I've Got to Learn

by BrickSheep

Summary:

Damian wakes up as a two-year-old and quickly gets tired of it. It seemed like a good idea to be independent. Unfortunately, he hadn't anticipated his family's reactions, or how devastated his father would become.

Chapter 1

Damian didn’t believe in reincarnation.

However, when he reached the age of two years old, Damian remembered everything.

It shakes his whole world. Damian just sits on his bed, crafted for children his size, and stares into space. Damian takes several moments to breathe. Then, when his mind boots back into gear, everything settles. It all makes sense. 

Damian had been reincarnated. Damian had been reincarnated into a different universe. It was the only way to explain his infantile memories. Otherwise, Damian was in a program of some sort, or perhaps he was dealing with a detailed hallucination. Either way, he was here now, and he didn’t know what to do.

“Damian, hey, is something wrong?”

Damian’s eyes drift to the massive mattress in the center of the room. His father, looking younger than Damian remembered, looks concerned for him. He was propped up on an elbow, laying on his side, giving Damian a worried gaze. Damian can’t recall ever seeing that expression on his face. His father – the one he knew – reigned his emotions in. It was rare to see his features showcase anything that wasn’t tight, grim, or stiff. Damian’s father wasn’t supposed to be an open book.

“C’mere, buddy,” Bruce beckons. Damian watches him pat the mattress. It’s other-worldly. It has him narrowing his vision on his father’s unscarred fingers. Then, they travel up his father’s naked arms, finally landing on his exposed chest. Damian’s fingers twitch in his lap when he notices that there wasn’t a single scar to examine. Not only was he missing his scars, but there was a significant lack of muscle. He was still fit, make no mistake, but he wasn’t an absolute tank. Not like – not like he was supposed to be.

Bruce starts straightening himself up when Damian doesn’t make a move. Damian knows from memory – the memory that belonged to this dimension – that his father wouldn't hurt him. Even so, he was too stunned to move, and Damian couldn’t do anything past his twitching fingers.

Bruce gets out of bed. Then, he approaches Damian, giving him a soft voice. “Is everything alright, peanut? Are you feeling sick?”

Damian feels like he’s having an out-of-body experience when his father starts feeling his forehead. He stares into his father’s face, untainted by wrinkles, stress lines, and dark circles. It’s an utterly fascinating sight. Damian doesn’t know where else to look.

“Well, you don’t feel hot,” Bruce mumbles, flipping his hand around for a second go.

Damian endures the treatment until his father withdraws. Stumped, his father thinks over the situation for a moment, speaking only when a plan is made.

“Let’s get you dressed,” he decides aloud. Damian knows from memory that getting dressed is always the first thing he does in the day. That and – and – oh no. Damian was wearing a diaper and that meant-

Bruce leaves Damian’s bedside to fish a diaper from a massive box of huggies in the corner of the room. Damian panics when his father grabs a package of wipes. Damian needed to show that he was potty-trained. Now. He might have been able to handle having his diaper changed the day previous, when he didn’t have about twenty years of memories in his head, but things were different now.

Damian quickly descends from his bed. He says one word, his favorite, “No.”

Damian pinches his brows when the denial spills from his mouth. It didn’t sound right. It didn’t feel right. His mouth – his tongue – it was as if it were brand new to him. Damian’s tongue wasn’t as practiced as it used to be. It also didn’t have the maneuverability he remembered. It was fat in his mouth. It wasn’t normal.

Bruce turns from the dresser where he was grabbing a short-sleeved onesie. Damian begins a staring contest with him.

Damian wondered why reincarnation was even a thing when it led to situations like this. Damian could only imagine how strange it must feel to have a two-year-old staring you down.

“No?” His father repeats, “What do you mean, no?”

Damian points towards the bathroom. He tries to pronounce the word, tries to say toilet, but all that comes out is weird gibberish. His mouth skipped all the hard letters and only pronounced the letter o.

Bruce follows Damian’s finger, looks back at him, and beams.

“You want to use the bathroom,” he realizes. “Is that right?”

Damian nods. Tries to say yes, but what really comes out is, “es.”

Bruce looks downright gleeful. “I knew you’d come around.”

Damian automatically knew he was referring to his aversion to the toilet. Young Damian, the one who used to be before today, hated the flushing noise. He also hated being on the cold toilet seat, held up by his father’s hands, and hated sitting there until something came out.

Damian suddenly realizes that he wasn’t going to get any privacy. It didn’t matter if he was going to get his diaper changed, or if he sat on the toilet to show off that he was potty-trained. His father, regardless of circumstance, would be there to supervise him.

Bruce keeps the diaper in hand as he opens the bathroom door. Damian wouldn’t have been capable of opening it himself. While tall enough to reach his fingers for the knob, the knob itself was protected by a child-lock device, put there to prevent Damian from wandering around in the bathroom at night. Damian tended to make a mess of things when left unsupervised.

Well, that’s not going to happen, not anymore, Damian thinks.

Damian wobbles towards the bathroom with a full diaper. It’s the most humiliating experience in existence. Damian now knows why many adults can’t remember their childhood. This stuff – these experiences – who’d want to remember walking around with a diaper full of soilage? Damian was not having a good time.

I don’t know what the universe is thinking, putting me here, but I think it made a giant mistake.

Damian didn’t want to have to live all over again.

Yet, here he is, patting onto cold tile. His father is gently ushering him forward, lightly tapping the back of his head to get him moving towards the toilet, all while Damian stares at the ceramic throne with a dry mouth.

Damian was already miserable.

---

Damian doesn’t touch any of his food when he takes a good look at the people eating breakfast.

Damian spends a good amount staring at the side of Dick’s face. Dick was as his infant form remembered; young, moody, and grumpy. Dick had baby-fat on his cheeks. Damian looked like he was twelve. It was jarring. Damian had seen the pictures, but seeing the real thing in action? Seeing Dick this young – this childish? It was surreal.

Damian’s staring goes unnoticed as Dick plays with his pancakes. Dick had his own problems to worry about.

