. Not like this. But it was real. It was his.

He changed into sleep clothes slowly, methodically. Like if he kept his movements measured, his mind would stay steady too. His body ached faintly — more from stress than anything else — but the cold edge of nausea had finally started to retreat.

He sat on the edge of the bed and let his eyes drift toward the window. Gotham’s night sky stretched wide and dark, dotted with the occasional glimmer of city light.

They know.

That truth kept repeating in his head. He felt the weight of it settle over him again, but lighter now — not as sharp. He wasn’t hiding anymore.

He didn’t know how they were processing it. He didn’t know what they would say tomorrow. But none of them yelled. None of them left.

That had to mean something.

He pulled back the blankets and slid beneath them, letting his body sink into the mattress with a quiet exhale. His eyes traced the ceiling. The shadows there. The silence.

I did the right thing, he thought. Even if they don’t understand… even if I don’t…

He let the thought drift off. His eyelids felt heavy. His body was still on edge, but something in his chest had loosened.

Maybe tomorrow would be hard. Maybe the rest of this would be harder.

But he’d told the truth.

And tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The morning sun slanted through the Wayne Manor windows, painting the marble floors gold. The manor was quiet, but not with peace — with tension. A silence full of too many thoughts, too many feelings.

In the dining room, breakfast was laid out like always. Alfred moved with his practiced calm, placing tea at Bruce’s side, refilling coffee for Tim, warming pastries. But even Alfred’s silence was heavier than usual — more watchful.

Then Damian entered.

Not in a hoodie. Not in layered clothes meant to obscure.

He wore a soft black shirt and fitted sweatpants, and his growing bump was unmistakable now. Small, but no longer something he could deny. Or hide. He didn’t try to.

Conversations stopped when he walked in.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

But instead of retreating or snapping, Damian simply pulled out a chair and sat at the table. Quietly. Calmly.

“I’d like tea,” he said to Alfred, voice level.

Alfred nodded, pouring it with care. “Of course, Master Damian.”

One by one, the others resumed their efforts to act normal.

Dick offered a too-bright smile. “You sleep alright?”

Damian gave him a look. “Well enough.”

Jason muttered a “Morning,” without looking up from his coffee, though his jaw was tight. He hadn’t stopped clenching his fists since Damian walked in.

Duke grabbed the jam and held it toward Damian. “Want some?”

Damian blinked once, then nodded. “Thank you.”

Even Cass gave him a faint smile from across the table, though her eyes lingered on his form longer than anyone else’s. She signed softly: You okay?

Damian gave a slight nod in return.

But the weight of what had been said last night hung over the table like fog.

Bruce hadn’t taken his eyes off Damian since he sat down. Not with suspicion, not with fear. With something deeper. Protective. Wounded.

Damian noticed.

He pushed his toast around his plate, eyes flicking upward.

“You’re all staring.”

Stephanie, eyes rimmed in red, forced a small laugh. “Sorry. Just—still wrapping our heads around everything.”

“I told you because I didn’t want to keep hiding it,” Damian said, eyes sharp but voice subdued. “That doesn’t mean I want to be treated like glass.”

“You’re not glass,” Jason said under his breath. “But you’re still—” He stopped himself, face twitching.

Damian met his gaze. “Still what?”

Jason didn’t answer.

Tim cut in gently, defusing. “Still you. That’s all that matters.”

Damian stared at him for a moment. Then, finally, gave a small nod and took a bite of toast.

---

After breakfast

Alfred was in the sitting room with a tea tray and a book when Damian found him. The butler glanced up, his gentle smile unwavering — the kind that didn’t ask questions but always noticed more than anyone else.

Damian didn’t hesitate.

From the pocket of his hoodie, he pulled out a neatly folded paper and held it out.

Alfred rose, accepted it without a word, and opened it slowly.

It was a list. Written in Damian’s sharp, precise handwriting. Practical. Specific. Thought-through.

Diapers. Bassinet. Bottles. Blankets. Clothes — neutral colors. Supplements. Vitamins. Emergency contact cards. Breathable sleepwear. Anti-colic bottles. Room temperature thermometer. Baby monitors. Extra pillows. A copy of “Infant First Aid.”

At the bottom, it read simply:
"I’ve done the research. This is what we’ll need to start. There will be more later."

Alfred looked up, meeting Damian’s gaze.

“I started this the first day I returned to my room,” Damian said softly. “I… didn’t know when I would be ready. But I didn’t want to be unprepared.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Alfred, his voice gentle and filled with quiet pride, said, “Very good, Master Damian.”

Damian nodded once. “You’ll help me get them?”

“Of course.”

Alfred folded the list and tucked it into his inner pocket with the care of someone handling a fragile heirloom.

“You are not alone in this, my boy,” Alfred said, placing a warm hand on Damian’s shoulder. “You never have been.”

Damian didn’t speak. But he stood still beneath the hand, not pulling away.

And that, Alfred knew, meant everything.

.

Chapter Text

Later that morning, after Damian had gone to the training room to stretch — alone, but no longer hiding — Alfred entered the Batcave with his usual grace, but a firmer-than-usual purpose in his step.

Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Tim were grouped near the mission monitors, reviewing reports from the night before. They looked up as he descended the stairs, carrying a folded slip of paper and his usual calm expression.

“Master Bruce. Gentlemen,” Alfred greeted, then gave a subtle clearing of his throat — the kind that meant: listen closely.

“I’ve just had a brief conversation with Master Damian,” Alfred said. “He’s begun making preparations. There is a list. Items for the baby.”

He pulled the paper from his pocket and handed it to Bruce, who unfolded it slowly. The others leaned in.

It was meticulous — diapers, sleepwear, monitors, formula. Tiny, everyday things that somehow made it all real.

No one said anything for a long moment.

“He wrote this?” Jason asked, frowning slightly.

Alfred nodded. “He’s been planning since he returned to his room. He did not want to be unprepared.”

Tim swallowed hard. “That’s… very Damian.”

“I will be purchasing these today,” Alfred said. Then he fixed each of them with a look. “But I believe it would be better if we did.”

“You want us to come?” Dick asked, surprised.

“I want you to help,” Alfred said gently. “As his brothers."

A few beats passed in silence. Then Bruce gave a small, approving nod.

“…Alright,” Dick said, glancing at the list again. “Let’s go shopping.”

---

Later — Gotham City, Baby Supply Store

Jason held up two different pacifiers, scowling. “What the hell is the difference between anti-colic and orthodontic?”

“I don’t even know what colic is,” Tim muttered, staring at a shelf full of baby bottles in confusion.

Dick was checking labels on swaddles. “Is this bamboo fabric or just… aggressively overpriced?”

Bruce was standing at the cart with a short list in hand, frowning like this was a mission briefing gone rogue.

Alfred watched them all with mild amusement.

It had taken a few stores — and some heavy decision-making — but by the time the cart was full, something had shifted in all of them.

It wasn’t just about helping anymore. It was real now.

There was going to be a baby. Damian’s baby. And they were going to be uncles.

Jason was the first to say it out loud, loading a box of wipes into the cart.

“…We’re really gonna be uncles, huh.”

Dick blinked. “Yeah. We are.”

Tim looked over. “We’re gonna have a niece or nephew. Damian’s kid.”

Bruce didn’t say much. But his hands rested on the cart handle a little differently now. Steadier. Anchored.

“…We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly.

And they all nodded — because they meant it.

Chapter Text

Stephanie:

> You. Me. Cass. Babs. Pizza. Movies. Girl night. No Batboys allowed. You in?

Damian frowned at the screen. He was sitting on the manor’s back patio, the afternoon breeze rustling the trees in the distance. He hadn’t left the house in days, not since the family meeting.

He started typing a reply.

---

Stephanie’s apartment was warm and cozy, lit with string lights and the soft smell of vanilla candles and pizza grease. It was… not unpleasant.

Damian stepped inside, stiff and uncertain, still tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie.

“Shoes off,” Stephanie ordered playfully, pointing. “Belly out. Time to chill.”

“I do not understand what that means,” Damian deadpanned, stepping out of his boots.

Barbara grinned from the couch. “Translation: get comfortable. Cass made cookies.”

Cass waved from the kitchen with a tray of still-warm chocolate chip cookies, and signed:
You’re safe here.

Damian blinked at her, unsure what to say — but the tension in his shoulders loosened just slightly. He nodded once and moved to the couch.

Stephanie flopped into a beanbag, handing him a pillow for his lap like it was a rite of passage. Cass sat beside him and tucked her feet under her. Barbara put down her laptop and gave him a look of measured calm.

“So…” Stephanie began between bites of cheesy bread, “Little bat-baby on the way. That’s… kind of a lot.”

“I’m aware,” Damian said, his voice even.

“You doing okay with that?”

He paused, hand unconsciously resting on his stomach. “I’m figuring it out.”

“You’re doing better than most adults I know,” Barbara said kindly. “Seriously.”

“I just don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t,” Cass signed, gently nudging his side.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or girl yet?” Stephanie asked around a sip of soda.

Damian didn’t even hesitate. “It’s a boy.”

That surprised them — not the answer, but the certainty in his voice.

Stephanie blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yes,” Damian said, calm and matter-of-fact. “It’s a boy. I… just know.”

The girls exchanged soft smiles.

“Well,” Steph said with a teasing grin, “if a tiny girl pops out, we’re still painting everything pink.”

Cass signed with a quiet smirk:
Little niece in there causing chaos already.

Barbara chuckled. “God help us if she inherits your attitude and your sword skills.”

Damian rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He let the moment pass — warm and teasing and… strangely safe.

It wasn’t interrogation. It wasn’t suspicion. It was just them.

And for a while, he let himself just sit back and enjoy it.

Chapter Text

The manor was unusually quiet.

Stephanie had taken Damian out for the evening — “girls' night,” she'd declared with forced cheer, looping in Cass and Barbara. The boys were out on a light patrol, tension still clinging to their shoulders despite their best efforts to move on.

And Bruce stayed behind. Alone.

He wasn’t at the Batcomputer. Not in the training room. Not sifting through files or tending to another mission. Instead, he sat in the old study, untouched bourbon in his hand, staring into the fire.

It had been years since the manor felt this still.

Damian’s words echoed again and again in his mind:

> “I’m pregnant.”

And the image burned behind his eyes — the steady way his son had spoken, the quiet certainty in his posture, the slight swell he had revealed beneath the hoodie. Bruce had seen courage in the field a thousand times. But this had been something else.

