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Bruce had barely made it through the door when he was met with his youngest’s scowling face and crossed arms.
“I want to go trick-or-treating,” Damian declared, puffing out his chest like a challenge.
“You’re not going trick-or-treating,” Bruce said, keeping his tone even. “We have patrol tonight. It’s going to be a long one, and you need to save your energy.”
Damian’s expression soured instantly at Bruce’s words.
“But all the other kids get to!” he protested, voice rising an octave.
“It’s not fair. It’s not fair! ” He stomped his foot, his face crumpling in frustration. “Why can’t I just go now? I’ll still have plenty of time to get ready for patrol.”
He was whining—actually whining—agitation evident in his tone and body language.
Bruce hesitated. Damian doesn’t ask for much, and he rarely partakes in activities geared toward his age group.
Plus, it was only 6 p.m. The sun was still up. It wouldn’t even be dark for a while. He supposed most kids Damian’s age were getting ready to go out for a night of trailing behind parents or older siblings, with their cheap plastic pumpkin baskets or pillowcases in hand.
Still…Bruce wasn’t exactly obsessed with the idea of working alongside a sugar drunk 9 year old on Gotham’s most chaotic night of the year.
And he really didn’t love the thought of Damian out in public without the protection of his Robin gear, even in their neighborhood. Gotham on Halloween had a reputation.
He tried to deflect.
“Do you even have a costume?” Bruce asked, folding his arms. “Or were you just planning on going in your civvies?”
He expected the question to deflate Damian’s argument. Instead, Damian straightened up, defiance flashing in his eyes.
“I made one.”
That made Bruce pause.
“You made one?”
“I’m going to be a butterfly,” Damian said, with a strange mix of pride and challenge in his voice—as if daring Bruce to laugh at him. “Please. I really want to go.”
The last part came out softer, more uncertain. Bruce picked up on the difference.
He’ll never admit that the mental image of Damian dressed as a butterfly was doing a lot to help change his mind.
“I’ve never celebrated this holiday,” Damian tacked on, arms folding defensively. “I want to see what all the fuss is about. Everyone at school was going on about it. I’m sure it’s mostly childish nonsense, but I need to test the hypothesis for myself.”
That landed.
He’s never had a Halloween before.
Somehow that fact—obvious as it should’ve been—hit him harder than expected. Of course he hadn’t. Damian was raised in the League of Assassins. And as far as Bruce knew. Damian was the only child there.
Bruce also realized, with a quiet twinge of guilt, that Damian had probably been the only kid in his class today without a costume. That he’d sat there in civilian clothes while the rest of his peers paraded around in capes and masks and glittered wings—and said nothing about it.
Bruce ran a hand down his face.
He’d spent the whole day finalizing patrol routes, tweaking contingency plans, and double-checking equipment. He hadn’t had a kid young enough or interested enough to want to trick-or-treat since the first year Dick entered the manor. He'd forgotten that Halloween, for most kids, wasn’t about fear or violence. It was about dress-up. Candy. Fun.
He looked at Damian again—defensive, slightly embarrassed, clearly trying not to seem too eager—and made a decision.
“Alright,” Bruce said quietly. “We’ll go. But just for a little bit.
Damian paused, like he was in disbelief.
“Really? Ok, I need to do my face paint!” Then he took off down the hallway towards his room.
“I’m giving you 30 minutes!” Bruce called after him. “I want us to leave before 7!”
He assumed the boy heard him if the sudden urgency in his footsteps was anything to go by.
Bruce stood there for a moment, surprised. He hadn’t expected that reaction. Honestly, he would’ve guessed Damian would scoff at the idea of participating in something so childish.
Still, Bruce heads up to his room, checking his watch to not lose track of time.
He doesn’t want to be recognized. He doesn’t want Damian's first time trick-or-treating to be ruined by bombarding paparazzi or people asking for pictures.
He prides himself on keeping his children's faces out of the media as much as possible. Nobody should be able to recognize Damian as being the son of Bruce Wayne, and whatever face paint he was currently working on should help too.
Finding a last minute costume was surprisingly easy. A gray jacket. A well-worn fedora. And, tucked away behind a row of designer sunglasses , were his Gray Ghost goggles.
He was a bit of a nerd. Sue him.
Once dressed, Bruce made his way back to the main foyer, adjusting his sleeves as Alfred met him at the bottom of the grand staircase. They were in the middle of a conversation about rewaxing the east wing floors when the unmistakable sound of feet thundering down the hall interrupted them.
When Damian appeared, Bruce’s heart actually melted.
The boy looked adorable.