“Master Dick, I must insist that you eat,” Alfred says after placing down a bottle of syrup.

That was another thing – Alfred was eating at the table.

“It’ll do you some good,” Alfred continues.

“I don’t want to eat,” Dick grumbles before pushing his plate away entirely. After he does so, he rests his head on the table, frowns, and hides his face from everyone in the room. Alfred looks displeased because of it.

Alfred also has black hair as if it were dipped in charcoal. Damian’s eyes had a new target. It laid on every strand that covered what would later recede to become a future bald spot.

“Master Dick, being grounded does not warrant negligence of your health,” Alfred tuts.

Dick opts to ignore him.

Damian tunes out anything that Alfred says after expressing his concerns. He stares at his head, just for a few minutes longer, and then his eyes slowly drift to the newspaper in his father’s hands. For some reason, Damian was expecting a devastating headline, probably something to do with a criminal that belonged in Arkham, but he finds nothing of such. Damian, instead, reads a headline that states, in bold print: LEX LUTHOR MADE PRESIDENT!

Lex was standing on the cover photo with his hand upon the bible. He – just like Alfred – had a full head of hair.

Damian had no idea what to think of it.

“You haven’t touched your food, sweetheart,” a voice sounds from above the newspaper.

Damian’s eyes travel upward to look at his father who was peering at him with scrunched up brows.

“I think Damian has been feeling off since this morning,” Bruce comments. He folds his newspaper up, places it on the table, and then gives Alfred a worried glance. “I don’t know why he isn’t eating.”

Alfred dabs at his lips with a napkin. “I suspect that you already checked his temperature?”

“I checked his temperature, looked for rashes, checked his teeth, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. Besides, if he was uncomfortable, he would have thrown a fit by now. Still, he’s been unusually quiet, and I’m concerned that he doesn’t seem interested in his food.”

“Strange,” Alfred mumbles in thought. After mulling over the matter, he suggests, “I imagine he might be more receptive to breakfast if you helped him.”

“Maybe,” Bruce agrees. He shuffles his chair sideways, reaches up for Damian’s tiny fork (plastic and stubby), and then pokes it through a torn pancake (previously cut by Alfred). Bruce then offers it to Damian by holding it up to his mouth. Damian’s pride is the only thing that prevents him from eating. Having had enough of this babying nonsense, Damian grabs the fork from his father’s hand, slips it out of his grip, and then uses it to feed himself.

It’s a victory in his family’s book. Bruce loses some tension in his shoulders, and Alfred feels comfortable enough to look away.

“You’re doing a good job holding your fork, son,” Bruce comments as Damian takes a bite.

“Master Dick,” Alfred is on a different conversation now that Damian is taken care of, “I’ll have you know that the young West boy probably won’t feel welcomed with your current disposition.”

Dick shifts.

Slowly, he raises his head, and tries to wrap his mind around what had just been said.

“Wally?”

“I invited him over for the week, but it appears you may not be up to it.”

Dick stares at Alfred for a good long second before booting his brain back to gear. “No, no,” he rushes, “I’m up to it. I’m fine!”

“I won’t know until you start eating,” Alfred says. “It worries me that you skipped two meals the previous day. I can’t handle another.”

Dick sighs, picks up his fork, and reluctantly starts tearing apart his first pancake. “I’m eating,” he says, gesturing towards his fork, “see?”

“I do,” Alfred confirms, pleased. “If you continue at this rate, your plate will be empty when your friend arrives.”

Damian stops eating his own food, once again, fascinated with the triviality of Dick’s issue. It was strange that he was acting like a – like a child. Damian had never known Dick at this point in life. Had never seen what he used to be like in moments like these. It was all just stories.

Damian stops staring at Dick when he realizes that he needs to eat his food. He looks down, carefully stabs his next pancake, and then brings it up to his lips. Apparently, this simple action stood in need for praise, because after he’d made his demonstration, Alfred comments on it.

“Why, Master Bruce, did I not tell you that your example would set Damian on the right path? Look at those manners, they are wonderful.”

“Is he copying the way I eat?”

“It seems so.”

No, I’m just trying to figure out how to use these chubby fingers, Damian grumbles inwardly.

“He’s always been a quick learner,” Bruce says.

Damian ignores them and tries not to feel out of place.

---

Damian is given a variety of objects to keep himself occupied in the entertainment room. Alfred sat himself on the recliner with a book in his hands. A hot cup of tea sat on the table to his side, perched atop a coaster, accompanied with a few bottles of water for the welcomed guest.

Dick wasn’t allowed to play video games because he was grounded. However, the board games were free for grabs, and Dick took advantage of it. Damian only had to glance to his left if he wanted to see Dick playing on the carpet. Wally, in his gap-toothed glory, listened as Dick read out the rules. Damian had watched them for a time before turning to his own hoard of items. Alfred had dragged out a box of toys solely compiled for Damian’s amusement.

Damian looks through the toys and realizes that they all have similarities. They were all bright, colorful, and eye-catching. Some of them encouraged hand dexterity, others encouraged intellect, and the rest relied on the individual’s creativity. Damian wasn’t terribly interested in any of them. Regardless, messing with the toys beat being bored, so Damian messed around with a basic puzzle box. It was simplified for the average two-year old. Damian simple had to take the animal carvings out, put them back into their proper shapes, and then done.

Oh, that was faster than expected, Damian blinks.

He moves on to the blocks, stacked neatly within a cube, and dumps them all out on the coffee table. Alfred peeks up from his book to check on him before returning his attention to the text. Damian briefly registers the fact that he didn’t need glasses.

Dick makes a lot of noise in the background as Damian starts stacking the blocks. He rests his cheek on the table, picks up a block, and lazily builds a sturdy tower with a solid foundation. It holds his attention for ten minutes. When he’s done, Damian decides to destroy his creation, smacking it until it clatters onto the table.

Damian hates being like this. Hates not being able to do anything.

