Chapter Text
Two years ago, Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham.
At twenty-three, he came home not as the young heir the world expected, but as a man carved out of exile, hardened by the weight of foreign roads and shadows that clung to him like a second skin. The tabloids had imagined a boy who had fled grief, squandering inheritance in gilded corners of the globe. What came back instead was a charming Casanova with less wit and more naivety but hidden beneath the camera flashes was something sharper, darker—something forged in hunger and fear, in fists and firelight, in years of punishing discipline under masters the world had long forgotten.
He had seen cities crumble under corruption, villages ruled by mercenaries, children starving while tyrants fattened. He had studied war not from books, but from within its trenches. He returned to Gotham with scars, some visible, most not. He carried them all the same.
Now he spent his nights differently from any Wayne who had come before him. Not in ballrooms or banquets, but in alleys rank with blood and smoke. A man in black armor stalking criminals who whispered “the Bat” as if it were an old, hungry ghost. Each night was a baptism in violence: broken ribs, shattered teeth, bones ground against pavement. Bruce left them breathing, but only just. Justice demanded that much restraint. Vengeance urged him to go further.
Every night weighed him down. The cowl masked his face, but not the exhaustion burning through his eyes. When dawn broke, he shed the mask, only to wear another—the careless socialite with perfect suits, careless laughter, and half a glass of champagne abandoned on marble floors. Yet when the mirrors caught him off guard, they betrayed him: shadows beneath his eyes, lines already etching themselves across a face too young for them.
Sleep did not come easily. Guilt saw to that. The boy who had knelt in a pool of blood in Crime Alley lived on inside him, whispering all the ways he had failed, all the ways he would fail again.
By day, he turned to the work that grounded him. Lucius Fox, steady as ever, met him with blueprints, prototypes, and half-spoken warnings about the limits of steel and flesh. Together, they built a war chest disguised as innovation: grappling lines spun from carbon-fiber, armor light enough to glide, engines that could outpace the city’s fastest. Each device was a promise—that no child would ever kneel in a pool of blood again, not if Bruce could help it.
At Wayne Enterprises, the boardroom became his battlefield. Seated at the head of long tables under sterile lights, he cut through arguments and balance sheets with the same intensity he carried in the streets. To the public, he was the prodigal heir restored. To those who listened closely, he was something else: a man demanding that the Wayne Foundation funnel millions into shelters, medical aid, and education. He spoke of wars overseas, and how Gotham could not remain blind while the world bled. The directors whispered about idealism. Bruce called it responsibility.
And still, Gotham asked more of him. Commissioner Gordon’s Bat-Signal burned against the clouds, a beacon no gala could dim. Once, Bruce had excused himself from a governor’s speech, tuxedo crisp and tie immaculate, only to vanish minutes later. He left behind confusion, speculation, whispers of eccentricity. The truth was simpler: Gotham needed the Batman, and Bruce Wayne answered.
The city took and took. It demanded his nights, his strength, his very future. Yet Bruce gave it willingly, as if redemption lay hidden in its broken streets.
And Alfred watched.
The butler saw the man his ward had become, and his heart twisted with pride and fear in equal measure. He saw the bruises hidden beneath cufflinks, the glassy stare over breakfast, the dreams Bruce never spoke of because they weren’t dreams at all—they were memories replayed until his soul frayed. Alfred had patched wounds, pressed ice against swelling, mended armor and washed away bloodstains that never seemed to fade.
One night, long after the city had quieted, Alfred stood at the window of Wayne Manor. The moonlight stretched across Bruce’s sleeping form in the chair, head bowed, cowl abandoned on the desk beside him and in front him computer screens displaying unwavering devotion as it shows footage of Gotham's gritty streets, of many unsolved cases left forgotten in the depths GCPD, of the rooms of Arkham Asylums holding insanity at its most primal humane form. His face was gaunt, eyes ringed with dark circles, a young man already bearing the weight of an old weary soul.
Alfred whispered into the silence, his voice thick with sorrow, "I fear Master Bruce has built himself a life with no dawn, only endless nights. And I fear even more that I shall one day bury him far too soon. For though he wears the mask of the Bat, it is the boy I raised who suffers beneath it. I fear Thomas and Martha Wayne’s legacy ends with Master Bruce."
Yet even as he said it, the night carried with it a whisper of change.
Far beyond the Manor’s windows, Gotham’s streets breathed restless, stirring futures that had not yet arrived. Children not of Bruce’s blood, but destined to carry his shadow, would one day find their way to him. Some broken, some angry, some desperate for belonging. They would not save him from the darkness he embraced, but they would share it. They would sharpen it into something greater.
Alfred could not know their names yet, nor the storms they would bring. But the silence seemed to shift, as if fate itself stirred in its sleep.
And in that silence, Gotham waited.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 2: The Circus Tragedy
Summary:
Bruce gets dick
Chapter Text
ACT ONE
THE TINY BIRDS
The grandfather clock struck seven as the last of the evening light bled through the tall windows of Wayne Manor. Alfred Pennyworth stood in the study doorway, hands folded neatly behind his back, watching Bruce hunched over a desk littered with schematics, surveillance reports, and a half-assembled grapnel gun. His ward hadn’t looked up in hours.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, the weight of his tone a mixture of command and compassion. “If you stare at those blueprints any longer, they’ll begin staring back.”
Bruce didn’t move, the shadows pooling under his eyes like bruises. “I can’t afford to stop, Alfred. The city doesn’t sleep.”
“And neither do you, apparently,” Alfred countered, stepping further into the room. “Which, I might add, is quite unsustainable for any man—even one who thinks himself nocturnal.”
Bruce leaned back, rubbing his temples. “There’s too much work to do. The moment I rest, someone else suffers.”
Alfred’s lips thinned into something close to a smile. “Which is precisely why you must remind yourself you are still Bruce Wayne. Flesh and blood. Not just the Bat.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew two slips of paper. “To that end, I’ve taken the liberty of securing us tickets to Hayley’s Circus. They’re performing tonight.”
Bruce blinked, as if the idea belonged to another universe entirely. “A circus.”
“Yes,” Alfred said crisply. “With acrobats, elephants, and sugared almonds. The sort of outing one attends when one wishes to remember that joy exists in the world.”
Bruce’s first instinct was to refuse. To claim that Gotham needed him, that there was crime to stop. But Alfred’s gaze lingered, steady, and Bruce felt the familiar pull of the man who had raised him when no one else could. “Just tonight,” Alfred added gently. “Not for Gotham. For you.”
After a long silence, Bruce exhaled. “Fine. One night.”
---
The big tent rose like a red-and-gold crown on the edge of Gotham’s East End. The smell of popcorn and sawdust clung to the air, laughter bubbling in every corner. Families streamed inside, their chatter bouncing beneath the striped canopy where the air thrummed with the promise of spectacle.
Bruce adjusted his black suit jacket, every inch the stoic billionaire who did not quite belong in this cacophony of color. Alfred carried himself with practiced dignity, but his eyes softened as he took in the wide-eyed children tugging at their parents’ sleeves.
The show began in a burst of light and music. Jugglers tossed flaming torches into the air, clowns tumbled, and horses thundered around the ring with painted riders balancing atop their backs. But it was the acrobats who stole the breath from the crowd.
The Flying Graysons soared above the audience, limbs fluid and graceful, every twist and turn a defiance of gravity itself. At the center of it all was a boy no older than eight —Richard “Dick” Grayson. Small, wiry, but blazing with confidence as he executed a quadruple somersault that drew gasps from every throat.
Bruce’s lips curved, almost against his will. He saw himself in that boy: the courage, the fire, the sense that the world belonged in the palm of his hand.
Then John and Mary Grayson took their place, the proud parents beginning a tandem swing high above the ring. The crowd erupted in cheers as they built toward their finale, soaring out into the void, reaching for one another with perfect trust.
And then—snap.