His face was painted in soft swirls of green, blue, and pinky purple—the boy’s artistic prowess on full display. He’s got a pair of curly black antennae sitting on top of his unruly hair. They're made out of pipe cleaners—Bruce is sure he probably made them himself too.
In one hand, he held a silk pillowcase, likely stolen right off of his bed—ready to be filled with the night’s prizes.
But the wings… the wings were the best part.
They were made out of cardboard, painted and cut into shape, with different colored pieces of cellophane taped behind large cut-outs. They caught the evening light streaming through the tall front windows, and scattered little pools of color across the polished floor like stained glass.
Something warm and aching swelled in Bruce’s chest at the sight of his son looking so young and innocent—shrouded in a sea of rainbows he created for himself.
“I believe we’ll be needing some pictures before you head out,” Alfred said softly, already reaching for Bruce’s phone.
He snapped a few shots of Damian standing in the entryway, coaxing out a rare, genuine smile—something only Alfred could pull off. He adjusted the angle to make sure the rainbow shadows from the wings were visible.
“Alright. Now the both of you.”
Bruce didn’t argue. He stepped beside Damian, resting a gentle hand on the back of his son’s head, careful not to knock his headband as Alfred raised the phone again.
The boy pressed into him—just slightly.
And Bruce couldn’t help it.
He smiled. A real one. The kind that makes your cheeks ache in the best way.
Bruce thinks that hearing Damian say “Trick or treat” with his accent might be one of his favorite sounds.
The first time Damian said it—slightly awkward, standing in front of someone’s door—Bruce nearly laughed. But the house’s owner cooed at him immediately, dropping fun sized candy bars into his pillowcase and complimenting his costume.
The wings had gotten several compliments too.
Each time, Damian had ducked his head slightly, muttering small thank yous. Bruce could see the pink rise in his cheeks from underneath his face paint.
He was blushing.
Bruce refrained from mentioning it.
At one point, as they moved between houses, Damian darted ahead—distracted by a lawn completely overrun by animatronics, fake cobb webs, and cleverly carved pumpkins. Bruce, trailing a few steps behind, paused.
He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick photo—Damian’s handmade butterfly wings glowing in the golden remains of the sunset, scattering rays of colored light across the pavement as he stared, completely enthralled.
Bruce looked at the image for a long moment.
Then slid the phone back into his pocket.
It might be his new favorite picture of his youngest son.
They’d been out for about half an hour now. Damian’s silk pillowcase was already a quarter full, and Bruce could tell by the way the boy kept checking inside it that he was satisfied with his haul so far. He’d been ranking the candy as they walked.
“People who don’t like licorice have the palette of a small child”
“These people gave me circus peanuts. I’m saving them for Grayson.”
Bruce opened his mouth to reply to another one of Damian’s quips when a high-pitched voice rang out in front of them.
“Dami!”
A blur of sparkles and fairy wings came flying toward them. Damian turned just in time to get full on tackled in a hug by a little girl, who looked to be about his age.
“Hello, Arabelle,” Damian said, stumbling back, before hesitantly wrapping an arm around her.
The girl beamed up at him. “I knew it was you! I could recognize you even with the face paint!”
Behind her, a woman jogged up, slightly out of breath and wearing a half-apologetic, half-amused expression.
“Sorry,” she said quickly to Bruce. “She spotted him from down the block. They’re in the same class.”
Before Bruce could respond, the girl turned back to Damian and shouted, “Come on! There’s a house at the end of the street that gives out king sized candy bars!”
Then—without hesitation—she laced her fingers through Damian’s and tugged him down the sidewalk.
Damian didn’t protest.
Bruce raised an eyebrow, quietly filing the moment away. He hadn’t heard Damian mention an Arabelle before. Not even once. And yet here she was, holding his hand like it was nothing—and Damian was letting her. That alone was enough to make Bruce wonder what else his son wasn’t sharing about his school days.
Maybe it was time to start asking more about them.
The two compared their candy, and critiqued decorations as they made their way through the neighbourhood. Booing at the houses who had none.
At one point, Arabelle offers Damian a pink Starburst in exchange for one of his Twix bars.
He says yes.
Bruce blinks. That’s growth.
Bruce kept his distance, letting the kids take the lead, but keeping a watchful eye just in case. Watching them walk side by side—Damian’s rainbow wings glinting every time the light caught them just right, his pillowcase swinging from one hand, the other still loosely clasped in Arabelle’s—Bruce felt a warmth settle in his chest.
Bruce couldn’t help but admire his son at that moment. This wasn’t Robin. This wasn’t the heir to the League or a soldier who began training from the moment he could walk.