Damian stares out into space as he rests his head on the table. His gaze, which primarily lays on the wall, doesn’t move. Damian tunes back into Dick’s conversation with Wally. The two are joking about a girl that Wally met, someone called Priscilla, and Wally is imitating her voice as he makes his move on their game. Candy Land. Dick thinks it’s hilarious. Honestly, anything that comes out of Wally’s mouth makes Dick cackle, and Damian can only wonder as to why. Wally wasn’t all that funny.

Another ten minutes pass, Damian snuffles, and Alfred carefully places a ribbon within his book for safekeeping.

Then, after closing it, he places it down onto the side-table. Damian hears him get off the recliner, take a few steps, and proceeds to get a face-full of him after he crouches down. Damian looks up at Alfred silently.

“I think your father is right about you being ill,” Alfred says with the crease of his brows.

Damian doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t have anything to say. He could correct Alfred, but what would that do? Alfred wouldn’t even understand what was coming out of his mouth. It was pointless to try.

“Is Damian sick?”

It surprises Damian that Wally is the one to ask this question. It just didn’t seem like it was any of his concern. It shouldn’t be. Damian barely knows him, Wally barely knows Damian, so why would he bother?

“That might be the case,” Alfred admits, “but I can’t be too sure.”

“It’s fine Wally, let’s play. Alfred will take care of him,” Dick says.

Wally continues as if Dick was not trying to grab his attention, “Is there anything I can help you with?”

Alfred looks pleasantly surprised. A charmed smile makes way on his lips, the kind that Alfred doesn’t put on for just anyone, right before he says, “I’ll be quite alright. I think Damian might feel better after having a nap.”

Damian did not want to nap.

“No,” Damian says.

Alfred quirks a brow.

“No,” Damian says again. He lifts his head, looks Alfred in the eye with a good degree of stubbornness, and waits their stare out. Alfred is surprised with his conviction. It even seems to unsettle him.

“Ah – uhm – then what about a story?”

It was not often that Alfred seemed frazzled.

“I know you love stories,” Alfred continues.

Damian thinks it over before looking over his toys. It’s an easy decision. With the nod of his head, Damian answers, “es.”

Alfred reaches down as if to lift him up but Damian resists. “No!”

Damian would rather avoid being picked up as much as possible.

Alfred draws back with stunned features. Dick had grown quiet with fascination, and Wally was now completely enthralled. Damian was putting on quite the spectacle.

“No,” Damian warns Alfred again as the butler dares to test him. Damian gets up by himself, shows Alfred that he’s perfectly capable of walking, and then leads the way for the library. Alfred sticks in place for a couple of seconds before realizing that Damian was about to get away.

Dick and Wally were left on the floor to puzzle over the event.

---

Damian’s behavior ends up bothering everyone within the family. Damian knows that he is at fault, but he didn’t want to be treated like a child. Damian wanted to be his own person again. Wanted to be the adult that he was supposed to be.

Instead, he gets sent to a pediatrician, because avoiding his own father’s touch had been the last straw. It’d been an interesting spectacle when he’d done it with Alfred. However, when it came to his own father, that’s when things started to escalate. Bruce was noticeably distressed that Damian wouldn’t accept touch of any kind, and that was particularly upsetting to a man who’s love language relied on such.

Which, by itself, was ridiculous. Bruce Wayne didn’t touch people to show affection. It was never a thing. It wasn’t supposed to be a thing. Damian was supposed to have a distant relationship with him. It was meant to be this way. Damian knew that this was a different universe, but everything that mattered was nearly the same. It shouldn’t be alarming to his family that Damian was like this. 

Damian sits in his own chair when the pediatrician talks to his father. She checks Damian over, suggests a time for a follow-up, and then has Alfred remove Damian from the room. Damian didn’t care for whatever conversation she had without him, but it had a deep effect on his father after it was finished. Damian sees a change in him the minute he steps foot into the waiting room.

Alfred gently inquires as to what was spoken between them in the car, and Damian could only hear because he was paying close attention.

“She wants me to get him a child psychologist,” Bruce whispers hoarsely.

Damian wanted to roll his eyes.

Instead, he sits grumpily in his seat, trapped in his restrictive seat.

“She asked me if he’d gone through a traumatic experience recently,” Bruce sounds broken. “I think she might have even thought that I – that I did something to him, Alfred.”

Alfred tightens his fingers around the wheel.

“I didn’t do anything to him, Alfred, I didn’t.”

“I know, son,” Alfred whispers.

“But why,” his voice cracks, “why would he flinch away from me as if I was about to hit him? Why does he – why does he get so angry? I just want to hold him, Alfred, I just want to hold my baby.”

Damian’s slowly feels his mental walls drop as, for the first time in his entire existence, he watches his father cry in the passenger’s seat. It’s an especially emotional cry. Damian watches his father’s shoulders shake. Sees him bury his face in his hands. Hears his tight voice squeeze out, “I don’t know what I did wrong. I must’ve hurt him somehow. I must’ve done this.”

“Oh no, my boy, you did nothing wrong,” Alfred soothes, hand itching to pull the car to a complete stop. It wasn’t a good idea in the middle of traffic. It’s the only reason Alfred doesn’t pull over to the curb. “Damian’s behavior has nothing to do with your own.”

“But I’m his parent, I’m the example,” Bruce stresses.

Damian listens to the two speak back and forth with dread. Guilt, regret, and heartache weigh down on his chest. Damian can barely stand to watch his father wipe away his own tears. It’s so unnatural but it’s real. It’s there. It’s happening. Damian can blink as many times as he wants, but nothing would change in his world. His father would keep crying, keep blaming himself, and Damian would be forced to sit here. Forced to listen to him mourn over the loss of a son. Even though Damian was in the backseat.

Damian knew he had to fix this, but he didn’t know how to go about it.

Damian swallows dryly.

Damian had to face his reality. Yes, he didn’t want to be treated like a child, but it was hurting the people around him. None of them knew – none of them understood – his situation. And, even if they did, would they see him any differently? Would it stop the way they treated them? Damian didn’t know. Regardless, it was clear that he needed to remedy his mistake, even if it meant putting down his own pride.