The rope gave way with a sound too sharp, too final. Gasps turned into screams as John and Mary plummeted, their bodies colliding with the sawdust floor. Silence held for a heartbeat, before chaos shattered it.
Bruce was already moving, instincts honed by years of disaster and loss. But it was too late. The Graysons lay motionless, their son’s cry piercing the tent with a grief so raw it cut deeper than any blade.
“Mama! Papa!” Dick’s voice cracked as he stumbled forward, hands reaching for what was already gone. His small body shook with sobs, his eyes wild with terror.
Bruce knelt beside him, steady and silent. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, anchoring him. For a moment, Dick resisted, thrashing, but then he collapsed against Bruce, burying his face into the lapel of his suit. Bruce held him, heart pounding, every cry echoing the one he had once let out in a blood-stained alley.
He whispered nothing, offered no hollow promises. He simply stayed.
When the GCPD arrived—Commissioner Gordon at their head—Bruce did not move. Even as officers pressed questions, even as chaos swirled, he kept his arm around Dick’s shoulders, refusing to let go until Gordon gently guided the boy away.
And when Dick was led into the back of a squad car, glancing back through tear-streaked eyes, Bruce felt something in his chest twist, an ache sharper than any wound.
---
Days passed, but the image would not leave him. Dick’s scream. His small hands clutching empty air. The raw silence after.
Bruce spent nights patrolling, but in every shadowed alley, he saw the boy’s face. At dawn, when he stripped off the cowl, he still heard the echo of that cry.
Finally, he could endure it no longer. He called Gordon, pressed for answers. The boy had been placed in an orphanage downtown.
Bruce went.
The orphanage was gray and cold, walls peeling, air stagnant with neglect. In the corner of a dim dining hall sat Dick, untouched food before him. His eyes were hollow, rimmed red from days of weeping. His small frame seemed to curl inward, as if to disappear.
Bruce approached slowly, crouching so their eyes met. “Dick.”
The boy blinked, recognition flickering faintly.
“I know it hurts,” Bruce said softly. “More than anything. And I can’t take that away.” He hesitated, the words forming almost against his will. “But… if you want, you don’t have to go through it alone.”
Dick stared, uncomprehending at first. Then his lip trembled. “Stay… with you?” His voice hoarse and words stumbling to form.
Bruce without a second of hesitation nods resolutely, “If you’d like.”
For a long moment, silence hung between them. Then Dick gave the faintest nod, as though clutching at the only lifeline offered to him.
That was enough.
Bruce turned to the matron, “I’ll foster him.”
Paperwork blurred into hours, signatures and stamps stacking one after another. City council approvals, social worker interviews—none of it mattered. When the last form was signed, Bruce took Dick’s small hand in his own and led him out into the Gotham night.
For the first time in years, Bruce Wayne did not walk alone.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter Text
Wayne Manor was a fortress. Gothic arches loomed over marble floors, hallways stretched endlessly in both directions, and paintings from dynasties long perished and the solemn soul of the artists gazed down from the walls as though silently judging the newcomer. To a eight year old boy, it was less a home, and more of a palace where footsteps echoed like thunder, and even breathing too loudly felt like an offense.
Dick Grayson stood at the threshold of his new room, shoulders tense. The chamber was nearly as large as the entire wagon his circus family had once lived in; the bed, a four-poster draped with a canopy of heavy curtains, a huge French style window sill surrounded by pillows, a carved bookshelf taller than John Grayson had been and beside it, one desk was holding a state of art computer and another desk holding notebooks, an Ipad with pen, a globe and other stationery items.
Down the elevated steps sat a mosaic fireplace near the bedroom door, surrounded with plush couches and soft rugs. Two doors— one pearly white led to the bathroom, a shower that could fit at least 5 people and a tub with a window looking over the weeping willow trees in the back gardens, sinks with faucets that looks suspiciously like gold and a toilet that could be controlled by a remote; the second door with its matte black colour hid the empty closet that was waiting to be filled with clothes. It was too big, too strange, too empty.
“You may decorate it however you wish,” Bruce said from behind, his deep voice steady but strangely careful, as if every word might tip the fragile balance between them. “It’s yours now.”
Dick didn’t answer. His eyes flickered across the room as if trying to shrink it down into something that felt like his own. Bruce placed a hand briefly on his shoulder, then withdrew.
Alfred, ever the silent sentinel, took over where Bruce faltered. He appeared the next morning with a tray in hand—an odd collection of boiled eggs shaped like rabbits, toast cut into stars, and fruit arranged into smiling faces.
“Breakfast, Master Richard,” Alfred announced, as though presenting a royal feast.
Dick blinked, then frowned. “They’re… bunnies.”
“Indeed,” Alfred replied with dignity. “Food should be eaten, not stared at. And if it requires whimsy to tempt a young man’s appetite, then whimsy it shall be.”
For the first time since his parents’ deaths, Dick cracked a small laugh. He ate. And the next day, Alfred returned with sandwiches shaped like owls and cookies stamped into circus animals. Slowly, painfully, the boy began to take in sustenance—not just food, but care.
Still, the nights were harder.
Sometimes Bruce would tuck Dick into bed, pulling the heavy blanket up to his chin. “Sleep,” he would say softly. Then he would vanish, the echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor. But sleep rarely came easy.
Nightmares tore through the boy’s rest: ropes snapping, bodies falling, screams echoing. More than once, Bruce’s patrols were cut short when a device at his belt hissed faintly—the receiver that picked up every cry or whimper from Dick’s room. He would return at once, cowl cast aside, crouching by the boy’s bed until the tremors passed.
And each time Dick woke, there Bruce was—head bowed, exhaustion written in the shadows under his eyes, but present. Always present.
Six months passed. The pain softened, though it never left. Laughter crept back in, quiet and hesitant. Dick even teased Alfred once, calling him “Sir Bunniesworth,” which earned a rare, indulgent chuckle from the butler. But one thing gnawed at him: Bruce himself.
Bruce Wayne was pale, always tired, forever avoiding sunlight. He drew curtains closed, and when forced to attend daytime functions, sunglasses hid the weary eyes beneath. To a child steeped in myths and fantasy, the answer was obvious.
“Alfred,” Dick whispered one morning, spooning cereal half-heartedly, “is Bruce… a vampire?”
Alfred, to his credit, didn’t choke on his tea. “A vampire, Master Richard?”
“He’s pale, he hates sunlight, and he never sleeps in his bed,” Dick insisted.
Alfred’s lips twitched. “I assure you, Master Bruce is quite human. Though he does share certain… nocturnal tendencies.”
---
One night, a thunderstorm rolled over Gotham, rain slashing at the windows of the Manor. Dick lay awake, listening to the growl of thunder, too restless to stay put. Hours ticked by, and finally he pushed aside the covers. Barefoot, he padded into the hall, clutching his pillow like a shield.
He tried Bruce’s chambers first, easing the heavy door open. The bed was immaculate, untouched, as if no one had slept in it for years. His stomach tightened.
The study, then. He crept through the echoing hallways, heart hammering as thunder rattled the panes. But the study was empty, too—save for shelves upon shelves of books.
Then came the rumble.
The far bookshelf shuddered, gears grinding. With a groan, the case slid open, revealing a hidden passage.
Bruce stumbled out. His black armor gleamed with rain, the bat emblem scarred, cowl tucked under one arm. Blood soaked his side, a deep gash carving across his stomach.
“Bruce!” Dick screamed.
Bruce’s eyes snapped wide, horror overtaking pain. “Dick—”
But the cry had already carried. Alfred came rushing, robe swishing, face pale as he saw the wound. “Good Lord—sit down before you collapse!”
In a blur, Alfred had gauze and needle in hand, stitching with steady precision. Bruce winced but stayed silent. Dick clung to the edge of the desk, eyes wide as the truth unfolded before him.
“You’re Batman,” he whispered.
Bruce closed his eyes, shame flickering across his face. But Dick only stepped closer. “You help people. You fight for them. For children like me.”