This had been survival.

And Bruce had missed it. He had missed the signs. Again.

Just like he had with Dick, all those years ago.

He remembered the early days — a wide-eyed, grieving boy who clung to shadows and laughter both, too eager to please, too good at hiding the cracks in his heart. Bruce hadn’t known what to do with him then. Hadn’t known how to comfort a child whose world had been shattered. He’d given him structure, training, safety — but not always warmth. Not always the words.

He had done his best.

But it hadn’t always been enough.

Dick had cried alone some nights. Bruce had heard, once or twice, from behind the thick walls. And he’d stood outside that door, hands clenched at his sides, paralyzed with the belief that he wasn’t equipped to make it better.

He thought of that now.

Damian hadn’t cried, at least not in front of anyone. But Bruce had seen the silence in his eyes. The way he flinched at touch. The way he didn’t ask for help — because somewhere along the way, Bruce had taught him not to.

And now he was carrying a child. Bruce’s grandchild. Alone.

No — not anymore.

Bruce stared into the fire, the guilt in his chest sharp as a blade.

He would not let history repeat itself.

“I didn’t know how to protect Dick back then,” Bruce said aloud to the empty room, voice rough. “But I will protect you, Damian. You and that child.”

He didn’t know what that would look like yet. The world they lived in — their lives — were made of secrets, of enemies, of choices they could never take back. But if Damian was truly committed to raising this child… then Bruce would be committed to making sure neither of them ever had to face the dark alone again.

He stood, slowly, setting the untouched bourbon aside.

The fire cracked, warm and alive.

Some things, Bruce couldn’t fix. But he could show up. He could learn. He could listen.

He could be the father Damian needed now — not the soldier, not the symbol, not the mission.

Just Dad.

Chapter Text

The front doors of Wayne Manor creaked open, and the sounds of footsteps, rustling bags, and tired banter echoed in the grand entry hall.

“Okay, I’m officially sick of ducks and elephants,” Jason grunted, carrying two large shopping bags in one hand and a box labeled "Infant Bassinet – Assembly Required" in the other. “Why does everything have to be pastel?”

“Because murder-themed onesies don’t exist in baby stores,” Tim muttered, pulling off his scarf and tossing it on a chair. “Also, you picked out the one with tiny Batarangs on it.”

Jason smirked. “It was tasteful.”

Dick set a few bags down and cracked his back. “Where’s Damian?”

“Still out with the girls, I believe,” came Bruce’s voice as he descended the main stairs, his tie loose and sleeves rolled up. He looked tired but composed — the kind of quiet calm that often came after intense internal reflection.

“They took him to Stephanie’s place for a girls’ night,” he added. “They wanted to keep it light. Let him talk. Or not talk.”

“Was he okay when he left?” Tim asked.

Bruce paused. “He’s... quieter. But standing a little straighter.”

Jason let out a long breath and turned to Alfred, who had just arrived carrying a tray of water glasses like he had read their minds. “So what now?”

Alfred handed a glass to each of them before setting the tray down. “Now, sirs, we build.”

“Build?” Tim raised an eyebrow.

“A nursery,” Alfred said plainly. “One Damian will return to tonight. Something to show that he is not alone. That this family is already preparing for what he cannot do by himself.”

Jason blinked. “You want us to put together baby furniture. Like... a crib?”

Alfred tilted his head with all the patience of a saint. “Indeed. And organize the gifts you purchased, store the essentials, and perhaps hang those decorative stars Master Richard insisted on buying.”

“They were cute!” Dick defended.

Tim scratched the back of his neck. “Alright. If we’re doing this, we’ll need tools, and space.”

“The old nursery room,” Alfred said. “Third floor, east wing. Unused, but recently repainted by Miss Cassandra. I suggest you begin there.”

Bruce crossed his arms, gaze fixed on the group. “He’ll notice immediately when he comes home.”

“I hope he does,” Dick said. “He needs to know we’re with him.”

Tim gave a small nod. “Yeah. Uncle squad mode activated.”

Jason groaned as he grabbed his bags again. “I swear, if one of you makes me hold a crying baby at 3 AM, I’m moving to Blüdhaven.”

Alfred’s lips twitched. “Noted, Master Jason.”

As they made their way up the stairs, Bruce lingered for a moment, watching them go.

This family had been through hell in every shade — but now, watching his sons roll up their sleeves to build a room for a baby not yet born, something felt different.

For once, they weren’t just reacting to tragedy.

They were preparing for life.

Chapter Text

The movie was still playing in the background — some chaotic comedy Steph had insisted was “iconic,” even though half the jokes went over Damian’s head. Cass had curled up in one corner of the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and Stephanie sprawled on the floor, picking through a bowl of candy and chucking the red ones toward Damian with pinpoint accuracy.

He caught them without looking. Mostly.

But his mind wasn’t entirely in the room.

Damian leaned back, a throw pillow tucked under his elbow, hand resting absently on his stomach. The low hum of laughter from the TV and Steph’s occasional teasing grounded him, but his thoughts wandered far beyond.

What would he look like?

Danny.

The one growing inside him.

Would he have his shock-white hair? Or Damian’s dark, thick curls? Would his eyes glow green with a Lazarus light — or would they be sharp and forest green like his own?

He wasn’t sure how much of Danny had remained in that moment on the roof. The day everything had changed. He had offered to carry the core — to protect it. But how much of Danny had passed into him? How much of that ancient power — or gentleness — had taken root?

Would this child look like him?

Damian touched his belly more intentionally now. It wasn’t flat anymore. The curve was slight, but there — a reminder, a reality. Life was forming within him, drawing from him. His blood. His warmth. His strength.

That had to mean something.

“Tt...” he breathed quietly. “What would you look like?”

He didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud until Stephanie shifted on the floor and blinked up at him. “Huh?”

Damian blinked, startled. “Nothing.”

She gave him a look — the kind older siblings perfected. Not pushing, not prying… just there.

Cass slowly tilted her head, watching him with quiet attention. She signed, “Thinking?”

Damian nodded.

“Good thoughts?” she asked with a soft quirk of her brow.

He hesitated.

Then gave the smallest, briefest nod.

Cass smiled.

Stephanie stood and stretched, nudging Damian’s knee gently with her foot. “Let’s make hot chocolate. No more sad brooding. Doctor’s orders.”

“I am not—”

“Yes, you are. But we’re letting it slide.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but followed them toward the kitchen. The moment passed, but not forgotten.

Even as they laughed and argued over the correct ratio of cocoa to marshmallows, Damian’s hand hovered near his stomach — protective, wondering, maybe even a little hopeful.

Whatever the baby looked like, whatever he became…

Damian would be there.
And he’d be ready.

Chapter Text

Tim stepped back and surveyed the room with a satisfied huff.

“Okay,” he said, dropping the screwdriver into the toolbox. “Crib assembled. Mobile hung. Changing table secure. No one got electrocuted or lost a finger. I call that a win.”

Jason was perched on the window seat, arms crossed, a rare softness in his expression as he looked around. “I still can’t believe we did all this in one day.”

“It’s amazing what guilt and panic-fueled affection can accomplish,” Tim replied dryly.

Dick smiled, but there was a weight behind it. He leaned against the doorway, eyes trailing the soft green-and-gold accents that filled the room. A small dresser. Stuffed animals. Blankets neatly folded on a rocking chair. A nightlight shaped like a bat.

It was quiet. Warm. A safe space. A promise.

All the things they wanted Damian to feel again.

“This’ll be good for him,” Dick said finally, voice quiet. “Even if he doesn’t show it.”

Behind them, Duke finished putting up the last piece of art — a stylized painting of a robin perched protectively beside a tiny, white puff of a bird.

“Think he’ll like it?” he asked.

Jason snorted. “He’ll act like he doesn’t. But he’ll memorize every corner of this room before he even blinks.”

They were quiet for a moment.

Then Alfred stepped in, dusting his hands on a cloth and giving the room a slow nod of approval.

“Wonderful work, all of you,” he said. “It’s not easy to build a nursery in a single day — especially one done with this much care.”

Bruce came in behind him, arms crossed, jaw tight. Not in anger — just in the usual brooding way he held his emotions like armor.

He looked around, eyes lingering on each detail.

“I think he’ll appreciate it,” he said at last.

Jason looked over his shoulder. “So… we texting the girls, or what?”

Tim pulled out his phone. “Already did. Steph just texted back. They’re grabbing ice cream first, then heading back.”

Dick raised a brow. “Of course they are.”

Bruce’s lips twitched — barely.

Alfred cleared his throat with a small smile. “Let’s be ready to greet them, then. I imagine this surprise will be… quite the moment.”

As they all looked around the room one last time, the tension slowly eased.

This was something they could give him. A gesture. A space. A beginning.

Chapter Text

The manor door creaked open just before dusk. Laughter filtered through the entry hall—muted but real—as the girls returned with Damian in tow. Stephanie was still teasing him about the milkshake, her hand casually resting on his shoulder. Cass lingered close, quiet but protective, while Barbara slipped in last with an amused shake of her head.

Bruce was waiting in the hallway. Damian’s eyes met his briefly—tense, searching—but Bruce only nodded.

“You’re back. Good.”

Damian gave a tight nod in return, his expression unreadable. “Why are you all standing like that?”

Stephanie smirked, clearly trying to bite back excitement. “You'll see. Come on.”

Cass signed something quickly — Damian caught the word “gift” — and gestured toward the staircase.

He followed them reluctantly, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched.

He didn’t like surprises.

They led him up the stairs, past his room, to one of the spare bedrooms that hadn't been touched in months. As they stopped outside the door, Damian's hand twitched slightly at his side. He looked at them, eyes narrowed.

Tim opened the door slowly.

Damian took one step forward — then stopped.

His breath hitched so subtly it could’ve been missed. The room was warm and softly lit. Muted green walls. A mobile of stars above a wooden crib. A shelf of books. A rocking chair. Tiny, folded clothes in neutral colors. Everything neat. Everything ready.

Everything real.

His fingers curled faintly at his sides.

No one said a word.

Jason leaned on the window frame, watching him with careful eyes. Dick had his arms crossed, like he didn’t trust himself not to rush forward. Even Bruce was still — unusually so — not a single crease in his brow.

Damian took another step in.