Damian would have to… have to act like a baby.

It’s not as if he doesn’t have experience to draw from. Damian has two years of infant memories in his head. It might be blurred a little, but he remembers how he used to think. Remembers the simple actions that made up his character. That made his father happy.

I won’t have to do this forever, Damian reasons with himself. It’d just be for a little while. Just until he was grown up.

Damian grimaces.

Chapter 2

Alfred had noticed that Damian held no interest in anything that was offered to him.

It seemed like nothing would hold Damian’s attention for long. At least, not until chalk was bought, introduced, and given. Alfred’s relief had been immense. Damian could draw for hours if his guardians allowed the chance. It might not be preferable over a canvas, but Damian would work with whatever he had. It was better than playing with regular blocks. Damian could only get so creative with toys crafted for toddlers.

Damian sits outside on the concrete driveway with a box of chalk next to his feet. Sometimes, Alfred would put shoes on him, but today was a no-shoe day. It wasn’t hot, Damian didn’t often wander into the grass, and, well, Alfred was reluctant to even touch him. It had broken the old man’s heart.

Damian winces when he thinks about it. Honestly, he didn’t know how to go about fixing any of this, but it was clear that something needed to change. Damian not only had to learn how to be a baby, but he had to learn how to accept help. Damian just… had no clue as to where he should start.

Damian feels a pair of eyes on the back of his head as he plays around with colors. Damian didn’t have to turn to know that his father had perched himself out on a chair (procured by Alfred) to watch Damian play. Damian didn’t want to look at him. Bruce had a frightening stare that contained blood-shot eyes. It made him look so sickly. It made Damian remember that his father was a completely different person. Batman wouldn’t sit out on the lawn, watch Damian draw with chalk, and lose sleep over their relationship. Damian was certain about that.

Damian outlines the form of a droopy-eyed hound. Once he’s finished, he fishes out brown chalk, and scratches up the insides with purpose. To the passive viewer, Damian was just making a mess, but Damian knew what he was doing.

Alfred comes out during Damian’s coloring project. He sets a chair out for himself, sits next to his ward, and then offers Bruce a lemonade. It takes time for Bruce to even realize anything is being offered to him. Once he realizes that Alfred’s hand is outstretched, his eyes snap away from Damian, and his hand leaves his lap. Bruce accepts the drink with murmured thanks.

Together, the two sit in silence, eyes drawn once more to Damian’s form.

“I’m glad that Master Damian enjoys the chalk,” Alfred comments after five minutes pass. “I have been… worried.”

Bruce shifts in his chair with his glass in his grip. Condensation spills over the glass, dripping off his hand, but Bruce can’t bring himself to drink.

“I think we need to take small steps,” Alfred says. “I don’t know what’s going on with our boy, but I do know that it’s not the end of everything. I believe Damian will come around.”

“Alfred, he won’t even look at me,” Bruce whispers.

“He’s playing with chalk,” Alfred points out. “It holds his interest.”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m saying that Damian won’t look at me. I’m saying that he won’t even turn when I call his name. I remember when I’d call for him, and he’d twist with this big smile on his face. I remember him springing up to run over to me with… with excitement. Now – now?” Bruce licks his dry lips. “I don’t think Damian loves me anymore.”

Alfred’s voice is raised when he intervenes. “Master Bruce, I will not hear such talk from your mouth, understand?”

Bruce turns to look at him with vulnerable eyes. 

“Damian is a smart boy,” Alfred says, “and he’s only two. Have some faith, lad!”

Bruce doesn’t know what to say. It’s all caught up in his tight throat.

Alfred has had enough of Bruce’s misery. He gestures over to Damian, tips his head in the toddler’s direction, and says, “Go spend some time with your son. You will only feed your doubts if you continue to sit here and make speculations.”

Bruce looks properly scolded when he puts his glass on the ground. He looks at Damian’s long figure, drawing a big blob of something, before standing up from his chair. Bruce is reluctant to approach him, but he couldn’t sit back down. Alfred was giving him a glare. Bruce knew he’d be in for a lecture if he gave up.

Bruce wipes at his eyes. He drags himself over to Damian’s location, dreading the inevitable, pausing only when he could make out what Damian was drawing.

Bruce’s brows pinch together as he comprehends Damian’s artistry. It takes him a minute to process it. However, when it clicks in his mind, Bruce’s jaw falls lax. He slowly lowers himself to the ground, trails his eyes over the drawing, and then travels them up to Damian’s clumsy hand.

Bruce was at a loss for words.

“Alfred?” Bruce calls out. When the butler does not respond, Bruce raises his volume. “Alfred! Come look at this!”

Alfred sighs from his seat. Bruce waits patiently for his old friend to get up. While he waits, Damian finishes up his drawing, smudging out the last touches. Bruce’s fascinated eyes follow the movement of his fingers.

“Alfred, Alfred,” Bruce repeats as the older man makes his way over, “I can’t believe this.”

Alfred stares down at the concrete with a raised brow.

“Damian – Damian did this,” Bruce says.

Bruce traces the hound with his eyes. It wasn’t the best drawing he’d ever seen, but it was impressive for a two-year-old. Bruce didn’t know of any child who could draw this well, at this age. It was unheard of. It was… it was something that’d only come from a genius in the making.

Alfred was speechless. Bruce was the opposite. He couldn’t stop talking.

“Did you know he could do this?” Bruce questions him, glancing upward.

Alfred shakes his head mutely.

Bruce looks down at Damian. Asks him, reverently, “Damian, did you draw this?”

It was a stupid question. Bruce had just said that Damian had drawn it – he’d already assumed so earlier – Damian had heard him.

Damian decides to entertain his father’s actions by looking up. Bruce’s eyes were filled with childlike curiosity and wonder, and Damian instantly feels drawn to them. It’s strange to see his father so charmed. Damian can’t recall his father ever being particularly interested with his drawings. Never even acknowledged them. Not verbally.

Damian nods his head.