That night, when Bruce finally slept under Alfred’s watch, Dick curled into the armchair by his side, refusing to leave. For once, it was the boy keeping vigil over the man.
---
The morning after, Dick’s mind was made up.
“I want to fight too,” he declared at breakfast.
“No,” Bruce said flatly.
“I don’t want to feel helpless again.”
“You’re a child.”
“Then teach me. Please.”
When Bruce still refused, Dick crossed his arms and pushed away his plate. He didn’t eat that day. Or the next. Or the one after.
Alfred fretted, coaxing him with bunnies and owls, but Dick remained firm. Bruce held out, thinking stubbornness would break. But when the boy’s cheeks hollowed and his eyes burned with the same fire Bruce remembered from his own youth, he realized: this wasn’t a tantrum. This was resolve.
Finally, Bruce relented. “If you want this life, you’ll train first. Master every form of martial arts before you even think of patrol.”
Dick’s grin was blinding.
Training began in the caver beneath the Manor, a place Dick immediately dubbed the “Batcave.” What Bruce called the car became the “Batmobile.” The throwing blades, “Batarangs.” The comms, “Batcoms.” With every name, the shadows seemed less daunting, more alive.
And though Bruce pushed him mercilessly, Dick absorbed every lesson like a sponge. Years of acrobatics had built a foundation of flexibility and stamina no child his age could match. He flipped, rolled, and struck with precision that surprised even Bruce.
Months later, with Lucius Fox’s assistance, Dick designed his own suit—bright red, green, and yellow, a burst of color against Gotham’s gloom. He called himself Robin, after the name his mother used to whispered to him under the circus lights.
And when he swung across Gotham’s skyline at Batman’s side, the city gasped. Newspapers christened them the Dynamic Duo.
But for Bruce Wayne, it was simpler than headlines.
For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t alone.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter Text
Gotham Academy was a place of marble columns, polished hallways, and old portraits of men in powdered wigs that stared down at students as if judging their every step. For the city’s elite, it was a sanctuary of privilege and reputation. For nine-year-old Dick Grayson, it was school—both a challenge and an obstacle.
Challenge as he never received a formal education. Travelling with Haley's Circus through city to city, country to country made it impossible. Dick has been trying his best to catch. To not let Bruce down. To show other rich kids that just because he was adopted, just because he wasn't an actual Wayne didn't make him less worthy of being there.
And an obstacle because even though Robin had debuted in the streets of Gotham, Dick Grayson was only allowed to patrol during weekends. No fighting crime during school nights because apparently he needed a full 8 hours of sleep for his brain to function properly in school. This was absolute nonsense, not that Dick would ever say that to Bruce's face.
---
Handling Gotham Academy was a tiresome event for Bruce as well. Since he was now a guardian of a nine year old, Bruce Wayne had been summoned to attend the annual parent-teacher conference.
He walked through the iron gates in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, black hair combed neatly back, dark circles hidden with copious amount of concealer, eyeliner to pop his steel blue eyes and the pink tint on his luscious lips; the mask of Bruce Wayne the playboy billionaire philanthropist firmly in place. Alfred had reminded him in the morning that today Bruce Wayne, the man, must take precedence over Batman, the symbol.
Inside the classroom, the air buzzed with polite small talk. Parents compared grades and tutors while sipping from catered coffee. Bruce endured it, shaking hands, nodding where necessary, his mind half elsewhere—on rooftops and crime reports, on weapons shipments he meant to intercept that night.
The teachers spoke warmly of Dick. “He’s a dedicated student, Mr. Wayne,” his homeroom teacher said. “Exceptionally talented in the subjects he enjoys. Mathematics, literature, even history, when his attention holds. But he’s brimming with restlessness—so much energy for someone so young. He needs challenge.”
Bruce’s eyes softened. Challenge is something he’ll never lack, not while living under my roof.
The meeting ended, polite applause dismissed the parents, and children spilled into the halls to reunite with them.
That was when Dick darted forward, his small hand slipping into Bruce’s. His eyes were bright despite the lingering shadows of loss that never quite left them. “Bruce! Bruce! Come on, Bruce! I want you to meet Babs. Barbara Gordon—my best friend!”
Before Bruce could prepare himself, Dick pulled him toward a red-haired girl with inquisitive eyes and a smile that reached her freckles. She looked at Bruce curiously, tilting her head as if already trying to figure him out.
“This is my dad,” Dick said proudly, voice ringing clear.
For a moment, the world tilted. Bruce’s breath caught. The word pierced deeper than a knife, deeper than the weight of Gotham pressing down on his shoulders.
Dad. Dad. Dad.
He managed a polite greeting, shook the girl’s hand, exchanged some words—though later he could not recall what he said, nor how he got from the schoolyard back into the car.
On the ride home, Dick chattered beside him about Pokémon battles and circus memories, voice animated, but Bruce barely heard. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary. Finally, he interrupted, voice low, almost fragile.
“Dick… why did you call me that?”
The boy blinked, puzzled. “Huh? I was talking about Moltres from Pokemon.”
“No, not that... ” Bruce’s jaw clenched, but he pushed gently. “You called me.. I mean... introduced me as your dad.”
For the first time all afternoon, Dick grew quiet. His face scrunched as he considered it. Then, softly, he replied, “Well… that’s true, isn’t it?”
Bruce turned his head slightly, meeting the boy’s earnest ocean blue eyes.
“You were there when Mama and Papa died,” Dick continued. “You stayed with me. You gave me my own room, let me decorate it however I wanted. With glowing lights and Pokemon plushies. When I picked out the designs on the clothes that the tailors disapproved, you silenced them. You let me hang up my Superman poster—even though you didn't like it.”
A ghost of a smile flickered on Bruce’s lips.
“You tuck me in every night. Accompany me when I have nightmares. You built me a whole playground outside—slides, swings, even nets so I can practice my flips. When I broke the chandelier trying to swing on it… you didn’t yell. You were just glad I didn’t stop loving acrobatics. You take care of me. You protect me. You teach me how to fight so I am never helpless. You make me strong, both as Batman and as Bruce. You help with homework, you buy me storybooks, you—” Dick swallowed, voice trembling, “—you make sure I’m not alone. So, yeah. You’re my dad.”
Bruce’s throat tightened. For a man who had faced gunfire, knives, and monsters in Gotham’s streets, nothing had ever undone him like the unguarded love of this child. He had thought fostering was the limit—temporary, protective.
Adoption had seemed like a trespass on the memory of John and Mary Grayson.
But now—how could he deny this truth?
“Dick,” Bruce said hoarsely, “when I first brought you here, I told myself fostering was enough. I didn’t want you to think I was taking your parents’ place. But if you want… if you’d let me… I would be honored to adopt you. To make you my son. My family.”
Dick’s eyes widened, shimmering with tears, then burst into a grin so bright it seemed to banish Gotham’s shadows. “Yes! Yes, Bruce—I mean, Dad—yes!”
---
The paperwork followed swiftly because when the Prince of Gotham demanded things; lawyers, city council approvals, signatures were all given in a blink of an eye.
And then it was official: Richard John Grayson-Wayne.
That evening, Alfred led Dick through a quiet corridor in the manor he had never explored before. At the end stood heavy oak doors, which creaked open to reveal a gallery of portraits. Candlelight flickered against centuries of Waynes—men and women, children and elders, painted in oils that carried the scent of history.
At the far end hung a portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne with young Bruce between them.
“This room,” Alfred said softly, “holds every Wayne who has ever lived. Their names embroidered into the family tapestry.” He pointed toward the golden thread where Bruce Wayne gleamed. “And soon, your name shall be added. You are a Wayne now, Master Richard.”
Dick’s breath caught. The weight of belonging pressed warm against his chest.
“But remember,” Alfred continued gently, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a framed photograph—John and Mary Grayson, beaming in their Flying Graysons costumes, holding a baby Dick. “A new family does not erase the old. You can keep both, in your heart.”