His throat bobbed as he looked at the crib. His jaw tightened, his face unreadable but pale. He pressed his lips into a firm line, but the slight tremble in his fingers betrayed him.

“This was… you?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Tim nodded. “We wanted you to have something. For the baby. A place.”

Stephanie spoke up gently. “We figured you wouldn’t ask, so… we just did it.”

Damian didn’t respond. He stepped closer to the crib, running his fingers across the polished edge. His touch was light, careful — almost hesitant.

He blinked quickly.

Then again.

His arms stayed at his sides, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

But he didn’t turn away.

Duke stepped forward. “You okay, man?”

Damian gave the barest nod.

Jason glanced at the others before saying, carefully, “You don’t have to say anything, kid. We just want you to know we’re here.”

Damian finally exhaled. Shaky. Shallow. His eyes burned, but his face didn’t change. His spine stayed straight. He said nothing.

But then — after a pause — his voice came out, quiet and restrained:

“…Thank you.”

It was all he could manage.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

The Batfamily had left Damian by himself in the nursery, giving him space—though the unspoken tension still lingered in the air.

The soft light from the nightlight bathed the room in a warm amber hue. The mobile above the crib spun slowly, casting faint shadows on the wall. Damian stood in the doorway for a moment, arms folded tightly across his chest.

He stepped inside.

He approached the crib again, fingertips brushing the polished wood. His hand hovered over one of the small, folded onesies that dick had laid out earlier. Pale green. Tiny. So very small.

Damian sat down in the rocking chair beside the crib, the soft creak of the wood groaning under his weight. His posture was rigid at first—military precise. But slowly, inch by inch, he let himself sink into the cushions. One hand drifted to his stomach, resting there lightly, protectively.

He exhaled.

His face didn’t change, but his chest rose and fell in long, slow breaths. The kind of breathing that came from exhaustion—emotional more than physical.

He looked around the room. At the little bookshelf with picture books. The basket of soft stuffed animals. The folded blankets. His gaze settled back on the crib, and for a moment—just a moment—his expression softened.

His fingers twitched.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t smile. But he stayed. That was something.

His eyes dropped to his hand over his stomach. A flicker of uncertainty passed through his gaze. Would Danny come out fully formed—or as a baby? Would he emerge with memories or need to learn everything from the start? Would he come out the moment the core finished healing, or take longer to awaken?

Then, with effort, Damian stood. He glanced at the door, then back at the crib. His hand brushed the edge one last time.

He turned off the light on his way out, letting the door click shut behind him.

Chapter Text

Downstairs, the remaining members of the Batfamily gathered in the living room. The soft hum of the fireplace filled the silence.

Stephanie broke it first, eyes flicking toward the boys. “So. Girls’ night went… okay.”

Cass, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Duke, nodded in agreement. She signed something quick and subtle. Stephanie translated aloud, her voice quieter now.

“He was acting a little more normal.”

“He even smiled a little,” Barbara added from her place by the mantle. “Didn’t say much, but it was there.”

Tim sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Did he say anything about… it? About the baby?”

The room fell quiet again until Stephanie cleared her throat. “A little. Not directly. But when we asked about the gender—he said it’s a boy.”

There was a flicker of something between pride and heartbreak in Duke’s voice.

“And he asked… what the baby might look like,” Stephanie added, her tone more somber now. “He said it out loud, like he was wondering to himself. Whether he’d have black or white hair.”

Jason frowned deeply, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “So he is thinking about him.”

Bruce didn’t respond. He stood behind the couch, silent, but listening.

Tim spoke next, voice hesitant. “He asked that? About the baby’s appearance?”

Cass nodded.

Barbara’s expression tightened. “He’s imagining what the baby will look like. Whether the baby will look like him… or like whoever did this to him.”

Stephanie winced. “He didn't say it like that. But yeah. That’s what it felt like.”

Jason pushed off from where he was leaning. “He shouldn’t have to think about that. He shouldn’t be carrying this thing and wondering whether his kid’s going to have the eyes of someone who—” He cut himself off, jaw clenched.

“Jason,” Dick said quietly, but the warning lacked weight. His voice shook just a little.

“Does he… actually believe he agreed to this?” Duke asked carefully. “Like—mentally. Is that where he’s at?”

Barbara didn’t answer at first. Then: “I think it’s easier for him to believe that than face the alternative.”

Bruce’s hands were gripping the back of the couch now, knuckles white. “He’s rationalizing it. Rewriting the memory.”

“To cope,” Stephanie finished for him, her voice thick.

Cass signed slowly, eyes flicking to each of them before her fingers stopped. Stephanie spoke again for her.

“He loves the baby. That’s real.”

There was a long, weighted pause. The fire crackled.

Tim rubbed a hand down his face. “We’re going to have to be there for him when the truth hits. When the baby’s born. When the memories stop shifting to protect him.”

Jason stared into the flames, jaw tight. “We’ll be ready. For him. For the baby.”

Bruce said nothing.

But he stayed, unmoving—watching the flames like they held an answer he hadn’t found yet.

Chapter Text

The quiet hum of the Batcomputer was the only sound in the Cave, aside from the occasional rattle of Tim’s fingers against the keyboard. The screen lit his tired eyes, bloodshot from staring too long—rewinding, pausing, enhancing. He’d been here since everyone had gone to bed, long after Damian had been shown the nursery they’d built.

The moment had been… good. Sweet, even.It was the first time in weeks Tim had seen that flicker of peace on his little brother’s face.

But it didn’t matter.

Not to Tim.

Because someone had taken that peace. Had broken Damian down so badly that he mistook trauma for trust. That he thought this—pregnancy—was something he had to endure alone.

And no one had answers. Not even Damian.

Tim would find them.

He clicked through Gotham’s surveillance network, isolating the rooftop Damian had last patrolled the night it all happened. It was mostly static—fuzzy gray streaks and digital noise. Cameras in that part of Crime Alley were a mess. Too old. Too damaged. Too frequently sabotaged.

But he combed through every inch, every corrupted frame.

Then—there.

A flicker. Barely noticeable, tucked at the edge of the screen.

He froze it.

Damian. Standing on the rooftop. Cape pulled close. Still and oddly tense.

Then the screen glitched again—lines of static cutting across the feed.

Tim exhaled slowly. “Come on… show me something…”

He advanced the footage frame by frame.

A figure.

A silhouette—blurry and indistinct—appeared with Damian. A man dressed in black.

Black suit. White hair.

It wasn’t clear—more like a shadow in motion, smoke wrapped in skin. And just as quickly, the feed cut out completely.

Static.

When it returned, Damian was on the ground. Unmoving. His suit torn—ripped. He looked Like something had drained the life right out of him.

That was it.

Tim sat back, breath catching.

That man—whoever he was—was the last person to see Damian before everything changed. Before the quiet. Before the hoodie. Before the sickness and the nursery and the conversations no one really wanted to finish.

Tim’s knuckles turned white.

“Who the hell are you?”

The figure hadn't visibly touched Damian—at least, not that the camera caught. But the shift in Damian’s body, his stance—it all started after that.

Tim saved the footage to a secure drive, encrypting it tight.

He wouldn’t show the family yet. Not until he had more. Not until he had a name.

Because whoever that man in black was, he’d done something to Damian—something that left scars even Damian didn’t know how to explain.

And Tim wasn’t going to stop until he found out the truth.

Chapter Text

The Wayne Manor had grown quieter.

Not in the traditional sense—there were still the usual footsteps, the sounds of training downstairs, the hum of the Batcomputer. But in the hush between moments, in the way people looked at each other and chose silence over questions—they were adjusting. All of them.

It had been nearly three weeks since Damian had told them the truth. Or, at least, the version of the truth they could understand. He was pregnant, and now he was carrying a life that none of them fully understood—but they were trying. They were learning to live with it.

The nursery, once a secret project, had slowly become Damian’s refuge. He didn’t stay there overnight, but he often drifted in during the day—sitting in the soft chair by the window, sketching quietly, or just staring at the faint patterns the sunlight left on the wall. Some days, he’d let someone in—Cass or Duke, sometimes Stephanie—but mostly he liked the solitude.

Damian’s routine had changed, whether he admitted it or not. His appetite fluctuated, but he was eating better. His posture softened. He wore looser clothing—never anything baggy, but enough to hide what he could when he moved through the manor. Some days he seemed completely like himself: sharp, sarcastic, stubborn. Other days, the fatigue pressed down hard, and he’d retreat without a word.

He hadn’t said the baby’s name again. He hadn’t mentioned that rooftop. But every so often, his hand would settle over his growing stomach with something unreadable in his eyes.

Tim was the only one who hadn’t fully settled.

He spent long hours in the Cave, eyes red, sleep-deprived. He was still hunting for that man in black, the pale-haired figure who had haunted the footage. Static ruined most of the tapes. The details were hazy at best. But Tim had seen something—someone. A flicker of white hair, a flash of black fabric, the kind of presence that lingered even when the footage cut out. The last frame showed Damian slumped on the rooftop, his suit torn.

He knew what he saw. He just didn’t know how to explain it.

Not yet.

He wasn’t going to tell the others. Not until he had more. Not until he could be sure. The last thing Damian needed was another wave of panic or more misplaced theories. So Tim kept it to himself, fingers flying across the keyboard, mind racing through scenarios and strategies. He would find answers. For Damian. For all of them.

Night patrols rotated carefully. Damian no longer joined them. At Bruce’s insistence—and the family’s silent agreement—he was benched. He didn’t argue anymore. He simply trained during the day, moved at his own pace, and focused on preparing for the future he hadn’t planned.

The rest of the family found their rhythm, too.

Dick started coming by more frequently, always bringing something for the baby—books, toys, little handmade items he claimed he “just happened to see.” Steph and Cass floated between protective hovering and gentle encouragement. Even Jason, who had initially raged the most, now offered quiet support—checking in, gruff and awkward, but always present.

Alfred had subtly adjusted the household schedule—meals with more nutrients, easier days, little touches only he would think to provide. He didn’t hover, but he was there.

And Bruce…

Bruce watched. From the Cave. From the halls. From across the table.

He didn’t push. But the quiet storm behind his eyes never left. There were still too many questions. Too many unanswered things.

Still, the family moved forward.

Together.

And Damian—though he still bore the shadows of that night—was learning how to carry both the weight of his past and the life of someone new.