Bruce’s eyes twinkle. “Alfred, Damian drew this,” he says for the second time, returning his gaze to the man, “Damian is a creative genius.”

Alfred clears his throat, “It appears so.”

Bruce and Alfred share eye-contact for a moment longer. Then, simultaneously, they look back down at the concrete.

“Maybe we can work with this,” Alfred concludes.

---

It was a little ridiculous to see two grown man surrounding a child’s sized table. Damian could reach the plastic table just fine, but Bruce had to hunch over on his knees. Alfred didn’t even try. He might be younger than Damian remembered him being, but that didn’t mean he liked to put himself into back-aching situations. Alfred would rather watch than participate. Damian didn’t care either way. It was entertaining to play with his own set of coloring pencils. It was also entertaining to see his father draw alongside him. Father’s drawings were terrible. Damian noticed how unpracticed his lines were.

Nevertheless, Damian had to appreciate his effort, especially when he was trying so hard to please him.

“Look at this one, Damian,” his father says, showing off his latest creation, and Damian finds it hard not smile. It was endlessly amusing. Damian had never seen his father try so hard to connect with him. It was endearing. It was also… humbling. Father would get so excited over their small interactions. Just ten minutes ago, Father asked Damian to pass him a coloring pencil, and when Damian did as requested? Father lit up as if his birthday had come early.

“I think he likes it,” Alfred judges by the smile on Damian’s face.

Bruce beams like the rising sun.  

Damian stares for a little bit. In a different life, it would’ve been hard to imagine his father like this, but here? It was clear that something was different. Damian wondered what life decisions his father had made to have such emotion.

“I think we should put Damian in art classes once he’s old enough,” Bruce suggests after placing his paper back on the table. “He’s so smart, Alfred.”

“That he is,” Alfred agrees.

“He has a gift,” Bruce continues with passion. “I know he’ll do wonderful things with it.”

“I’m sure he will.”

Damian tries to keep the blush of his cheeks. His family was certainly, ahum, generous with their praise. Damian wasn’t even doing anything that significant. Yet, his father was acting as if Da Vinci had been reborn into their family, and Alfred was admiring his work as if Michelangelo’s art was on display. Damian had never had his skills this appreciated. Never saw his family admire his drawings, never heard them say that he was smart, that he was good. It was the same for everything else. Damian could pull some of the wildest stunts, but his family never acknowledged his talents. It was normal for them – insignificant – because everyone else could do the same thing. And when they couldn’t, well, they were never around long enough to care for the details.

Damian decides to hand off his completed drawing to his father. It stops the man mid-sentence. Damian didn’t even realize he was talking. It must have been because he was lost in his thoughts.

Bruce takes the drawing as if it were a gift from heaven. Damian watches him tenderly turn it in his hand, carefully hold it out, and then examine the content.

“Is this for me?”

“es.”

Bruce looks delighted. “I think I’ll put this one on the fridge.”

“A wonderful idea,” Alfred says.

“It’ll look great in the center.”

“It’d look better than those distasteful postcards you receive from Mr. Queen.”

Mr. Queen? Damian had no idea who Alfred could be referring to.

“I love it.” Bruce lowers the drawing to look Damian in the eye. “Thank you, son.”

Damian rubs at his nose and tries not to look embarrassed.

---

After drawing, they spend some time in the entertainment room, and not a single person is missing. Alfred works on the television set as everyone gets comfortable. Bruce takes a spot on the couch, Wally sits on the floor, and Dick sits next to his friend. Damian sits next to his father because it’s the best seat to view the box-tv.

It looked like something straight out of the 90s. Damian didn’t originally grow up in the 90s, didn’t even grow up with technology to begin with, but he knew an old television box when he saw one. It didn’t look like it belonged in a mansion.

“Then, after I told Iris I’d get the jackpot, guess what happened?”

“You got the jackpot,” Dick guesses.

“I got the jackpot!” Wally throws his hands up in the air. “I got so many tickets! I put them all in the machine.”

“Did you win anything?”

“I got a little basketball game,” Wally tries to explain, shaping it out with his hands, “Kinda like a Gameboy Color? Except, it can only play one game, and it doesn’t look as nice.”

“Oh, that’s cool, I guess.”

Damian tunes them out as Alfred gets the television tuned to the correct input. It stops playing static. Damian watches a film flicker into life. It’s loud. Damian is thankful when Alfred frantically lowers the volume.

“I’m glad you managed to get the VHS tape fixed,” Bruce says.

Alfred hums in acknowledgment after pulling back to examine his work. Once satisfied, he steps away from the television, bends himself down to press play on the VHS player, and then leaves the set entirely. Alfred gets himself comfortable on his favorite recliner, and Damian watches the television spring to life.

Zathura, the movie was called.

Damian watches the movie with the rest of the family, but his body is small, and it’s easy to get tired. Damian feels himself drift away from the present. His eyes droop heavily, his body tilts, and everything seems to fade away into the background.

It’s a pleasant surprise for Bruce. Damian head flops down onto his lap.

Bruce must contain his excitement if he doesn’t want to wake his son. He shoots a look at Alfred, one that says, do you see this? Alfred looks humored because of it. Bruce was beyond himself, was floating in air, all because his son had decided to take a nap on him.

Bruce rests a hand on Damian’s head as the boy dives into a sea of dreams. It’s all he dares to do while Damian is sleeping. Bruce didn’t want to push anything. Didn’t want Damian to wake up angry because of this. It’d make the rest of their evening sour, and Bruce would rather avoid that entirely.

Bruce tries to pay attention to Zathura.

But all he can think about is the warmth in his heart. The healing.

Alfred was right.

Small steps.

Notes:

oopsie, upped the chapter count.

anyways, I think I ended up making Bruce a little out of character, but all I was trying to highlight is that he's a proud dad. It's to show off that he's vocal about things.

Chapter 3

Damian’s first order of business is the morning and evening routine.

Damian was aware of three truths that could not be dismissed.