Tears blurred Dick’s eyes as he hugged Alfred tightly. The butler, stiff at first, melted into the embrace.
From now on, Dick thought fiercely, he would protect this family—the Waynes—with everything he had. He was no longer just the boy who lost everything under the circus tent. He was Richard John Grayson-Wayne, son of two families, and Robin who would never let Gotham—or his loved ones—fall without him there to catch them.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 5: The Emergency Contact
Summary:
It's the holiday season
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The world outside Wayne Manor had gone still. Winter had settled heavily over Gotham, laying a silver crust of frost across the lawns, frosting the great windows, and turning the city skyline into a glittering crown beneath the morning sun. The Academy gates had closed for the season, releasing its students for Christmas and New Year’s vacation.
Inside, warmth hummed from the old radiators, the scent of coffee and buttered toast filling the breakfast room. Bruce Wayne sat at the head of the long oak table, the Gotham Gazette folded beside his plate. Alfred moved with his usual silent efficiency, pouring tea. And across from Bruce, Richard Grayson-Wayne perched with his legs swinging under the chair, still too small for the ground to catch his heels, though his voice carried enough excitement to fill the entire room.
“Colin said his parents are going to the Bahamas for the holidays, which isn’t fair because he hates the beach. And Jessica says she’s going to get a pony, but I think she’s lying because who gets a pony in Gotham? And David wants a train set, like the really expensive kind that takes up an entire room.” He was talking through mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, his arms waving for emphasis as Alfred frowned at his table manners and Bruce Wayne sipped his coffee, silent and tired-eyed.
“—and Tommy’s family’s going skiing in Aspen, and Janine says her parents got her the new PlayStation, and everyone’s trading lists of what they’re gonna get for Christmas, and—”
Bruce set his cup down, the faintest smile tugging his lips. “And what about you, Dick? What would you like?”
Dick paused mid-bite of scrambled eggs. “Me? I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Bruce’s brow furrowed.
“I never celebrated Christmas before,” Dick said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Mama and Papa were of Romani origin. They followed… well, sort of Hindu traditions, but not really strict. And we were always traveling with the circus. We always had shows on Christmas Eve somewhere. So…” He gave a helpless shrug, his fork clinking against the plate. “I never had Christmas. Never had presents or trees or stockings.”
For a beat, silence fell. Bruce’s eyes flickered down into his coffee, but before the weight could settle, Alfred cleared his throat and spoke briskly.
“Well, that is a most egregious oversight,” the butler declared, folding his napkin with precision. “And one that shall be rectified immediately. If Master Richard has never had a Christmas, then, by heaven, Wayne Manor shall host the finest Christmas Gotham has ever seen.”
Dick’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Alfred set the teapot down gently. His expression softened. “Of course, Master Richard.” he said firmly, “Christmas, my boy, is a tradition in this household. Which means we shall do it properly. A tree, decorations, carols, the works.”
Dick’s eyes sought his adopted father's approval.“Can we?”
Bruce’s mouth twitched, the faintest smile threatening to break through his usual stoicism.“Yes, Dick. We will procure a tree, decorate it properly, and ensure there are presents for you to open on Christmas morning. Traditions must be honored, chum, and if you’ve never had one, then we will begin anew.”
---
The very next day, the Wayne limousine rolled into a snowy lot outside of Gotham proper, where rows upon rows of pine and fir trees stood for sale. Families bundled in scarves trudged between them. Bruce stepped out in his long coat, while Dick bolted out after him, nearly skidding on the ice.
“Whoa—easy there.” Bruce steadied him with one hand.
Dick darted between trees like he couldn’t decide which was grand enough, while Bruce, tall and stoic in his black coat, waited with his hands in his pockets.
“Look at them all!” Dick’s voice rang with awe. He darted between the trees, tugging branches, his breath puffing in the cold. “This one’s too skinny. That one’s too short. This one looks old”
“This one!” Dick finally shouted, arms outstretched at a massive spruce. Snow dusted its branches.
Bruce arched a brow. “That one is twice my size.”
“That’s the point!” Dick grinned, eyes alight. “Christmas trees are supposed to be big. Like—so big you have to ise ladders to place the star at the top!”
“And that just means you fall easily while using the ladders.” Bruce points out.
“But, it’s perfect!” Dick insisted, hugging the trunk as if he could protect it from being rejected. “It’ll fit in the big room with the fireplace. Please, Dad?”
Bruce almost said no. Almost. But then he caught the boy’s grin and sighed. “All right. We’ll take it.”
---
And so the tree came to Wayne Manor, carried by staff into the family hall, where its scent filled the space. Alfred laid out boxes of ornaments that had gathered dust for years along with the news ones that were ordered. The butler had already ensured that the new lights, baubles, and ribbons were of the highest quality; before instructing Dick on gentle placement to avoid bruising the tree’s delicate limbs.
Alfred supervised the decorating, as Bruce strung lights across the branches with meticulous precision, while Dick darted up and down a ladder, hanging shiny baubles, laughing every time something slipped.
For once, even Bruce allowed himself a small chuckle as he watched Dick scampered up and down the stepladder, hanging glass ornaments, his face glowing with laughter.
When the star finally crowned the top, Alfred stepped back, surveying the glowing tree with approval. “There. A proper Wayne Christmas at last.”
---
During the Christmas Eve, the kitchen smelled of pine, cinnamon, and the rich aroma of baking pies. The mansion, normally quiet except for the echo of Bruce’s late-night patrols, hummed with life as ornaments sparkled under the soft glow of lights. Dick, for the first time thinks that this would the start of a new tradition.
---
When Christmas morning dawned, Dick thundered down the staircase in his pajamas. Underneath the glittering tree, presents spilled out in piles.
“Whoa…” His eyes lit up like the ornaments. His hands flew from one to another as he read the tags: To Dick, from Dad. To Master Richard, with all affection.
Alfred’s knitted gloves were warm in his hands, striped in deep navy. “You made these?” Dick asked, eyes wide.
“Of course,” Alfred said smoothly. “Every boy deserves something handmade.”
Morning light filtered through the high windows of Wayne Manor as Dick tore open his presents with unabashed glee. Among the gifts were a LEGO Imperial Star Destroyer, a Millennium Falcon set, a medieval castle, a ninja dojo, two more sprawling LEGO kits (a Gotham City skyline and a Batwing replica), action figures, books, and a box of handmade chocolates.
But it was the last gift that made Dick pause: a red bow tied to a key resting in a small velvet box.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you take a look in the garage?”
---
The gift covered in a tarpaulin in the garage, stole the child's breath. Bruce unveiled a sleek, shining chrome motorcycle painted in red, green, and yellow trim.
“Your Robin Bike,” Bruce said simply.
Seconds went by in complete silence and then, Dick was screaming with joy, running circles around the sleek, compact motorcycle gleaming under the lights. “It’s—it's amazing! My own—my own Robin bike!”
Dick still smiling, immediately spun around. “Thanks, Dad!” He threw himself into Bruce’s chest with such force Bruce had to take a step back.
---
That evening, Wayne Manor’s dining hall glittered with candlelight. Alfred had outdone himself with a multi-course feast. When the doorbell rang, Bruce ushered in a tall, flame-haired woman with a soldier’s stride and a smile that immediately softened when she saw Dick.
“Kate!” Bruce greeted.
Kate Kane swept in, pulling off her coat. “And this must be my favorite nephew.”
Dick blinked, then grinned cheekily. “I’m your only nephew.”
Kate laughed, ruffling his hair. “That makes you even more my favorite.”
Dinner stretched across multiple courses, Alfred’s finest work: roasted goose, potatoes with rosemary, steaming soup, spiced cake.
Over dinner, Kate and Dick bonded easily. She told stories from her army days, making him gape with wide eyes. He rattled off his gifts, carefully omitting the Robin cycle.