Chapter Text

The Wayne Manor garden was quiet in the late afternoon sun, golden light drifting over manicured hedges and bright summer blooms. The world felt distant out here—soft, almost gentle. Bruce had chosen this spot intentionally. Away from the cave. Away from the weight of capes and cowl. Just father and son.

Damian sat beside him on the stone bench, his posture straight but relaxed in a way that wasn’t quite natural. He rested a hand absently on his stomach, now unmistakably rounded. The baby. Danny.

Bruce glanced at him from the corner of his eye, watching the way Damian’s gaze lingered on the fountain across the lawn. He hadn’t said much all morning. The boy had been quiet since the dinner where he’d revealed the pregnancy—but especially quiet around Bruce.

“Damian,” Bruce began gently, folding his hands together. “I wanted us to have a chance to talk.”

Damian looked over slowly. “About what?”

“You’ve been… carrying a lot. I know you don’t always like to talk about things. But I want you to know that you can. Especially about… what happened.”

There was a pause. Damian blinked once. “You mean the rooftop?”

Bruce nodded, his voice carefully measured. “Yes. The rooftop. Whatever happened that night. You didn’t have to go through it alone.”

Damian looked away again. “I’m fine.”

Bruce’s throat tightened. “I know. But… if something was done to you, Damian—if someone hurt you—you can tell me. You don’t have to protect anyone.”

Damian stiffened slightly. His hand reflexively curled over his abdomen, protective. “No one is hurting me,” he said flatly, but his tone lacked conviction—more confusion than certainty.

Bruce misread it as denial.

“It’s okay to be scared. Or confused. You don’t need to explain it all now,” Bruce said gently, carefully. “But I just want to know if… you’re safe now. And if you feel safe.”

Damian tilted his head. He thought for a moment, trying to piece together what his father wanted to hear.

“I’m… safe now,” he said slowly. “I was scared at first. But I understand more now.”

Bruce’s expression tightened just a little. “Did they threaten you?”

“No,” Damian said, almost automatically. Then, catching Bruce’s expression, he amended: “Not exactly.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. He swallowed it down. “Okay. Okay.”

Damian looked at him again, sensing the discomfort and responding in the only way he knew how—with logic.

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m going to be fine. I have a plan. I’m preparing for the future. I… I chose to protect him. That’s all that matters now.”

Bruce’s heart ached. He heard the words—I chose to protect him—and mistook them for a child coping with trauma by reframing it as agency. His mind filled in blanks that weren’t there. Guilt, grief, quiet rage.

He reached out and rested a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you, Damian. But I’m proud of how strong you’ve been.”

Damian didn’t answer right away. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. His eyes darted toward the garden gate, then back to the flowers.

“…Thanks,” he said at last, uncertainly.

They sat in silence for a while longer, neither truly on the same page—but both feeling, in their own way, that the other was trying.

Chapter Text

The manor was silent under the blanket of night, moonlight filtering through Damian’s bedroom curtains. His room was dim, the soft yellow glow of the lamp at his desk barely illuminating the walls filled with sketches, pinned notes, and quiet reminders of who he once was—and who he was becoming.

Damian stood shirtless before the mirror, one hand resting low on the swell of his stomach.

For weeks now, he'd felt it—that strange hum of warmth beneath his skin, the quiet pulsing of something not quite human, not quite alive in the way a regular baby would be. It was Danny’s core.

No, he reminded himself, it is Danny.

He wasn’t carrying a stranger, or just a fragment of something larger. Danny, the boy with white hair and glowing green eyes, was the core—his essence condensed into this vulnerable, growing form. A being made entirely of energy, memory, and will. And now, he was silent.

His brows furrowed as he pressed a hand more firmly to his stomach. Nothing. No warmth. No faint echo of energy. No low thrumming that used to lull him to sleep like the ticking of an old clock. It was just... gone.

His heart began to race. Is he okay?

He hadn’t panicked like this in weeks—not since he’d begun adapting to the changes in his body and his life. He'd gotten used to the strange normalcy of carrying another consciousness within him. But now, with Danny’s presence missing, something about it felt deeply wrong.

He ran a hand down his face and backed away from the mirror, exhaling slowly through his nose. “Stay calm,” he whispered to himself. “He’s strong. I know he is.”

Still, anxiety clung to him like a second skin as he crawled into bed and pulled the blankets over his frame. Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it pulled him deep, fast.

And then—white.

A familiar, endless white.

He blinked and found himself standing barefoot on a floor that wasn’t there, surrounded by a space that shimmered like snow and fog. The same place he’d first met Danny.

And just like before, Danny stood across from him. Pale skin, white hair glowing softly, green eyes dimmer than usual.

Except this time, his expression was tight with worry.

“Danny,” Damian said quickly, stepping forward. “Something’s wrong. I can’t feel you anymore.”

Danny nodded, his expression grim. “I know. I felt your panic.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“I... I don’t know,” Danny admitted, eyes flicking downward for a second before meeting Damian’s gaze again. “It’s not supposed to go quiet like that. Not completely.”

Damian frowned, tension sharpening his voice. “You told me you’d be okay."

Danny stepped closer, his voice lower. “And I’m okay. I don’t know why, but something’s wrong. Something changed.”

The silence between them stretched, taut and cold.

Danny reached out his hand, his glow flickering slightly. “I think we need help. Real help.”

“From who?” Damian asked.

“From Frostbite,” Danny replied. “He’s a doctor—a ghost healer. He took care of me when I died. He’s seen things like this before. If anyone can tell us what’s happening, it’s him.”

Damian hesitated. “You trust him?”

“With my afterlife.”

That earned a dry look from Damian, but he nodded. “Then take me.”

Danny reached out his hand.

This time, Damian didn’t hesitate.

As he grasped Danny’s hand, the space pulsed—one beat, then another—and the white began to fade into cold mist, the air turning sharp with frost and distant blue light.

He didn’t know what to expect.

But he knew he couldn’t ignore this.

Chapter Text

The cold hit first. Not the biting kind of winter that scraped your lungs raw, but something ancient and heavy. The mist parted slowly, revealing jagged towers of glowing ice—tall and crystalline, humming with energy. Damian felt no chill despite the frost clinging to every surface.

Danny’s hand was warm in his, though Damian could feel it flickering now and then. Dimming.

“This way,” Danny said, his voice quieter than usual. “Frostbite’s probably already waiting.”

Damian said nothing as they stepped onto the bridge of translucent blue ice. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—just tense. Focused.

A figure appeared at the far end of the bridge: tall, broad, and wrapped in regal furs and armor carved from ancient glacial stone. The towering Yeti-like ghost stepped forward with surprising grace, glowing eyes focused on Danny first, then on Damian.

“You arrived just in time,” Frostbite said, concern etched into the lines of his icy face. “I could feel your core from halfway across the Far Frozen… it is weakening.”

Danny winced. “I was hoping it was just me being tired.”

Frostbite shook his head slowly, looking to Damian. “No. Your condition is critical because the host body has been unable to supply the core with ectoplasm.”

Damian’s brow furrowed. “You said that as if it should be obvious.”

“In our world, a ghost’s core is sustained by ectoplasmic energy in the atmosphere,” Frostbite explained. “Here, we thrive. In your world, there is almost none naturally present. The bond between you and Danny has shielded you both… but only for a time. Without replenishment, the core begins to starve.”

Danny glanced at Damian, guilt flickering in his dimming green eyes. “I didn’t know it would fade this fast.”

Frostbite motioned them to follow. “Come. We must reinforce the bond before it begins to unravel.”

Inside the crystalline hall, Damian’s footsteps echoed. He was led to a circular platform that glowed with runes, warm underfoot despite the ice.

“Lie down,” Frostbite said gently. “I will begin the infusion.”

Damian hesitated, then slowly reclined, gaze steady. “Will it help?”

“It will give you time,” Frostbite said. “I will saturate your system with safe, controlled ectoplasm. Enough to nourish the core and allow it to stabilize again. But it is only a temporary measure. You must begin seeking external sources regularly.”

As glowing energy began to swirl over Damian’s torso, Danny stood beside him, silent.

“Couldn’t I just… separate from him?” Danny asked.

Frostbite shook his head. “No. Not while the bond is incomplete. You are still reforming, still growing. Attempting separation now could destroy you both.”

Danny swallowed hard.

Damian’s eyes were half-lidded, absorbing every word even as his muscles relaxed into the platform. “Then tell me what to do when I return,” he said. “How do I find more of this ectoplasm?”

Frostbite stepped closer and handed him a sealed vial of glowing green fluid. “Keep this with you. It will hold you for several days.”

Then, quieter, he added: “You may also begin to notice changes. Sensitivity to ghostly signatures. A hunger for energy that is not food. You are no longer a normal human, Damian Wayne.”

Damian didn’t react—at least, not outwardly.

Danny crouched beside him. “We’ll figure it out, okay?”

Damian gave a faint nod, exhaustion creeping in as the glow wrapped around his core and began to feed the warmth he’d feared lost. Danny's form brightened just a little.

For now, it would be enough.

Chapter Text

Morning sunlight crept quietly across the walls of Damian’s room, golden and soft. The manor was quiet at this hour—Alfred likely already in the kitchen, the others still asleep or tucked in the corners of their routines. But for Damian, the stillness felt… different today.

He woke slowly, the faint memory of cold winds and green-lit towers still pressing against his consciousness like a half-remembered dream. Frostbite’s grave expression, Danny’s trembling hand in his—You’re changing, they had said.

His hand moved instinctively to his chest.

Something was there. Cool, smooth. Resting against his collarbone.

A necklace.

The vial of ectoplasm Frostbite had given him had been transformed—its cylindrical glass now a small, faceted pendant. The swirling green inside pulsed with a soft glow, slow and steady. The silver chain around his neck was barely visible, tucked under the collar of his loose sleep shirt.

Damian sat up slowly, a cool shiver rushing through him—not from cold, but from awareness

He walked to the mirror, unthinking, drawn by instinct.

And stopped.

His breath caught.

His eyes—his reflection—wasn’t the same.

They had always been green. Darker, rich—like forest shadows. But now… they shimmered. Bright, ectoplasm green. Not completely. But unmistakably changed. Luminous. Alive. A glow nestled in the iris like moonlight caught in emerald.

He reached up slowly, fingers brushing just under his eye. It wasn’t just his reflection. It was real.

And with that glow came something else.

Emotion.

It hit him like a wave. Everything he’d been trying to keep calm, keep balanced—spilled loose beneath the surface.