1. It was impossible to wipe himself without help.
2. It was impossible to button his own onesie because of the lack of muscles in his hands.
3. It was impossible to change his own diaper without assistance.

Damian would have to accept help whether he liked it or not. Being fiercely independent, throwing fits because his father won’t leave him alone? It’s not doing any favors for him. Damian’s diapers never get put on right, his onesie is always hanging between his legs, and now he was getting a rash. It needed ointment that he couldn’t apply to his own body. Damian was quickly learning that he needed to change his approach.

Damian takes a deep breath.

I can do this.

Damian needed the help. It was time he learned to accept it. Besides, making his father feel better in the process, well, that didn’t sound too bad. Damian wanted to make him happy. Wanted to give something in return for all the praise he’s been getting. It only seemed fair, even if it meant putting his pride aside.

Damian makes his first step by approaching his father in the evening. Bruce was in the bathroom readying himself up for a facewash. Damian intended to get his help to take off his onesie. It was possible to take his onesie off by himself, but it was a real struggle to get it over his fat head. It also had the potential to strangle him. Damian was beginning to realize why toddlers needed constant help. It was difficult to do anything when your body was this odd.

Damian digs into his memories for a word he could use to catch his father’s attention. He finds one, brings it to the front of his mind, and swallows down his flushing embarrassment.

“Ba,” Damian calls.

Bruce stops rubbing up his own cheeks. Damian’s call had frozen him. Had painted his body into a still-frame.

Then, he’s turning, glancing downwards.

Damian pulls at his onesie. Tries to make him understand. “Shir-“ he says, “shir.”

Damian remembered his younger self doing this multiple times in order to get assistance. He used the word Ba to refer to Dad, and he used the incomplete shir for shirt. Father should understand this much since it’d been done before.

“Oh, oh, of course I’ll help you with your shirt,” Bruce says. “Let Daddy finish up his face first, and then I’ll help you in a few seconds, okay?”

Damian shifts in place as his father turns back towards the sink. He had been leisure in his routine, had taken his time, but now that Damian wanted help? Father was going through it quickly.

Father finishes up his face wash with a dry towel. Then, he turns away from the sink, crouches down, and gives Damian the sign.

“Arms up,” he says.

Damian raises his arms over his head. His father, who was more than happy to help, pulls the onesie off his body.

“There we are,” Bruce hums. “I’m going to help you with your diaper now.”

Damian would have shouted out a loud no at this part. However, now, knowing that this is for the greater good, Damian holds himself back. He had to remind himself that this was for his father, that this would make him happy, that this would keep his own health in check.

Damian’s lack of fight lifts his father’s mood significantly. Bruce grabs a diaper, grabs the wipes, and then asks Damian to head back into the room. Damian toddles back to the carpet where he knew he’d have to lay down.

Damian tries not to think about anything when his father starts changing his diaper on the ground. His eyes focus on the ceiling while his father hums in the background. Damian wanted nothing more than to pull away and claim independence. Unfortunately, at his age, that was a bad idea. Damian was literally incapable of taking care of himself.  He only knows this because he’s tried to be on his own, to do these basic chores that look easy, but his body didn’t have the skills to do anything for itself. Damian would have to work hard to get his body working again.

“This looks like it hurts,” Bruce mumbles. It stops the humming. Damian almost misses it. “When did you get this rash on your thighs, buddy?”

The rash appeared overnight – mostly because Damian fought Bruce every diaper change. It meant he didn’t get wiped properly. It also meant that the diaper’s throwaway fabric scratched up his legs during the changes. Bruce had to wrestle Damian almost every morning, afternoon, and night. It wasn’t something his father had wanted to do, but it was something that he had to. Damian hadn’t been cooperative the last couple of days. He’d often try to run off on his own, pull the huggee up his bottom without any help, only to find himself struggling for ten minutes to accomplish what was supposed to be a basic task. Damian had refused to acknowledge his own incompetence until recently.

Damian couldn’t wait until he figured out the new dynamics of his body. He’d already had a few… erm… accidents… that he’d rather not recall… on the way to the bathroom to top it off. Damian was pretty good at noticing the urges, but sometimes things would spiral out of his control. It was embarrassing. It was humiliating.

Damian continues to stare at the ceiling as ointment is applied to his thighs.

Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think.

Damian feels relief when a new, fresh, huggee replaces the old one. It means the cleaning process is over and he can start thinking again.

“You’ve been doing so good getting to the bathroom when you need to go, kiddo,” Father praises as he withdraws. Damian sits up to watch him fish for some pajamas in their dresser. Shared between them. “I’m so proud of you. I didn’t even teach you that. I guess Alfred is right about setting an example, hm? You figure things out quick on your own, just by watching, isn’t that right?”

Damian tolerates the baby talk for his father’s sake.

Damian then gets dressed into a pair of pajamas once his father finds a pair that he likes.

It was time for bed.

Damian takes a deep breath as he goes over the plan he’d made. Now, now, was the real trial. Damian had to be the one to do this. It wouldn’t work otherwise. Father wouldn’t learn that it was okay to touch him if Damian didn’t make the initiation. If Damian decided to keep acting like a mini adult. Obviously, nature never intended to make children act like adults, otherwise, children just wouldn’t be.

Damian didn’t want to do this.

But, for his father, he would.

Damian climbs up into his father’s bed after the man disappears into the bathroom. Quietly, he tucks himself in, breath tight in anticipation.

When Father comes back out, he pauses at the sight, maybe to figure out if what he was seeing was true.

Father’s delight falls upon his face once he realizes what Damian was doing. He doesn’t say anything about it, thankfully, and opts to turn off the light. Then, he climbs himself up into bed, settling right next to Damian with a little bit of caution.

Damian feels embarrassed that he must do this, but he can’t exactly work his mouth the way he wanted. The best way to communicate, the only way to communicate, was through action. So, with his small hands, he grabs hold of his father’s arm.

Damian can feel his cheeks heat up as he guides the heavy arm around himself. Makes it curl around him like a protective brace.