“…and a bike,” Dick finished vaguely.
Bruce cut in smoothly, “She knows, Dick.”
Kate smirked. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t notice? I’m Batwoman.”
Dick’s fork clattered. “You’re what?!”
Kate winked. “Runs in the family, kid.”
Dick’s jaw dropped. “You—you’re—” He bounced in his chair, thrilled. “That’s awesome! Do you fight crime too? Do you have gadgets? Do you—”
The rest of the meal turned into laughter, stories, and shared secrets. Later, the conversation drifted to holidays.
“What presents did you get as a kid?” Dick asked curiously.
“None,” Kate said, sipping her wine. “We’re Jewish. We celebrated Hanukkah, but not Christmas.”
Dick’s eyes widened. “Wait—if you’re Jewish, and B is your cousin… doesn’t that mean—”
Bruce cleared his throat. “My mother was Jewish, but not practicing. My father’s side was Evangelical, also not practicing. They celebrated Christmas mostly for the occasion, not the faith.”
Dick leaned back, fascinated. “So… we’re kinda everything?”
Kate grinned. “That’s one way to put it.”
---
Later, after Dick was tucked into bed, Bruce and Kate descended into the Batcave, their voices low over batcomputer.
“Scarecrow,” Commissioner Gordon had said grimly on the rooftop of GCPD when the bat signal summoned them last night. “Planning something for New Year’s. Thought you should know.”
Screens glowed with intel: Scarecrow’s plans, toxin distribution, warehouses across Gotham and Metropolis. The stakes were high—New Year’s Eve could mean thousands dead if the toxin spread.
They prepared. They armed. Kate finally sighed. “We leave tonight.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “We’ll dismantle them. Quietly.”
---
Dick’s bedroom was dimly lit by moonlight filtering through drawn curtains. Bruce quietly shook his shoulder.
“Dad…?” Dick mumbled, sleepy and confused.
“Batman and Batwoman are heading out for a mission. I need you to stay here, be a good boy, and continue your training.” Bruce explained.
Dick’s brow furrowed. “You’ll be gone all winter vacation?”
Bruce nodded. “No. I'll return by 28th and we will celebrate New Years together.”
Dick sighed, disappointment clear. “Okay… I understand. It's for everybody's safety.” His voice was small. “Just… come back.”
Bruce touched his shoulder. “I will.”
---
While Bruce was away, Dick trained rigorously in the manor. Acrobatics, new languages, developing research skills—he absorbed every lesson Bruce had imparted with precision.
He practiced martial arts with makeshift dummies in the playhouse, ran obstacle courses, and even began learning rudimentary coding and analysis skills. And yet his eyes kept flicking to the date.
Then 28th came and went. Bruce had not returned. Anxiety gnawed at Dick.
By the twenty-ninth, Dick was pacing the length of the Batcave, the cold glow of monitors throwing sharp shadows across his Robin suit. His chest rose and fell too quickly. It’s been more than a day. What if he’s hurt? What if he’s not coming back?
He stopped, hands pressed against the console, trying to think. And then—like a door creaking open in his mind—memories surged—Bruce’s voice in his head, a lesson drilled months ago.
A training session weeks ago. Him and Bruce in the cave, the night quiet except for the hum of the Batcomputer.
“Pay attention, Dick,” Bruce’s voice had rumbled, low and steady. “This isn’t sparring. This is survival.”
Dick, still flushed from drills, sat cross-legged on the floor. “Okay, I’m listening.”
Bruce leaned against the console, arms folded. “There are other heroes out there. Other vigilantes. Metas. Aliens. Demigods. Creatures from legends. Magicians. Demons; you’ll need to know who they are. Where they operate. How to find them.”
His tone was sharp, almost clinical, but Dick noticed the way Bruce’s eyes softened just a fraction as he looked down at him.
“Metropolis,” Bruce began. “Superman. Alien. Civilian name: Clark Kent. Address—apartment in downtown Metropolis. You’ll recognize him. He doesn’t hide the smile.”
Dick grinned. “He sounds… nice.”
Bruce didn’t react. “National City. Supergirl. Alien. Kara Danvers. Younger, less experienced, but powerful. You’d find her at CatCo Media.”
One by one, the names came. Green Arrow and Black Canary. Vigilantes in Star City who are Oliver Queen and Dinah Lance respectively. Can be found in Queen Residence.
The Flash, a meta in Central City—“Barry Allen, forensic scientist, CCPD.”
Demigod. Wonder Woman—“Diana Prince. Museum curator. Not hard to find when she doesn’t want to be.”
Aquaman. Arthur Curry, King of Atlantis. The way to Atlantis is through Amnesty Bay in Maine.
John Constantine, a magician. Never seek him out.
Green Lantern Hal Jordan in Coast City.
Mr. Terrific, Green Lantern Guy Gardner, Hawkgirl, all operating under Maxwell Lord’s orbit in Washington.
Bruce’s voice was relentless, crisp, but each detail burned itself into Dick’s memory. He listed addresses, contact points, even weaknesses. Because Batman was Batman, and paranoia was his second skin.
“And,” Bruce finished, crouching until his shadow loomed over Dick, “if I ever go missing for more than forty-eight hours… and the tracker doesn’t show my location… you go to Metropolis. You find Superman. He’ll help you.”
Dick had blinked up at him, swallowing the lump in his throat. “…What if he doesn’t believe me?”
“He will,” Bruce said simply. His hand rested heavy, solid, reassuring on Dick’s shoulder.
The memory faded. Back in the present, Dick’s heart thumped faster. His gaze shot to the motorcycle parked under its tarp, Christmas ribbon still dangling from the handlebars.
Forty-eight hours… it’s close enough. I have to find him, Dick thinks. Superman will know what to do.
And with that, he tugged on his domino mask, the decision burning like fire in his chest.
Fear gnawed at him. Dick swung a leg over the Robin motorcycle. The engine roared. Gotham’s streets blurred past, the bridge spanning to Metropolis glowing in the night.
He didn’t tell Alfred. He couldn’t. This was his duty.
By midnight, he was standing outside Clark Kent’s apartment building, heart hammering. He climbed, smashed a window, rolled inside.
---
Clark Kent had just settled with cocoa and a book when the crash came. His window shattered. He whirled around—only to find a tiny figure in red, green, and yellow tumbling onto his carpet.
Clark screamed.
Robin blinked. “Why are you screaming?!”
Clark grabbed the cross from his drawer, waving it. “Be gone, ghost!”
“I’m not a ghost!” Dick snapped. “I’m Robin!”
Clark froze. “…Robin?”
“Yes! Batman told me if he ever went missing, I should find you. And now dad's missing. So—you’re Superman, right?”
Clark’s jaw dropped. Then a warmth spread in his chest. Batman trusted him this much? But also—Batman knows my secret identity.
The farm boy eyes widened into shock. “Batman made me your emergency contact?” Then, muttering, “Of course he did. He knows my identity but—he didn’t even…” Clark groaned. “That man.”
Less than a second later, Superman stood in full suit, arms crossed. “You’re staying here while I look.”
“No way.” Dick planted his fists on his hips. “If you don’t take me, I’ll just go by myself.”
Superman groaned. “You’re impossible.”
Dick crossed his arms. “You can’t stop me.”
Clark rubbed his temple. “…You’re just like him.”
---
Minutes later, Dick was perched on Superman’s shoulders, hands tangled in Clark’s hair as they streaked across the sky.
“Careful with the hair—ow!”
“You fly too fast!”
“You’re pulling my scalp off!”
“You’re Superman, I know it doesn't hurt. Stop being dramatic!”
Thus Robin rode on Superman’s shoulders, fingers tangled in the Kryptonian’s hair, as they soared across skies.
Superman flew over Gotham and Metropolis, with Robin perched on his shoulder, clinging tightly. They scanned rooftops, alleys, and streets with X-ray vision, thermal sensors, and super-hearing, searching for Batman.