Fear. Hope. Guilt. Love. Anger. All tangled, raw, real. His heart thudded with them. The concern that Danny’s warmth had disappeared for that one terrifying moment. The relief of finding him again. The quiet thrill of hearing his name in that voice. The pain of keeping silent to protect something no one understood.

The core hadn’t just stabilized.

It was changing him too.

Not just his body—though that was happening. The gentle rise of his belly had become more visible, his limbs a little softer. But this… this was different.

It was internal.

He felt like his skin was thinner. The things people said stayed with him longer. He couldn’t brush off quiet moments. Couldn’t snap or sneer as easily.

Everything meant more.

His hand slipped to his stomach. The curve had grown slightly more visible. Nothing extreme. But he could feel it more now—not just a physical weight, but a presence.

Danny… The core. The baby. The whatever it was.

And the ectoplasm was accelerating it.

Damian exhaled slowly and looked himself in the eye again. His reflection stared back—familiar, and yet not.

He pulled the collar of his shirt up to hide the pendant and ran a hand down his face. The others would notice, eventually. The eyes. The way he felt things more sharply now. The way he didn’t react the same to casual touches, or sharp words.

But not yet.

They didn’t need one more thing to worry about.

He would control it.

Because he had to.

For Danny.

Chapter Text

Damian moved through the manor with the precision and quiet he had mastered long ago. His steps were measured, his shoulders square, and his face unreadable. The glowing green of his eyes didn’t dim under the soft lights of the hallway. Neither did the subtle warmth of the pendant tucked under his shirt, where the vial of ectoplasm sat hidden, pulsing faintly against his chest.

He said little throughout the day, answering when spoken to, never lingering long in any room.

Steph had tried to joke about his appetite over breakfast, and Cass had nudged him gently when he didn’t respond. Duke gave him a soft look when he poured a second glass of juice, and Dick kept glancing between Damian and the pendant like he wanted to ask but didn’t dare.

They all noticed the changes. The way his eyes glowed brighter. The way his emotions sat closer to the surface, his usually tight grip on composure occasionally slipping. The smallest sighs. The way he kept his hands near his stomach. His heartbeat was stronger, his presence warmer—like something within him was humming with energy.

They noticed. He pretended he didn’t.

---

Later That Afternoon

Tim stood by the large monitor, one hand braced against the table, his other holding a cup of untouched coffee. The others gathered around—Dick, Jason, Bruce, Duke, Steph, Cass, and Barbara—each of them pulled from whatever they were doing at his request.

“I want to talk about Damian,” Tim said, his voice low.

Jason stiffened slightly.

“i think its time you should all see this,” he said quietly, pulling up the monitor on the Batcave screen. “I’ve been reviewing security footage. The night this all started.”

Static filled most of the screen, but then Tim enhanced the feed.

There's Damian on the roof with a blurry figure—tall, in a dark suit. Their hair was bright white.

The silhouette flickered with unnatural light before the camera cut to static.

Then later its back on, Damian on the ground, clothes ripped, slumped against the concrete of the rooftop.

“That’s the moment,” Tim said. “The clearest one we have. I’ve run every filter I could. The footage’s corrupted, but that figure is real. And they were with Damian before he collapsed.”

Bruce stared at the screen, his face unreadable, but his grip on the table tightened.

“That’s who did this,” Jason muttered.

Barbara turned to Bruce. “What are you thinking?”

Bruce’s voice was cold. Controlled. “I’m thinking we need to find that person before they come back. If they ever do.”

“And if Damian is protecting them?” Jason asked.

Bruce looked at the screen again. Then, without answering, walks away.

Chapter Text

The Batcave hummed with quiet intensity. Screens glowed with surveillance footage, case files, and scattered digital maps of Gotham. Every member of the Batfamily had carved out a corner of the mission—each determined to uncover the identity of the man in the black suit with white hair who had been on the rooftop with Damian the night everything changed.

Jason muttered under his breath as he rewound the footage for the sixth time. “There’s something wrong with how the guy moved. Not just stealthy—unnatural.”

Dick was at the far console, flipping through facial recognition matches. “We’ve scanned every database. Law enforcement, ARGUS, even League records. Nothing.”

Tim leaned against the edge of the Batcomputer, arms crossed, eyes shadowed from too many sleepless nights. “He was only caught on one camera, and even then, barely. It’s like he didn’t want to be seen—and succeeded.”

Barbara chimed in from her Oracle station through the comms. “I’ve got nothing on his digital trail. No signatures. It’s like he blinked into existence and then out.”

Across the cave, Bruce stood still, arms behind his back, eyes locked on the paused image of the rooftop. “Whoever he is, he’s not just dangerous. He’s careful. Which makes him even more of a threat.”

They didn’t say what was really on all their minds—but it echoed in the silence: He hurt Damian. And he’s still out there.

---

Upstairs, Damian sat in his room, bent over a sketchbook filled with scrawled diagrams and notes in languages few people could read. The curtains were drawn tight, his room softly lit by the glow of his laptop. Onscreen, obscure forums and PDF scans from rare texts filled his tabs—topics no one else in the house would have thought to search.

He’d stopped shaking days ago. But the weight in his chest never left.

"If Danny’s core is fading because of a lack of ectoplasm..." he thought, tapping a stylus against his lip, "Then I need to find a sustainable source. Gotham doesn’t exactly have open ghost zones."

He looked down at the green pendant around his neck. The ectoplasm Frostbite had given him still pulsed softly, but he could feel it thinning—like a candle burning from both ends.

Damian exhaled and opened a new tab. He began cross-referencing historical ghost sightings with leyline maps, searching for anomalies, magnetic fluctuations, anything. Even a fragment would help.

He now realizes that his family is looking for a man—believing him to be the person who got him pregnant. Damian didn’t have the words to explain the situation to them. Not yet. Not until he understood more about Danny’s world—and how to keep him safe.

So, while the Batfamily hunted shadows in Gotham, Damian hunted the truth in silence.

Two missions. Two secrets. Both on borrowed time.

Chapter Text

Despite the hush of ongoing investigations and the quiet tension that lingered between glances, Alfred would not allow the day to pass like any other.

Not today.

Damian awoke that morning feeling something unusual—not physically, but… emotionally. A weight in his chest that wasn’t his own. Something warm. Something… expectant.

He didn’t understand it until later.

By breakfast, he could feel the flickers more clearly: anticipation coming off Alfred like the scent of vanilla and clove, something like nervous joy humming faintly from Cass when she passed by, and a quiet energy from Bruce—a tangle of protectiveness and regret.

They were hiding something. But for once, it wasn’t from him.

At precisely six o’clock, as Alfred had instructed, Damian entered the main hall. The soft golden light of dusk filtered through the tall windows, bouncing off streamers in dark green and gold. A long table was laid out with handmade food, and at its center sat a perfectly frosted cake with thirteen slim candles burning gently.

The family stood waiting.

“Surprise!” Dick greeted with a grin that glowed with genuine affection—something Damian didn’t need to feel through his chest to recognize.

Jason scoffed with an amused shake of his head. “Happy birthday Demon Brat.”

Steph nudged him and whispered something snarky, but warmly so. Tim gave a faint wave from the side, while Cass reached out and gently squeezed Damian’s shoulder.

Barbara, Duke, and even Bruce were there. Damian looked around the room and, for a second, forgot everything strange about the last few weeks—forgot the pendant at his neck, the creeping green glow in the mirror, the weight he sometimes felt in his stomach.

He could feel their emotions like a symphony playing just beneath the surface.

Love. Hesitation. Hope. Worry.

“You all… remembered?” he asked, caught off guard by how tightly his voice came out.

“Of course,” Tim said, eyes soft. “You’re our little brother.”

Alfred stepped forward with a nod. “Happy birthday, Master Damian.”

He was thirteen today.

He nodded, just once. “Thank you.”

They didn’t press. They didn’t ask questions. For a little while, they just celebrated. He was allowed to be. He opened a few gifts, ate cake, and quietly basked in the soft glow of emotions that weren’t his, but were gently wrapped around him nonetheless.

Until the front door creaked open.

Every heart in the room spiked.

He felt it—a wave of tension like glass tightening under pressure. Everyone looked toward the entrance.

The footsteps were measured. Confident.

Talia al Ghul entered the manor, regal in deep emerald robes, her long dark hair gleaming under the light. She stopped just past the foyer, eyes searching until they landed on him.

“Damian,” she said smoothly. “Happy birthday.”

Bruce went completely still. Jason moved subtly in front of Damian, while Cass stiffened at his side. Dick’s voice was tight with disbelief.

“Talia,” Bruce said coldly. “You weren’t invited.”

“I don’t need an invitation to see my son,” she replied, lifting her chin.

Damian could feel Bruce’s fury. Tim’s shock. Steph’s distrust. Cass’s silent, protective warning.

He didn’t know what his mother was here for.

But his body had already shifted, standing straighter, subtly protective of the life inside him. His heart pounded, not just from fear—but from something else.

Instinct.

One thing was clear.

This birthday wasn’t just about thirteen candles anymore.

Chapter Text

The room went slient.

Bruce was the first to speakagain, face tight. “Talia.”

“I see your reflexes have dulled,” she said smoothly, her eyes scanning the room.

The word wasn’t directed at Bruce.

Damian stood slowly from his seat. His hand brushed over his hoodie, unconsciously resting over the bump that had become increasingly noticeable. The core beneath still thrummed quietly, but the warmth did little to settle his nerves under her stare.

“Talia—Mother—what are you doing here?” His voice was even, but his shoulders had drawn tight.

“I heard whispers, rumors,” she said, her gaze falling briefly to Damian’s abdomen. “And I needed to see for myself.”

Jason stood, jaw clenched. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I didn’t come for you.” she snapped.

Dick’s face had drained of color. Stephanie reached for Damian’s arm instinctively, though he subtly stepped away. Duke’s expression had darkened. Tim didn’t say a word—his eyes were fixed on Damian, calculating, watching.

Bruce took a single step forward. “This isn’t the place for your games.”

Talia’s gaze never left Damian. “I need to speak with my son.”

“No,” Bruce said firmly.

“I wasn’t asking.” Her voice cracked like a blade.

Damian’s fingers curled into fists. He looked at Bruce, then at the table, then finally said, “It’s fine. Just for a moment.”

The room didn’t move. It felt like time had stopped.

Reluctantly, Bruce stepped aside.