This was a little boy. In a butterfly costume. Trick-or-treating with a friend.
And Bruce didn’t want to interrupt that.
Instead, he made easy small talk with Arabelle’s mother—Amy, he learned—who apparently does a lot of volunteering in Damian’s third grade class, and had many kind things to say about Damian’s creative abilities.
By the time the sun had fully dipped beneath the horizon, she had already convinced him into signing up to help the kids make gingerbread houses in December.
He checked his watch when the streetlights started buzzing to life overhead.
Almost 8.
Still, Bruce couldn’t help himself—he took another picture of the two of them, promising to send it to Amy before he called out to Damian.
“Alright Dames. Time to start wrapping it up.”
Arabelle gave a dramatic aww, but didn’t argue. “Do you have to go home, Dami?”
Damian nodded. “Yes. I have… prior obligations.”
“ Come on Ari. We’re heading the other direction—say goodnight, kiddo.” Amy nudged her daughter, waving a quick bye to Bruce.
Arabelle gave Damian another fierce hug, nearly knocking him off balance again. “Happy Halloween! Your wings are so cool. ”
“Thanks,” Damian said quietly. “Yours are… accurate to fairy lore.”
Arabelle beamed. “I know right!”
Then she darted off, once again followed behind by her mother, calling out another bubbly goodbye over her shoulder.
Damian stood still for a beat, watching her get further away.
Then he turned back to Bruce.
“She’s very talkative.”
“You like her.”
“I tolerate her.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“She gave me a Starburst.”
“Uh-huh,” Bruce smiled.
Damian dumped out the contents of his very full pillowcase all over the dining room table as soon as they got home. Beginning to sort his candy into meticulous piles.
“I have come to the conclusion,” he announced, crumpling up a wrapper with visible disdain, “that I am not fond of American chocolate.”
“I’ll take them off your hands,” said a voice from the doorway.
Tim.
He strolled into the room with his usual casualness, dressed in sweats and socks, and yawning like he’d just woken up. He looked down at the spread of candy with interest.
Damian narrowed his eyes. “You may take the inferior chocolate. Touch the caramels and I’ll make sure you lose a finger.”
“Duly noted,” Tim said, rolling his eyes as he walked around the table and grabbed a couple Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups off the table.
“Nice wings, by the way.”
Damian stiffened.
Then glanced down at himself.
He’d forgotten he was still wearing the costume.
The face paint was a little smudged now, and his antennae drooped slightly, it made him look even more like a little kid.
“Shut up,” Damian mutters, crossing his arms.
“I said they were nice,” Tim said around a mouthful of chocolate. “Seriously. You look cool.”
Bruce didn’t interfere
He just leaned back—watching as his son sorted his Halloween candy with the ruthlessness of a drill sergeant—occasionally throwing unwanted chocolates in the direction of Tim’s face.
Tim had left at some point stuffing his chocolate collection into the pockets of his sweatpants as he went.
Bruce watched Damian’s pile of wrappers grow for a little longer before he decided that Damian was toeing the line of too much candy.
I think that’s enough candy for the night,” He said. “We still have patrol.”
Damian looked up from his meticulous sorting operation, narrowed his eyes and in a truly un-Damian-like gesture—stuck out his tongue.
It was completely blue.
Bruce blinked. “What did you eat?”
“Something radioactive,” Damian replied, voice perfectly deadpan, before hopping down from the chair and padding toward the stairs, wings fluttering behind him. “I’m going to shower.”
He got about halfway through the door before he hesitated. Then, without warning, he turned back around and sprinted toward Bruce, launching himself forward in a hug not unlike the one Arabelle gave the boy earlier.
Bruce stumbled with the force of it, caught off guard by the outburst of affection from his usually touch adverse 9 year old. Still, he recovered quickly, picking the boy up quickly and squeezing tight. Careful to avoid crushing his wings, and not caring that face paint had properly smeared all over his coat, neck and maybe his cheek too.
“Thank you.” Damian whispered into his ear.
Bruce held him tighter. “You're welcome. I had fun.”
Damian wiggled out of Bruce's arms, taking his pillowcase—now only containing his favorites—and rushed toward his room.
“Meet you in the cave” he called, already halfway down the hall.
The house finally fell quiet after a few moments, but Bruce waited another thirty seconds to make his move just to be sure.
He walked over to the table, scanning over the leftover piles and casually swiped a KitKat.
He unwrapped it slowly, glanced toward the hallway, and took a bite.
The wrapper crinkled faintly in his hand.
He’s already planning on his costume for next year.