Finally, they located him in an abandoned warehouse near the Metropolis-Gotham bridge.
“There!” Clark’s vision pierced through walls. He spotted Batman and Batwoman in a warehouse on the Metropolis coast.
Superman smashed through the roof with zero stealth.
---
Superman crashed in. “Found you!”
Batman’s head whipped around, fury flashing. “What are you—”
But then Batwoman’s voice rang. “Why is Robin with you?!”
Bruce’s headache was immediate. His son dangled cheerfully from Superman’s shoulders. But before the scolding could start, alarms blared and Scarecrow’s men poured in.
Chaos erupted. Gunfire. Shouts. Masked thugs.
The warehouse stank of rust and fear toxin. Dim floodlights buzzed overhead, flickering through the smoke that clung to the rafters. Rusting steel containers lined the walls, each stamped with chemical hazard symbols, pipes running out of them into tanks that hissed with green vapor.
Mercenaries in gas masks and Kevlar patrolled the floor with assault rifles slung over their shoulders. Scarecrow wasn’t there, but his men were ready.
The roof groaned—then exploded inward as Superman dropped like a meteor. The floor trembled with the shockwave, debris scattering in all directions.
“Take him down!” one merc shouted, and chaos erupted.
Gunfire crackled, bullets ricocheting harmlessly off Superman’s chest. He blurred forward, one hand ripping a rifle in half, the other sending its owner sprawling into a wall with a single shove.
But the storm wasn’t his alone.
Batman was already moving, cape billowing like a living shadow. He dropped from a steel girder with silent precision, landing behind two men. His gauntleted fists slammed into the first’s helmet, spinning him to the ground. The second turned—too late. Batman caught his rifle, twisted it free, and smashed the butt across his jaw.
A smoke pellet clattered across the concrete, exploding in a hiss of gray fog. From it surged Batwoman, red wig blazing against the haze. She slid low under gunfire, boot catching an enemy in the knee. Bone cracked. She spun up, elbowing another merc in the throat, then drew her grappling hook and yanked a third off the catwalk above.
Robin—small but fierce—flipped off Superman’s shoulders into the melee, somersaulting through the smoke. He landed squarely on one merc’s chest, fists pounding in rapid jabs before vaulting off with a gymnast’s grace. His heel snapped against another’s helmet, the man crumpling as Robin spun mid-air and landed light as a feather.
“Not bad for a kid,” Batwoman called, ducking a punch.
“I’m the boy wonder!” Robin barked back, swinging into a back handspring that planted both boots in another thug’s chest.
Superman ripped the door off a container, hurling it like a discus across the room. Three mercs went flying, their rifles scattering. He caught a rocket mid-air, crumpled it in his hand, and glared through the smoke. His heat vision lanced out, melting the barrel of a machine gun before its wielder could fire.
Batman grappled upward, landing on the catwalk to cut off reinforcements. A thug swung a pipe—Batman ducked, countered with a brutal headbutt, then locked the man’s arm and hurled him into another charging soldier. Gas canisters clattered dangerously near the ledge; Batman kicked them away, every move calculated to protect the tanks below.
“Cover the toxin!” he barked.
“On it!” Batwoman sprinted to the far side, batarangs flashing from her belt. Each one embedded into pipes and valves, venting green gas safely upward instead of into the room. She ripped open a panel, sparks flying as she cut the main feed with her wrist-blade.
Robin ducked under a wild swing, grabbed a thug’s arm, and flipped him over his shoulder with circus precision. He grinned—until a towering merc charged him with a baton crackling with electricity. Robin froze—
—then Superman appeared in a blur, hand snapping the baton in half. He ruffled Robin’s hair with a quick grin before hurling the merc across the floor.
“Teamwork,” Superman said warmly.
Batman growled from above. “Don’t encourage him.”
Robin only smirked.
The fight raged for another brutal minute. The last merc standing swung his rifle like a club at Batwoman—she sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and used his own momentum to slam him face-first into a steel crate. He slid down unconscious.
Silence fell, broken only by the hiss of vents as the last toxin canisters depressurized harmlessly. Smoke drifted upward in fading coils.
Batman’s cape swirled as he dropped to the floor, eyes scanning the unconscious enemies. His jaw was clenched, his voice cold.
“What is my son doing here?”
---
“What are you doing here?” Batman demanded.
Superman raised a brow. “Young Robin broke into my apartment. Said you were missing. Apparently, I’m his emergency contact. Funny how you never mentioned that.”
Bruce’s mouth was a tight line.
“And another thing,” Superman added, eyes narrowing. “Why are you operating in my city? You don’t allow metas in Gotham, remember? New rule? Seems hypocritical.”
Batman’s glare could have melted steel. Robin, oblivious, tugged at his cape. “Dad, Dad—”
Batman sighed heavily, rubbing his brow. “My son has something to say.”
Robin beamed up at Superman. “Can we take a picture? You’re my favorite superhero.”
Superman’s grin split wide. With microscopic vision, he caught Batman’s lips twitching in displeasure. The Bat was jealous. Deliciously jealous.
Snap.
Robin also wanted his poster to be signed but it currently hanging over the front wall of his bed. Superman leaned down, chuckling. “Next time you yell my name, I’ll come. Even if it’s just to sign a poster.”
Robin gasped. “Really?”
“Really.”
---
Batwoman returned, wiping sweat. “Tanks dismantled. Toxin neutralized.”
Superman shot Batman a look. “You knew my civilian identity. Still won’t tell me yours?”
Batman’s silence was answer enough.
“Typical,” Clark muttered.
Batman straightened. “Batwoman, pick up Robin’s motorcycle at Kent’s apartment. Robin and I are heading back in the Batmobile.”
---
The drive home was dark, city lights streaking past. Dick sat quietly, then whispered, “I was just so worried. I thought—you weren’t coming back.”
Bruce’s hands tightened on the wheel. “…I said if I was gone more than 48 hours. It hadn’t been 48.”
“I forgot.” Dick’s voice cracked. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you not coming home.”
Bruce’s heart twisted. He didn’t scold. Not this time.
---
Back in Wayne Manor, The Batmobile purred into the cave. They climbed the stairs to the manor, only to find Alfred in the study waiting— in robe, pajamas, and a fury that could cow even the Dark Knight.
Bruce leaned toward Dick and mocked whispered, “Did you tell Alfred?”
“…No.”
“Then you’re in deep trouble.”
Alfred’s voice boomed. “Master Richard! You are grounded for the entirety of your winter vacation. No playhouse, no electronics, no patrols. You will assist me in the kitchen with washing and cleaning until further notice.”
Dick opened his mouth to protest.
“Or,” Alfred cut in sharply, “I punish you military style. And you will not like that.”
Dick snapped his jaw shut. “…Yes, Alfred.”
Bruce smirked faintly, unseen in the shadows. Alfred had it handled.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter Text
The chamber smelled of oil and steel. Candles flickered against the stone walls, their glow illuminating a figure tied to a chair—a man whose eyes darted around in terror. His breath came fast, his chest rising and falling like a drumbeat.
Eight-year-old Cassandra Cain stood before him, a little bounce in her tiny being. Her father, David Cain, loomed behind her, his looming presence was a sharp contrast against her.
David Cain handed her a dagger: sharp and heavy. Most children her age would struggle to hold it but not her, never her. Cassandra was a master of holding weight heavier than her. Using others' heavy muscled bodies against them. Defeating them.
“Cassandra.” David Cain's voice was ice cold. That word was the only noise her father ever made in front of her.
David Cain motions his hand in a circular motion, a pattern he only makes when he wishes for Cassandra to annihilate the training dummies completely.
To Cassandra, training had always been movements and strikes, repetition until her muscles remembered what words never taught her. This was a dance that was etched in her very soul.
So she moved, silently but precisely with no hesitation for every time she obeys, her father would give her one those rare blinding smile. A smile that meant she was good and he was proud.