Talia didn’t even glance at the rest of them as she swept toward the hall, and Damian followed her out of the dining room without another word.

The silence they left behind was deafening.

“She better not say something that pushes him over,” Jason muttered.

“She had no right to show up like that,” Tim said coldly.

“She never needed a right,” Bruce replied. But his eyes never left the door.

Chapter Text

Damian sat alone in the drawing room, spine straight, hands curled on his knees, as though bracing himself.

His hoodie was zipped halfway, concealing the bump again, but it didn’t matter anymore. She’d seen it.

Talia stood at the far end of the room, her arms crossed, sharp gaze piercing through him like a dagger.

“Explain,” she said, voice low, brittle with fury.

Damian didn’t move. “There’s nothing to explain.”

Talia took a step forward. “Do not insult me, ibni. You are thirteen. You disappear from contact for weeks. And when I find you again—this is what I find?”

Her voice cracked like a whip. Her anger wasn’t fire—it was ice. Controlled. Dangerous.

“I didn’t plan this,” Damian said, lifting his chin.

“That much is obvious,” she spat. “But you let it happen.”

“I didn’t let—” he stopped, swallowed hard. “I didn’t know. I didn’t understand until it was already happening.”

Talia’s jaw tightened, and her fists curled at her sides.

“Who touched you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lie!” she snapped.

Damian’s breath caught, but he didn’t look away. “It wasn’t what you’re thinking.”

“You are a child,” she hissed. “A trained one, yes—but still a child. Someone preyed on you. I can see it. I can feel it.”

“I’m not some victim,” Damian said, his voice quiet but firm. “I didn’t… I didn’t fight it. Because I didn’t feel afraid. Not at the time.”

Her nostrils flared. “You didn’t feel afraid because you didn’t know better. Because they groomed you—whoever they were.”

Damian pressed his lips together. He wanted to argue. To say you’re wrong. But he couldn’t find the words. Her emotions were too strong.

He looked away.

Talia stepped closer, looming like a storm cloud. “You’re carrying life inside you—and you expect me to believe this was your decision?”

He said nothing.

“Where is he? The one who did this? Tell me and I will see him flayed.”

“I don’t know his name,” Damian murmured, another lie half-born from truth. “He was… strange. I didn’t understand what was happening. It wasn’t supposed to—”

“But it did,” she snarled. “And now look at you.”

“I’m not ashamed,” he said, cutting her off. “You want me to be, but I’m not.”

She stared at him, seething.

“I don’t regret it,” Damian said, softer now. “I don’t regret him.”

Talia turned sharply away, breathing through her nose.

“You were never meant for this,” she said coldly. “And yet here you are. Ruined.”

That word hit him like a slap.

“I’m not ruined,” Damian said.

Silence. Then—

“I’m becoming something new. Whether you approve or not.”

Talia’s eyes closed, her rage simmering just beneath the surface.

“You are my son,” she said. “And that child is my grandchild. That means you will not be abandoned. But do not mistake my presence for forgiveness.”

“I don’t want forgiveness,” he said. “I want you to accept that this is happening. That it’s real.”

She stepped forward, gripped his shoulder hard—not gentle this time.

“Then you better survive it, Damian. Because when I find the him there will be nothing left of the man who touched you but blood and dust.”

She released him and turned on her heel, cloak flaring as she stalked out of the room, barely sparing a glance at Bruce when she passed by the hallway.

Damian sat alone, jaw tight, stomach roiling.

His hand drifted to the bump beneath his hoodie, and for the first time since her arrival, he allowed himself a trembling breath.

He didn’t know if she understood.

He wasn’t sure if he did.

But he knew one thing.

He wasn’t ashamed.

And he would protect what was his.

Chapter Text

Minutes passed.

And when the front door slammed shut with an unmistakable force, they all jumped slightly.

Bruce stood. “I’ll check—”

But Damian was already back in view, standing in the hallway. His hoodie was pulled tighter than before. His expression unreadable.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look at them.

He walked past the dining room, past the living room, up the stairs, and vanished down the hall to his bedroom.

No one tried to stop him.

They simply watched the stairs long after he was gone, the weight of Talia’s presence still heavy in the air.

---

Damian sat on the edge of his bed, the room dim except for the soft glow of the moonlight spilling in through the curtains. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights. The shadows felt quieter — like they were holding their breath with him.

His hoodie was discarded on the chair. His hand rested gently against his bump, fingers brushing slow circles over the warmth that had returned after the conversation in his dream.

But it wasn’t warmth he felt now.

It was heavy.

Thick.

His mother’s words still echoed in his head. Her accusations. Her disgust. Her disbelief.

“You let this happen?”

She hadn’t even let him explain. Not that he could. Not that he really understood how.

His jaw clenched, and he looked down.

“I didn’t let anything happen,” he whispered softly to himself.

There was a knock at his door.

He didn’t answer.

The door creaked open a moment later anyway.

Stephanie slipped in first, followed by Cass — who padded quietly to the side of his bed without a word. Then came Dick, then Duke, then Jason. Tim lingered last at the door, quiet, watching. No one said anything at first. No one knew how to start.

“Sorry,” Dick said finally, voice soft. “We didn’t want to crowd you.”

Damian didn’t respond.

“We just…” Duke sat on the rug in front of the bed. “We wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“She had no right to come here,” Stephanie added gently.

Damian didn’t lift his head. His fingers curled into the blanket at his side. “She didn’t even ask… about him.”

“She didn’t deserve to know anything about him,” Jason said darkly.

Cass sat beside him on the bed, one arm gently wrapping around his shoulders. She didn’t say anything — but her warmth spoke volumes. She gave a small, slow squeeze.

Damian’s lips pressed into a hard line.

“I’m trying,” he murmured. “I’m trying really hard to do the right thing.”

“You are,” Tim said from the door, stepping into the room now. “You are, Damian.”

“You shouldn’t have to do it alone,” Dick said. “Not with everything you’re going through.”

“I’m not,” Damian said, almost too quietly.

They all turned toward him.

“I know you’re here,” he added, still not looking up. “Even when I don’t say anything.”

He closed his eyes tightly.

Cass squeezed him again. A moment later, he felt Duke lean against the bed beside him. Jason dropped into the armchair with a heavy sigh, and Steph knelt by the foot of the bed, resting her arms on her knees.

Tim sat down last — a careful kind of closeness.

No one tried to talk over the moment. They didn’t try to fix it.

They just were there.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Damian let himself lean into it — just a little.

He didn’t speak again.

But he didn’t push them away, either.

Chapter Text

It had been six months since Damian agreed to carry Danny’s core. Three weeks since his thirteenth birthday.

The Batfamily had started to relax — not completely, but enough. Damian’s days were structured with quiet purpose: morning meditation, physical training scaled down for his changing body, time with Cass or Duke in the gardens, evening meals with his siblings. The nursery was fully set up, and everyone referred to the bump with a tentative sort of reverence.

They still didn’t fully understand, and Damian didn’t fully explain. But they were present. They loved him. That was enough for now.

But lately... he’d felt the shift again.

The warmth in his chest — the tether between his body and Danny’s core — had begun to flicker, grow thin around the edges. It wasn’t dangerous yet, not like before. But Damian could feel it in the way Danny curled inward, sleeping more. In the way the light in his dreams dimmed.

He knew what he had to do.

---

Damian’s Room – That Night

Damian lay still in bed, eyes open to the ceiling. The vial of ectoplasm, now a faintly glowing necklace, pulsed against his chest.

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them again — he was standing in the white room.

Frostbite and Danny were already there.

Danny looked... smaller again. Dimmer. The glowing green of his eyes was dull, his white hair nearly translucent around the edges. Damian’s heart clenched.

“You came,” Danny said softly, smiling — but weak.

“You’re fading,” Damian said, stepping forward. “Again.”

“I know,” Danny admitted.

Frostbite stepped beside them, concern clear in his glowing blue eyes. “The ambient ectoplasm in your realm is far too weak to sustain him for much longer, especially now that the bond between you is growing more demanding.”

“I need more,” Damian said simply. “What do I do?”

Frostbite nodded, the long icicle tips of his beard catching the white-blue light.

“I have one more method,” he said. “It is older. More... spiritual than scientific.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “I assume it’s effective?”

“It is. It involves direct alignment of your aura with the core’s pulse. Your body becomes not only a vessel, but an active channel — a conduit.”

Damian frowned slightly. “Explain.”

Frostbite gestured, and an image shimmered in the air: two glowing forms — one representing Damian, the other Danny’s core — overlapped slightly. With each pulse, Danny’s glow flickered weaker, while Damian’s stayed strong.

“This alignment will allow you to share not just your body’s resources, but your soul’s stability. A bond more intimate than even incubation. But it requires permission. From both sides.”

Danny glanced at Damian, uncertain.

Damian looked between them. “Will it hurt him?”

“No,” Frostbite said. “But he will be more... connected to you. He will feel what you feel more strongly. As will you, him.”

Danny looked hesitant, but nodded. “If it helps, I trust you.”

Frostbite hesitated, then added, “There is one more development you should prepare for.”

Damian tilted his head.

“With this deep alignment... Danny’s core will begin to construct a physical body — a vessel — from within you. It will not form rapidly, but steadily, so that the ectoplasm is used more efficiently. This body will not replace the bond, but it will help sustain him longer, and eventually... bring him fully into your world.”

Damian stilled.

“You mean he will... be born.”

Frostbite nodded once. “Yes. Not metaphorically. He will grow. Form. Until he is strong enough to emerge as a full being.”

Danny looked away, cheeks a little red.

“Sorry I didn’t say it earlier,” he muttered. “It wasn’t really happening yet. But it is now. I can feel it too.”

Damian was silent for a long moment.

Then: “I don’t mind.”

Danny’s head snapped up.

“I agreed to this,” Damian continued. “Whatever form it takes... I’ll see it through.”

Danny slowly smiled.

Frostbite raised his arms. The room pulsed with light.

As the ritual began, Damian felt the warmth in his chest burst open — a quiet heat that spread across his body like a breath of summer wind.

And Danny — though still small — brightened just enough that Damian saw the spark return to his eyes.

It worked.

---

Back in His Room – Early Morning

Damian woke with a quiet gasp, clutching the necklace.

The pulse was steady again.

The warmth — Danny — was alive in him.

And for the first time in weeks, Damian smiled.

Just a little.