Father’s reaction is instant once permission is given. The arm pulls him closer, tucks him against a solid body, and then tightens up protectively.

Damian blinks against his father’s shirt as he processes this new position.

Damian can’t remember ever being held like this. His mother would hold him sometimes, would whisper into his hair during long nights, but she wouldn’t cuddle him. Wouldn’t sleep in the same bed with him. The nannies would whisk him away before it was time to lay down, and Damian would spend most of his night pretending his mother was hugging him. He’d wrap his blanket around himself, imagine her arms, and doze off with as if she were there with him.

“Good night, Damian,” Father says.

Damian snuggles closer to his father without realizing he was doing so.

“oo nigh,” Damian whispers.

Damian can’t see his father’s warm smile.

---

Father wakes up early the next day.

It’s a workday. Father fixes up his hair, shaves his face, and puts on a suit. Damian only got glimpses of the process in between sleeping spurts. Father was trying to be quiet as he prepared himself in the bathroom, but the harsh light occasionally disturbed Damian’s sleep. Damian wanted to watch him every time he woke up, but that was impossible with his weakness to exhaustion. Damian ended up going right back to bed. Each time. Without fail. It was almost frustrating. Except, Damian didn’t have time to be frustrated, not when he keeps knocking himself out.

The sun is up when Damian wakes up properly, and this time his father has vanished completely.

Alfred is the one to take up Bruce’s responsibilities.

“I have the feeling you’ll enjoy what I have planned for us today,” Alfred says as he dresses Damian up. Alfred helps Damian put on a pair of shorts and strapped sandals. It’s not clothing that Damian wears typically. “It’s not every day that we can leave the house. Master Bruce attracts attention wherever he goes. Isn’t that a shame?”

Damian toddles after Alfred’s heels when they make their way out of the room. Alfred’s legs look so long compared to his. Yet, despite being so long, Alfred has a slow pace. Damian suspects it’s for his sake.

Alfred slows down further when they reach the grand staircase. Damian peers down the lengthy stairs without a blink. It’s nothing compared to the mountains that he’s climbed, but that doesn’t stop Alfred from reaching out a gloved hand. Damian sees it in his peripheral vision. For a moment, he ignores it entirely, but that doesn’t last long. Damian remembers his own convictions. It reminds him that he needs to let people help him.

Damian grabs Alfred’s hand.

Alfred smiles affectionately as he helps Damian take one step at a time.

Damian concentrates even as voices echo through the main hall.

“I’m telling you, Wally, these sunglasses make all the difference!”

“You’re just going to lose them, like my cousin does all the time.”

“I’m not going to take them off.”

“They’re going to come off eventually, I would even bet on it.”

“No,” Alfred is not a big fan of the discussion. “I do not want gambling of any kind within this house.”

“It wouldn’t be in the house, Alfred,” Dick says.

“Or out of the house,” Alfred finishes. Damian takes his last step. “Now, get along to the car, boys.”

Wally is excited. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he insists.

Damian holds onto Alfred’s hand even when they’re off the stairs. Alfred guides him outside, pauses to lock the door, and then guides him to the only parked vehicle in the driveway.

Alfred releases him when Damian tugs at his hand. I can do this part, he thinks confidently, climbing up into the backseat without any assistance. It’s a major accomplishment. Damian feels proud as he sits himself up into the booster seat. He even manages to get his arm into the straps, but he doesn’t have enough strength to buckle himself in. Alfred helps him with that part. Damian doesn’t complain this time.

“You must have had a good sleep last night,” Alfred remarks. To him, Damian must be in a great mood, especially if he wasn’t fighting Alfred on everything.

Damian refuses to comment.

Alfred closes the door for him. Then, he hops in the front seat, and gets to starting the car. Damian watches him go through the motions, but his mind is on the conversation next to him. Wally and Dick can’t stop talking.

“It’d be cool if it rained. It’d be like a – a sky waterpark – you know?”

"Dude," Dick laughs.

Damian frowns.

It seemed he’d be forced to listen to their antics for a majority of the car ride. Maybe, if he was lucky, his small body would put him to sleep.

Damian does not fall asleep. He’s painfully awake the entire ride, and so, so, bored.

It’s a relief when Alfred helps him out of the booster seat.

It’s not a relief to head into a splash pad filled with screaming children. Damian wanted to climb back into the backseat, but Alfred shut the door firmly behind him. Damian knew he wouldn’t be going back the way he came.

Dick doesn’t waste any time. He heads over to the splash pad, dragging Wally behind him, intent to prove a point about his sunglasses. Alfred and Damian linger behind. Alfred murmurs about how Dick hadn’t even stuck around to put sunscreen on. All the while, he’s digging in a big diaper bag, fishing out sunscreen meant for young children.

Alfred lowers himself down so that he can apply sunscreen to Damian’s face.

Damian puts on the grumpiest face he can manage. All that does is puff out his cheeks, though, and something inside Alfred compels the older man to pat them. Damian instantly puts an end to his chipmunk cheeks after that.

“Not to worry, you’ll be free to play soon enough,” Alfred tells him. Damian examines his face while sunscreen is applied to his skin. It’s interesting to note that, like his father, Alfred was also missing signature stress lines. Alfred had wrinkles around his eyes that used to scrunch up when he smiled, but Damian notices that those familiar wrinkles were all gone now. It was no longer permanently etched into Alfred’s face.

“All done,” Alfred announces. “Let’s get you to your section.”

Damian didn’t know what Alfred was talking about until he realized there were three separate sections. There was a big-kid area, a middle ground, and then a splash pad clearly meant for babies. Damian was being led to the baby pad where numerous children toddle around. He notices that, unlike the big-kid pad, all the children were closely supervised.

Damian would soon follow their examples as Alfred tries to entice him into the sprinkling showerheads.

“Come, try this,” Alfred suggests when Damian doesn’t move an inch. He digs into the diaper bag, which now looked a little wet, and then pulls out a squirt gun.