The man squirmed. His body screamed panic—his shoulders tense, his chest heaving, his feet straining against the rope. Cassandra’s entire life had been built on reading the body, on knowing what muscles whispered.
It would tell her; when to move, when to spin, where to fein a hit, where to strike precisely, how to win. For defeat was not an option. Not for her at least.
So when she lunged forward and slashed, she understood the story of fear in every twitch of his frame.
Then—suddenly—it stopped.
No more shifting weight, no more beating rhythm in his chest, no more fear leaking from his posture. Stillness. Horrifying, unnatural stillness.
Cassandra’s wide eyes stared at the fallen man. Her heart thudded wildly as a scream clawed up her throat but never came. This wasn’t training. This was… death.
The knife clattered from her hand as she stumbled back. Cain’s scowl deepened, his hand raised to strike her, but Cassandra was already running.
he command cracked through the training hall like a whip.
“Seize her.”
David Cain’s voice was cold, sharp, and final.
Steel hissed as blades were drawn. Half a dozen assassins fanned out, their black robes whispering against the stone floor. The torchlight carved their masks into snarling shapes.
The first assassin lunged, aiming low to pin her legs. Cassandra vaulted over him, her bare feet slapping stone as she landed and rolled. A second was already there, daggers flashing. She ducked left, the blade kissing her cheek with a shallow cut, then smashed her shoulder into his ribs. The man grunted, staggering back. She didn’t stop to finish him—speed was her weapon now.
“Don’t let her escape!” Cain barked.
Two more blocked the archway ahead, swords gleaming. Cassandra skidded, sandaled feet scraping stone. They came at her from both sides. She dropped flat, their blades clanging above her, then swept her leg in a wide arc. One went down hard. She scrambled up, seized his sword, and hurled it at the torch. Sparks exploded, showering embers, plunging part of the hall into shadow.
The darkness was hers.
A fist grabbed at her tunic. Cassandra twisted, driving her elbow into the attacker’s throat. He gagged, dropping to his knees. Another came from behind, his arm snaking around her neck. She stomped down on his foot, bent low, and flipped him clean over her shoulder. His body crashed against the stone wall.
Her lungs burned. Her heart hammered. Still, she ran.
At the corridor’s end, two assassins barred the way, staffs ready. Cassandra darted forward, feinting left—then spun right. Her foot snapped out in a crescent kick, knocking one staff away. She grabbed the other assassin’s pole mid-strike and used it as leverage to vault herself up onto the wall. For a moment, she ran along the stones like gravity meant nothing, before leaping clear over their heads. She landed light, like a shadow given flesh.
Behind her, chaos reigned.
But Cain’s voice carried through it all, calm and furious. “She belongs to me. Stop her.”
Another assassin sprang at her, twin blades slicing in a deadly X. Cassandra caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted it until the blade clattered away, then smashed her forehead into his mask. He reeled, stunned. She shoved him aside and burst into the courtyard.
The night air hit her like freedom.
Torches burned along the perimeter. More assassins rushed forward, their silhouettes slicing across the moonlit stones. Cassandra’s eyes darted, searching. The gates.
She tore across the courtyard, cutting, dodging, twisting—every motion drilled into her bones but now bent to a new purpose. Not to kill. Not to obey. To escape.
Arrows whistled past her ear. She leapt, rolled, and slammed into the gate with every ounce of her strength. The old iron creaked under her weight. She clawed upward, nails biting rust. Hands grabbed at her ankles, but she kicked free, scrambling higher.
“Cassandra!” Cain’s voice cracked the air.
She didn’t look back.
At the top, she flung herself over the wall. The world tilted, stars spinning above, ground rushing to meet her. She landed hard, pain jolting through her legs. But she was outside.
Outside.
Breathless, battered, bleeding—free.
Behind her, the League roared in frustration. And more shadows followed her retreat.
By the time she burst out of The mountains of Nanda Parbat and into the desert, her arms and legs were slick with cuts, her breath ragged, but she did not stop. Still, she ran, until exhaustion broke her body and darkness swallowed her.
---
When her eyes fluttered open, the world was brighter, harsher—the desert sun blazing down. She blinked against the light, finding a woman kneeling beside her.
Chestnut hair framed the woman’s sun kissed face, and green eyes, calm but sharp, studied her. She wore a dark green robe, her poise regal even in the dust.
Cassandra scrambled back on all fours, fear crackling in her chest. She thought the woman would drag her back. Her father’s assassin. Another test.
Instead, the woman’s lips curved faintly. Her body language was steady, nonthreatening. “So,” she said in smooth tones Cassandra didn’t understand, “You are the child of David Cain and Lady Shiva. The one who is all.”
Cassandra flinched at the sounds but read the posture: admiration, curiosity. Not anger.
“You impress me,” the woman continued. “To escape them all.”
From her robe, she pulled out a small satchel and dropped it onto the sand—rations, gloves, socks, a muffler. Then, with a small flourish, she whispered something, and a glowing butterfly of pale gold shimmered into existence. It hovered, wings glowing in the sun, then flitted toward the horizon.
Cassandra froze. Magic was not something she had ever understood. But she read the woman’s body—the way her hands spread, the calm of her eyes. Follow. That’s what she meant.
Hesitating only a second, Cassandra snatched the bag and staggered after the butterfly, leaving the mysterious woman behind.
The woman watched the girl disappear into the heat haze. Her expression softened, almost wistful. If my beloved can take in one broken child of assassins… perhaps he may accept another in time.
---
Days blurred into one another. Sand, hunger, cold nights, blistering days. Cassandra chewed dried food from the satchel, sipped water sparingly, and ran whenever she could, because stillness made her remember the man’s body collapsing, the emptiness of death.
By the time the glowing butterfly finally flickered out and vanished, Cassandra stumbled into Gotham City.
The city’s smell was overwhelming—oil, sweat, garbage, smoke. Her matted black hair clung to her face, her clothes torn, her body feral with exhaustion. In the narrow alleys, shadows stretched long and the noise of cars was like thunder.
That was where she saw him.
A boy in red, green, and yellow, swinging down from a fire escape with the reckless grace of a performer.
“Hey!” Robin grinned brightly, stepping forward. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been out here for—”
Too fast. Too loud. His joy startled her like a slap. Cassandra’s instincts flared. Before the boy wonder could finish his sentence, she lashed out. A kick to the chest, an elbow to the jaw. He hit the ground with a grunt of pain.
“Whoa—okay, not friendly!” Robin groaned, scrambling up. “I was just trying to—” Another flurry of blows cut him off, sending him sprawling again.
His comm crackled with his sharp gasps.
Batman’s voice came immediately: “Robin?”
In less than a minute, a dark figure dropped into the alley. Cape sweeping, cowl shadowing his face, Batman seized Cassandra by the collar and hauled her upward. His grip was iron, his eyes narrowed.
But then—shock. Because the girl twisted in his hold, her body shifting seamlessly through sequences of martial arts. Stances and counters Bruce recognized instantly.
League of Assassins.
Her strikes landed on him—weak, starved, but precise. One kick to his ribs, one punch to his jaw. He let her slip past his guard for a moment, gauging her. How does a child fight like this?
She spun, fluid, attacking with desperation. Bruce caught her wrist, blocked a blow, locked her stance. Then, quick as lightning, his fingers pressed into a pressure point at her shoulder.
The fight drained from her. Cassandra’s eyes rolled back, and she slumped unconscious into his arms.
Batman stared at her small, battered frame. Robin groaned from the ground, “Who is she?”
Bruce didn’t answer. He only lifted the girl carefully and looked up into Gotham’s night sky.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a whisper stirred, Alfred feared there would be no more Waynes. But Gotham seems to have other plans.
He carried another child home.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 7: The Shadow In The Manor
Summary:
Cass gets home
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Batman carried the unconscious girl into the Batcave, his cape brushing against the stone floor. She was feather-light in his arms, far too light for a child of her age, her head lolling against his chest. Alfred, who had been waiting with a tray of tea by the computer, froze. His brows rose high, and then his eyes flicked to Bruce’s.