He’d tell Alfred later. But for now, he sat up in bed, one hand resting on his stomach. It was still small, still subtle — but maybe just a little more solid now.

And he whispered softly:

“We’re okay.”

Chapter Text

The sun filtered through the tall windows of Wayne Manor’s dining room, casting warm gold on polished wood and pristine porcelain.

The Batfamily had gathered for breakfast — something rare and increasingly more consistent since Damian’s birthday. Bruce sat at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet with a half-full mug of coffee at his side. Dick and Tim were mid-argument about movie night options. Cass sipped her tea silently, watching them. Jason scrolled on his phone, his plate already mostly cleared.

Stephanie nudged Duke, whispering something that made him snort into his juice.

Then — soft footsteps.

Damian.

He stepped into the room in a comfortable hoodie — a light green one that made his eyes seem brighter than usual — and a pair of dark joggers. His posture was poised as always, but there was something… softer today. Or maybe the light just hit him differently.

Everyone looked up.

“Morning,” Dick greeted first, ever the peacemaker.

Damian gave a slight nod and walked to his seat beside Cass, lowering himself carefully into the chair. “Good morning.”

Alfred appeared behind him with a plate of lightly seasoned food and tea, as if he had sensed Damian coming.

“Thank you,” Damian said softly.

They started to eat.

It was quiet. Not awkward — just… expectant. Ever since the surprise nursery and his birthday, the family had waited for something more. Damian had changed. Glowed, almost. His eyes shimmered greener now, and his emotions felt more tangible — though none dared mention it aloud.

Damian ate slowly, his hand occasionally brushing against the small swell of his stomach.

Then, mid-meal, his voice broke the quiet.

“Father.”

Everyone looked up.

Bruce immediately set down his coffee. “Yes?”

Damian cleared his throat and spoke with the faintest waver. “I would like to schedule an ultrasound.”

The table stilled.

Jason froze with a fork halfway to his mouth. Tim blinked rapidly. Steph dropped her toast. Duke made a small choking sound. Cass tilted her head in quiet surprise.

Bruce was the only one who didn’t flinch. But his eyes were wide — stunned.

“You want… an ultrasound?” he asked carefully.

Damian nodded. “Yes. I believe it’s time. I want to see how he’s progressing. If that’s... possible.”

A beat of silence.

Then Bruce slowly set down his mug and nodded once. “Of course. I’ll make arrangements today.”

“Thank you.”

The room held its breath.

Then:

“A he?” Tim said softly, unable to help himself.

Damian turned slightly. “Yes.”

Dick broke the silence with a slow grin. “You know that’s the most normal thing you’ve ever said, right?”

Damian gave him a look. “It’s a basic medical request.”

Jason leaned back with a smirk. “Sure, baby bat. But you asking for it? That’s progress.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of pink on his cheeks.

Stephanie was tearing up again. “I’m not crying, you’re crying,” she whispered to Cass, who just patted her arm.

And for a moment, the table was full of quiet wonder.

Because this was real now. Tangible. And Damian — once so silent and locked down — had spoken about his child. Claimed him.

Bruce sat still, eyes fixed on his son.

And for the first time in a long time, the air at breakfast felt... full of hope.

Chapter Text

The Wayne family arriving at any medical facility — especially in full force — was nothing short of a spectacle.

Despite the private clinic being booked under Wayne Enterprises and shielded from any media interference, the nurses still paused when the elevator doors opened and the entire Batfamily stepped into the hallway.

Bruce was in front, suit immaculate, the air around him practically humming with tension. Damian walked beside him, arms wrapped lightly across his middle. He didn’t look afraid, but the crease between his brows betrayed a quiet storm of emotion.

Behind them followed the rest — Dick chatting softly to Cass, Jason walking silently but watchful, Tim glancing at his tablet even though he hadn't absorbed a word in minutes, and Duke offering Damian a small, quiet thumbs-up.

Stephanie had insisted on coming too. She had a bag of snacks “in case it took a while,” even though Alfred had warned her this was not a picnic.

Damian had rolled his eyes but hadn’t said no.

The clinic room was small, warm, and softly lit. There were no sterile whites or harsh lights — just soft greens and muted grays, designed for comfort. The technician, a woman with gentle hands and professional calm, greeted them kindly.

“Just one support person in the room, please,” she began.

Damian turned slightly, eyes moving over his brothers, his sisters, his father. Then he looked to Bruce.

“You’re staying.”

Bruce didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

The others were led to a waiting area just down the hall with a live monitor where they could see the scan. They didn’t complain. Not this time.

Inside the room, Damian lay back slowly on the padded table. The tech helped him lift his hoodie, exposing his small but definite bump. It was the first time anyone outside of the family had seen it. He flinched slightly — not from pain, but something harder to name.

Vulnerability.

Bruce stood just beside the table, eyes sharp but mouth neutral.

“This’ll be cold,” the technician warned, spreading the gel across Damian’s skin.

He tensed, then nodded.

The wand glided across his stomach. There was silence — and then, soft static. And then…

The heartbeat.

Damian’s breath caught. Not because he hadn’t heard it before — but this was different. Louder. Stronger.

Alive.

The screen flickered, then showed the blurry shape.

Tiny limbs. A curved spine. The head.

Bruce’s breath hitched audibly.

The technician smiled gently. “There it is.”

Damian stared.

His son.

Not just a spirit, not just a concept — but a baby. Growing. Taking shape. Inside him.

“…He’s bigger than I expected,” Damian said quietly.

The wand moved again, adjusting the image.

“Everything looks normal so far,” the tech confirmed gently. “Good heartbeat. Strong movement.”

As if on cue, a twitch on screen — one tiny arm flailed slightly. Damian’s breath stuttered. He covered his mouth, eyes stinging suddenly. He didn’t cry — not quite. But his throat burned.

The tech tilted her head slightly. “Would you like to know the gender?”

Damian blinked. He already knew. Of course he did.

Still…

“Yes,” he said softly.

The woman smiled, pointing out the subtle shape on the screen. “It’s a boy.”

Bruce let out a slow breath beside him.

Damian didn’t speak, but his fingers tightened around the edge of the paper sheet beneath him. The knowledge wasn’t new — but hearing it aloud made it more real.

The wand made a final pass, and the technician printed the images and handed them to Damian carefully. “Congratulations,” she said.

He nodded stiffly, taking the small set of black-and-white pictures in trembling fingers.

They stepped into the waiting area.

The moment the door opened, the Batfamily surged forward.

“Well?!” Stephanie demanded.

“Everything’s fine,” Bruce said calmly, but there was a softness in his voice no one missed.

Damian handed the ultrasound photo to Dick, who stared at it with wide, reverent eyes.

“Oh my god, he has your nose,” Steph said.

“He does not,” Damian muttered, snatching it back.

Tim leaned over his shoulder. “He kind of does.”

Jason nodded. “Definitely got your frown.”

“He’s… healthy?” Cass signed, watching Damian closely.

“Yes,” Damian answered, his voice quieter now. “He’s… growing.”

Duke grinned. “Dude. You’re really gonna be a dad.”

Damian flinched at the word but didn’t correct him.

They all started talking at once — questions, teasing, theories about hair color and eye shape. But Damian slowly tuned them out.

He looked down at the image in his hands. The blurred shape of someone — someone he was growing. Someone he already knew.

Danny.

And for the first time in weeks… he smiled.

Chapter Text

After the excitement of the ultrasound visit and the Batfamily practically vibrating with questions and giddy comments on the ride back, Damian had slipped away. His hands still clutched the ultrasound photo tucked carefully into a small notebook. No one stopped him when he excused himself.

Now in his room, the door closed behind him, he breathed.

The air was cool, the shadows soft. The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting long strips of gold across the floor. He crossed the room slowly and sat on the edge of his bed. His hand went to the slight swell of his stomach, thumb rubbing slow circles through his hoodie.

He looked down. Still, still marveling. He had seen him. His son. Danny.

He was about to take off his hoodie and rest when—

“You looked happy.”

Damian froze.

The voice came not from his phone. Not from the door. Not from memory.

It came from right there — inside the room. In the air. In him.

And he was awake.

“…Danny?” he asked softly, lifting his head and looking around.

There was no figure. No shadowy silhouette in the corner. No glow. Only the warmth under his skin — and a hum deep inside his chest that was no longer just the beat of his own heart.

“You can hear me, right?”

His breath caught. “I’m not dreaming.”

“Nope.”

Damian stood slowly, every muscle tensed — not in fear, but shock. He turned, scanning the room, half-expecting to see Danny standing behind him, in the reflection of the mirror, in the corner of his eye.

But there was no form. Just a feeling. A voice.

Danny’s voice.

“How?” Damian asked, voice unsteady for the first time in weeks.

“Because you’re awake and so am I. Sort of.” Danny sounded calm, but there was something beneath it — excitement. Relief. Joy.

“Does that mean you’re okay?” Damian stepped toward the window, hand still protectively on his stomach.

There was a pause.

“…yeah,” Danny admitted. “It got harder to stay connected for a while. I was pulling too much from you without realizing it. But now that I’ve started building a physical body… things are different. We’re closer.”

“I don’t understand,” Damian said, though his eyes softened. “Why now?”

“Because you’ve adapted more than you realize. You’re carrying not just my core anymore — my body’s forming too. And because of that, you’re starting to get… little bits of my powers. One of them is our bond.”

Damian blinked. “I have powers now?”

“Not really. Think of it like a signal — I’m broadcasting, and you’re the only one tuned in.”

Damian exhaled slowly, sitting back down on the bed.

It wasn’t just hearing Danny. It was feeling him. That ever-present warmth in his chest had returned — not just the core, but the person. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it until now.

“I can talk to you now even when you’re awake,” Danny said softly. “Not all the time, but enough. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed talking. I missed you.”

“…I missed you too,” Damian admitted, almost inaudibly.

Danny didn’t speak right away. But the warmth under Damian’s ribs pulsed gently — like a second heartbeat, answering his own.

“You’ve been amazing, Damian. You didn’t have to do this. But you did. You’re… giving me a chance. A life.”

“You are alive,” Damian said immediately, frowning. “I’ve felt it since the beginning.”

“Still. I just wanted to say it out loud. Since now I can.” A pause. Then Danny added more playfully, “Also, I missed your grumpy voice. It’s weirdly comforting.”

Damian rolled his eyes and leaned back on the bed, gazing at the ceiling. “I am not grumpy.”