Damian is unamused when Alfred offers it to him. When he doesn’t reach for the object, Alfred dips it into a pool of water (which wasn’t deep at all, only reaching the ankles of a two-year-old), and then proceeds to have the audacity to squirt Damian in the face.

Damian sputters.

Never, never, in all his years of living, had Alfred squirted him in the face with a children’s toy.

“Gib me a,” Damian snaps, grabbing the gun out of Alfred’s hand, and then turning it the opposite direction. Damian squirts Alfred to give him a taste of his own medicine. It didn’t do anything beyond making Alfred happy. Alfred smiles like the children around him.

Damian hates that Alfred is taking this so lightly. Can’t he see – doesn’t he know – that Damian doesn’t want to be here?

Damian plops down onto his butt with an angry frown.

“Oh, come now, Master Damian. It is no time for a tantrum,” Alfred says.

Damian glares at him before turning his head away entirely. He sits there, ready for Alfred to get the memo, but Alfred does not get the memo.

Alfred walks away.

He doesn’t walk far, just to the benches that surround the little kid pad, but Damian doesn’t know what to make of it. Alfred hadn’t said anything. Had just walked away without a word. As if he was trying to teach a lesson.

Damian fiddles around with the water gun in his hand. He’s so angry, he just wants to glare at the ground, but there’s nothing interesting on the ground. Just this stupid squirt gun. Just the dumb water pooling around him because he won’t get off the flat matted floor.

Alfred is keeping an eye on him from the side. Damian refuses to acknowledge him. Just – just keeps turning the squirt gun in his hand – wishing he had the strength to break it. Damian almost considered throwing it.

Instead, someone’s tiny hand invades his vision, and grabs the squirt gun in his hands. Damian looks up in astonishment. He watches a blue-eyed baby, with no shame at all, try to take his toy away from him. Apparently, Damian’s toy had caught the child’s attention, and the child hadn’t been taught not to take people’s things. Damian stared as the child tried to steal from him.

Damian didn’t care about the squirt gun. He didn’t even care that this child was trying to take it from him. It was simply intriguing that this was happening at all to begin with.

However, his brother cared, because Dick surprises everyone by crossing the pads. Damian hadn’t even realized Dick was keeping an eye on him. He’d barely interacted with him these past few days, and Dick had only showed interest in playing with Wally.

“That’s my brother’s,” Dick defends.

Damian watches Dick, a kid who had twice as many years as this little toddler, push the toddler away.

And the toddler, who doesn’t understand his own balance, falls back on his butt.

Alfred is on the scene in an instant. “Master Dick!” He shouts, ready for a lecture.

Damian winces when the toddler starts crying his eyes out. Alfred looks weary as the boy’s parents come to his aid. Damian watches Alfred’s focus change. It switches from the toddler, to Dick, and then to the unhappy parents who wanted a word with him.

Dick looked guilty.

Yet, feeling guilty didn’t stop him from grabbing Damian’s hand, nor did it stop him from pulling him away from the crime scene.

Alfred didn’t even know they were slipping away because he was trying to do damage control.

Wally hadn't realized Dick had gone, having been busy running through sprinklers, which is why Dick returned as if he hadn’t left to begin with. Baby brother in tow. Damian might as well have teleported. Wally is speechless when he spots him.

Wally eventually gets over his shock. He says, sounding skeptical, “I thought you said you didn’t want to play with Damian because he’s a baby.”

Dick is defensive. “Yeah, well, who cares about what I said? I think it’s better if he was with us.”

“But you said that he’d be fine with Alfred,” Wally continues.

“I know what I said, Wally, but forget about what I said. Okay?”

Wally looks confused. Slowly, he replies, “O-kay.”

Dick sniffs before pulling Damian along to a water tree. It shot streams of water into all directions.

Damian gets a face-full of it.

Dick makes fun of him, even calls him dumb, but when Wally decides to tag along? Because friends copy each other?

“Be quiet, Wally,” Dick demands.

---

Alfred is the one who is exhausted when they get home.

Wally and Dick still had enough energy to talk each other’s ears off. They tell each other stories of the splash pad, even though it’d just been twenty minutes since they left, and they only cease when Dick suggests a board game.

Damian had enough of them. Had enough of everyone.

“Master Bruce, I’m surprised. I did not know you’d be home this early.”

Bruce waits for them in the entry-hall.

Damian doesn’t know what comes over him. When he sees his father - he’s so relieved - so eager to get away from the people around him – he runs up to him with his hands outstretched. Bruce’s surprise is plain on his face when Damian decides to run towards him, but it quickly fades when Damian is swept up into his arms. Bruce is filled with pure joy when he lifts Damian up into the air.

“Hey, peanut!”

Damian looks him in the eye until his father lowers him. Damian throws his arms around his neck. Tries to tell him with body-language alone that he doesn’t want to hang out with Alfred anymore. Or Dick. Or Wally. Please, save me, is what he’s trying to say.

“Dad!” Dick cries out brightly. “I played in the water all day!”

“I bet you had a lot of fun,” Bruce says with the biggest smile on his face. Damian was cuddling him, Damian wanted to be picked up by him. It was worth the early-trip home.

It only made him brighter that Dick was in a good mood. Bruce loved that boy dearly. Wanted to hold him, too, if only his hands weren’t full.

“Yeah, but now I’m going to play with Wally,” Dick says.

“Not before taking a bath,” Alfred voices tiredly.

Dick is horrified. “Alfred. I just got all wet! I already took a bath!”

“Not a proper one,” he says.

“Alfred,” Dick whines as the butler ushers him towards the bathrooms.

Wally follows along obediently. He didn’t know what else to do with himself.

Bruce watches them go with a smile on his face. Damian was making his shirt all damp because he was soaking wet, but Bruce didn’t seem to mind enough to point it out. Instead, he holds his boy close, enjoying the moment while it lasted.

“Guess you need a bath, too, hm?”

Damian rests his cheek on his father’s shoulder as they head up the stairs.

Sure, he submits in exhaustion, too tired to even dread being bathed.

Falling asleep on his father’s shoulder is a complete accident.