“Mmhm. Says the guy who threatens to bite people when they try to hug him.”

“…Only if they’re hugging me for too long.”

Danny laughed, and Damian didn’t realize how much he had missed talking to Danny.

They sat in silence for a while, Damian with his hand on his stomach, Danny just… there. In the air. In his chest.

“I’m proud of you, by the way,” Danny said eventually. “I know this hasn’t been easy. You’ve been through a lot. But you’ve kept going.”

“I had to,” Damian whispered. “There wasn’t a choice.”

“Still. Thank you.”

Damian swallowed thickly. The room didn’t feel empty anymore.

Just his.

“…Welcome back,” Damian said quietly.

“I never really left.”

The room hummed with warmth. Damian’s eyes slowly closed, one hand resting over his heart, the other on his stomach.

He didn’t sleep just yet — not while the voice stayed. Not while Danny hummed softly under his skin.

But he rested. And for the first time in weeks, it was real.

And safe.

And enough.

Chapter Text

Damian had grown selective about where he spoke to Danny.

When he wandered the garden paths in the morning mist, he’d slow his steps and tilt his head toward his chest, speaking in a soft, low tone. His fingers brushed the necklace Frostbite had given him — the one that held what remained of Danny’s stabilizing ectoplasm — and he'd murmur stories about what he was planting next or ask if Danny liked the sun.

When he curled up in the library with an old book no one else touched, he'd hold the pages open one-handed and smile slightly, whispering, "You’d like this part," before reading it aloud — only to Danny.

But it was the nursery where he shone brightest.

That evening, the manor was quiet. Most of the family had gathered in the hallway, keeping their voices low. Damian hadn’t noticed them when he slipped past, barefoot, hoodie loose over his shoulders as he gently opened the nursery door.

They didn’t mean to follow. Not really.

But curiosity — and something softer, something warmer — pulled them in.

He hadn’t turned the light on.

Only the soft blue glow from the nightlight shaped like a ghost lit the space, casting gentle shadows over the crib, the tiny bookshelf, the stuffed animals lined in perfect, serious rows.

Damian stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. He didn’t notice the eyes just barely peeking through the slight crack left open.

Inside, his voice was quiet. Calm.

“I know I said we’d wait until you’re born to come in here again, but I thought… well, it’s nighttime. It’s peaceful. You might like it better this way.”

He ran his hand over the soft edges of the crib.

“I think you’ll like the bat plushie Cass picked. She said it reminded her of me. I disagree. It’s too cute. You’ll probably love it.”

He chuckled under his breath.

“…I think they’re really starting to believe it. That you’re real. That you’re mine.”

The Batfamily barely breathed.

Stephanie’s hand was pressed to her mouth. Dick blinked quickly. Jason had gone quiet, his jaw tight. Even Tim looked away, blinking something back.

Bruce said nothing. But his expression had cracked — not into pain, not into fear. Into something smaller. Something grateful.

“I’m going to train you early,” Damian continued, settling gently into the rocking chair, one arm resting across his bump. “But not in fighting. In knowing who you are. In never doubting it.”

He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment.

“I think I’ll call you my starling. You remind me of starlings. They’re small but loud. They stick together. They're fiercely clever. And everyone underestimates them.”

There was a pause.

Then a soft laugh. “Yes, I know. You're not that loud.” Another chuckle. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

He rocked slowly.

“I want you to feel safe here. I didn’t, for a long time. But you will.” His voice dropped, tender. “I’ll make sure you do.”

The door had long since stopped being a barrier.

Because behind it, the Batfamily — his brothers, his sisters, his father — stood together, eyes full of quiet tears, listening not to a child who had been broken…

…but to a father who was learning to love.

Not with big words. Not with grand speeches.

But in a whisper.

In the safety of soft light and toy-lined cribs and ghost-shaped nightlights.

In the promise of a name only he would use.

In the joy of a conversation no one else could hear.

And as Damian whispered one last goodnight to Danny, the Batfamily pulled away from the door, hearts full, eyes stinging.

He had been so scared to tell them.

But now they knew:

He wasn’t just surviving.

He was bonding. Dreaming. Loving.

And the little soul inside him — the one he called starling — was already loved more than he would ever understand.

Chapter Text

It started in the kitchen over coffee.

Stephanie twirled her mug between her hands, eyes distant but excited. “Okay, but hear me out—what if we threw a baby shower for Damian?”

Barbara blinked. “Like… a full-on baby shower?”

“Exactly that,” Steph said, sitting up straighter. “The whole nine yards. Decorations, gifts, cake—maybe a theme?”

Cass tilted her head thoughtfully, then raised her hands to sign, He’d pretend not to like it.

“But he would love it,” Barbara added with a smile. “Deep down. He’s already talking to the baby every night, and you saw his face when he showed him the nursery. He’s attached.”

He needs joy, Cass signed slowly, her fingers steady. Not just recovery. Celebration.

The room went quiet for a moment.

Because they all felt it—the heaviness still lingering in the manor, the way everyone tiptoed around the word pregnant like it was something fragile. Like Damian was still breaking instead of healing.

But he was healing.

He was laughing more. Talking to Danny with such gentleness, showing real joy.

He deserved to be celebrated for that.

“Then we’re doing it,” Steph declared, standing with renewed determination. “We’ll plan it. Keep it a surprise. Something small but full of love. Just us and the boys. No big public spectacle.”

“And no weird party games,” Barbara warned. “We want Damian to feel seen, not embarrassed.”

Cass smiled and signed, We’ll make it beautiful.

---

They roped Alfred in first—because of course they did. He was delighted. More than delighted. He even offered to handle the cake himself.

Then came the difficult part: roping in the Batboys.

“Wait… like, a baby shower?” Jason said, pausing mid-rep in the training room. “With balloons and tiny booties and all that?”

“Exactly,” Barbara nodded.

Jason blinked. “Hell yeah, I’m in.”

Dick was next. He actually teared up.

“We’re celebrating him,” he said, voice thick. “Not just the baby. Damian doesn’t get that enough.”

Even Tim agreed instantly—though he quietly asked if he could make a slideshow of baby essentials and possible prep logistics, which they all politely ignored.

---

The planning began in secret.

The theme? Subtly celestial, with shades of black and midnight blue, soft silvers and glowing stars. Something elegant—quiet like Damian, but still filled with wonder.

They found baby clothes with tiny capes and a onesie with "Heir to the Night" embroidered in silver thread. A shadowbox of sonogram photos was framed for display. Steph even commissioned a little plush modeled after Damian’s first Robin suit.

It all came together beautifully.

They picked a date: a week from now. And they all silently hoped Damian would let himself enjoy it.

Because if anyone deserved joy after everything, it was him.

Chapter Text

Bruce was not an oblivious man.

He noticed the hushed whispers. The way Stephanie would elbow Dick and then pretend she hadn’t said anything. The smirk Tim wore while closing his laptop when Damian walked into the room. Even Cass, with her silent grace, was more secretive than usual—giving short, carefully-worded signs when Damian asked what she was up to.

And Alfred? Alfred had been unusually elusive in the kitchen. That was the biggest red flag of all.

Bruce leaned against the counter one morning, arms crossed, watching Alfred subtly shuffle papers out of Damian’s line of sight.

“They’re planning something,” Damian said softly beside him.

Bruce didn’t look down right away, only hummed in agreement. “Seems like it.”

Damian squinted suspiciously. “Do you know what it is?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I might.”

“Will you tell me?”

“No.”

Damian huffed. “You’re all terrible liars.”

Bruce smiled slightly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s a good surprise. You’ll see.”

Damian looked like he wanted to argue but instead went quiet, watching Alfred with a narrowed gaze and lips pressed tight.

---

Damian should have known something was off the moment Alfred handed him a light sage-green shirt after breakfast.

“You’ll want something comfortable and breathable for the afternoon,” Alfred had said, carefully folding it for him.

Damian raised a suspicious brow. “You’re being vague.”

Alfred’s face remained unreadable. “Vague, sir? Never.”

Danny stirred in the back of his mind, his presence warm and faintly amused.
“You’ll like it. I promise.”

---

The garden was glowing.

Lanterns were strung high between the trees, floating softly in the afternoon breeze. The flowerbeds had been freshly trimmed and filled with pale blues, whites, and soft yellows. A long table was draped in linen, covered in pastel cupcakes, plates of tea sandwiches, and elegant pitchers of iced herbal tea.

And above it all, in looping script:

“Welcome, Little Star”

Damian stopped walking.

All of his siblings, Alfred, even Bruce, stood in soft-colored clothing, wearing awkwardly hopeful expressions. Cass was the first to move, stepping up and gently tapping him on the arm.

She signed carefully, slowly: All for you. And the baby. We love you.

Damian’s lips parted, but no sound came out. The reality sank in slowly.

This… was for him?

“You did this?” he asked softly, his voice already starting to crack.

“For you,” Dick said with a warm smile, though his eyes were already glistening.

“And your mini-you,” Jason added, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “Didn’t think we’d let this moment pass, did you?”

“I…” Damian stepped forward uncertainly, one hand resting on the curve of his stomach. The bump had grown. He could feel Danny stirring faintly within—quiet but calm.

“They did all this for us?” Danny whispered, his voice small and awed.

Yes, Damian thought. They did.

And it hit him, then. How much they loved him. How hard they were trying.

It overwhelmed him.

Tears slipped from his eyes before he could stop them.

Stephanie quickly wrapped him in a gentle hug. Cass followed. Duke rested a hand on his shoulder. Damian didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He simply let himself cry, quiet and open, surrounded by people who refused to let him do this alone.

---

The baby shower flowed with soft joy.

There were little games, baskets of baby clothes, a handmade mobile from Jason, and tiny embroidered blankets from Alfred. Tim and Barbara had made a digital scrapbook with spaces for baby pictures and milestones. Cass gifted a baby sling, and Duke handed him a star-shaped nightlight that glowed a gentle green.

---

As the sun set, casting amber light over the garden, Damian stood by the rose bushes, a cup of mint tea cradled in his hand, the cool breeze brushing against his cheeks still damp from earlier tears.

“They love you,” Danny whispered again, quieter this time.

“I know,” Damian replied softly. “But I didn’t expect this.”

“We’re lucky.”

Damian rested both hands on his belly. “Yeah… we are.”

He smiled, his chest heavy with love, and for a moment, he leaned into that feeling completely.