“Another child, Master Bruce?” Alfred said softly, though there was a flicker of warmth in his eyes, even a knowing little smile tugging at his lips.
Bruce laid the girl carefully on the med-bay cot. “She’s injured. Exhausted. Get Leslie here.”
Alfred set the tray down and moved immediately, already dialing. Minutes later, Dr. Leslie Thompkins arrived, pulling her coat off and snapping on gloves. She examined the child with brisk efficiency, her face tightening as she noted the bruises, the shallow cuts, the malnutrition.
“This girl hasn’t had proper food or water in days,” Leslie muttered. “Her body’s riddled with scars—old and new. Whoever trained her didn’t train her like a child. They trained her like a weapon.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. He was already tapping commands into the Batcomputer, tracing the trail that had led Cassandra to him. Alfred, however, stepped closer to the girl, his movements slow and deliberate. He took her pulse, checked her breathing, then covered her with a clean sheet.
“She needs nourishment. Rest. And, dare I say, kindness.” His voice carried a quiet resolution.
Bruce didn’t respond. He turned to the Batcomputer, where a soft chime had alerted him of a private line. One he recognized instantly—Talia’s. Against his better judgment, he opened it. A message had been left, sparse but direct.
> Beloved, by the time you see this, the girl will have found her way to you. her name is Cassandra. The daughter of David Cain and Lady Shiva. She is what they intended—a perfect weapon. If you are reading this, she has chosen her own path.
Bruce stared at the words, a rare shiver of horror running through him. Eight years old, already forced to kill. Already running.
---
When Cassandra woke, it was to unfamiliar ceilings and soft sheets. Her body ached, but it was the silence that frightened her more. She sat up, tense and ready to bolt.
“Easy now.”
The voice was calm, aged like warm oak. Alfred Pennyworth stood by the bedside, not approaching, just waiting. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, his posture relaxed, his eyes steady and kind.
Cassandra didn’t understand his words, but she understood his body language. No threat. No command. Just… patience. For the first time, her muscles eased and her stomach growled.
“Hungry, are we?” he asked gently.
She didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked to the tray in his hands.
“Soup,” Alfred continued, as though speaking to a skittish bird. “Not much to look at, but it will put some warmth back in those bones.”
He picked up the bowl and spoon, then sat in the nearest chair. He didn’t approach her, didn’t coax. He simply lifted the spoon to his own lips, tasted it, then set it down again.
Cassandra crept closer. Slowly, hesitantly, she took the spoon. She didn’t use it—she tipped the bowl and drank straight from the edge.
Alfred said nothing. But he smiled faintly.
---
The next morning, Cassandra wandered the halls of Wayne Manor like a ghost. She touched nothing, but her eyes devoured everything—the tall windows, the oil paintings, the spiral banister. Her steps were noiseless.
That was when Dick appeared.
He came barreling down the hall with his usual hurricane of energy, nearly colliding with her. “Whoa! Hey!” He grinned, adjusting his backpack. “You must be the new recruit.”
Cassandra stiffened.
“I’m Dick,” he said, pointing to himself. “That’s short for Richard. But everyone just calls me Dick, because, well, that’s the rule.” He spread his arms like a performer waiting for applause.
Cassandra blinked.
Dick tilted his head. “Not much of a talker, huh? That’s cool. I talk enough for two people anyway.”
She edged back, clearly unsettled by his volume.
“Hey, hey, it’s fine.” He lowered his voice, gentler now. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Alfred appeared at the end of the hall, carrying a laundry basket. “Master Richard, if you’re finished startling the young lady, perhaps you might attempt… subtlety.”
Dick flashed him a grin. “I’m working on it.”
But later, when Cassandra disappeared—slipping into the spaces only she seemed to know—Dick was the one who called out for her. He searched every corridor, peered under tables, even checked the chandeliers.
Bruce found her first. He crouched beside the curtain where she hid, extending a gloved hand. She stared at it, tense, ready to bolt.
He didn’t move closer. He simply waited.
Finally, slowly, she didn’t touch his hand but followed him anyway.
---
Meals were an exercise in patience. Cassandra preferred to eat with her fingers, wolfing food down as though it might be taken away. Alfred never scolded. He quietly set napkins nearby and provided dishes that wouldn’t break when dropped.
One evening, he placed a small plate of cookies in front of her. Cassandra eyed them suspiciously, sniffed one, then took a tentative bite. Her eyes widened.
Dick laughed. “First cookie ever? You’re in for a treat, kiddo.”
She ignored him and reached for another.
Bruce watched from across the table, silent as ever. But when Alfred refilled her plate, Bruce’s eyes softened.
---
She crept through the manor like a shadow, vanishing into the narrow spaces between pillars, into closets, into the darkest corners. Alfred called her “our little ghost,” though he said it with fondness. Dick laughed, declaring it a game of hide-and-seek.
But Bruce knew better. This wasn’t play. This was survival.
So when he found her crouched high above in the library rafters one evening, instead of scolding, he simply stood below, waiting. His eyes softened, his hand lifted slightly—not an order, but an invitation. Slowly, hesitantly, Cassandra climbed down.
When her small, scarred hand touched his, Bruce lifted her easily into his arms. She stiffened at first—physical contact had always meant pain, commands, punishment. But Bruce held her carefully, never too tight, his presence steady as bedrock. For the first time in her life, being touched did not mean harm.
---
At night, Cassandra still didn’t sleep in the bed Alfred prepared. Instead, she curled in the shadows—under the desk, behind the couch, inside the narrow space between the bookshelf and wall. Alfred found her each morning, shook his head, and quietly moved her blanket to wherever she’d chosen.
By the third night, Bruce came himself. He knelt in the dark corner where she crouched, her blanket tangled around her.
“This bed is yours,” he said quietly.
She stared at him.
“No one will take it from you.”
For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then she crawled into the bed, still watchful. Bruce tucked the blanket around her and left without another word.
---
It was Alfred, who worried that she had yet to shed the tattered clothes she’d arrived in. The fabric was stiff with sweat, dirt, and travel. Her hair hung in thick, matted tangles that spoke of weeks—perhaps months—without proper care. So he devised a strategy.
Alfred decided to add something small to her tray after lunch: a single round shortbread cookie dusted with sugar. He placed it down casually, without explanation, as though it had always belonged there.
Cassandra eyed it suspiciously. She sniffed, touched it, then bit off the edge. Her eyes widened at the sweetness, and before Alfred could even pour tea, the cookie was gone.
He noted this with care.
The following day, the plate bore not one but two cookies—then a slice of apple pie. Later came lemon tarts, a dish of chocolate pudding, warm brownies. Each time, Cassandra tested them like a creature unsure of what was safe. Each time, her eyes widened, and Alfred’s heart warmed just a little more.
By the end of the week, when Alfred appeared with a dish of custard and berries, Cassandra’s hand reached for it before he even set it down.
And that was when it happened: she looked up at him, hesitated, then gave him the smallest, most fragile of smiles.
Alfred froze, spoon still in hand. He felt his chest tighten in a way it hadn’t since Dick had first laughed in this house years ago.
“Well,” he murmured softly, “that is worth more than a thousand thank-yous.”
That night, after she had eaten dinner, he approached her with quiet formality. “Miss Cassandra,” he said, gesturing toward the hall. “Might I persuade you to accompany me?”
She tilted her head, uncertain.
Alfred’s words meant nothing to her, but his tone did. Gentle, reassuring, but insistent. She followed, bare feet padding against the polished floor.
In the tiled bathroom, Alfred turned the taps until steam rose, filling the air with warmth. He pointed to the tub, then mimed washing his hair. Cassandra watched, suspicious, but her eyes flicked to the water with interest.
When she didn’t move, Alfred crouched so his gaze was level with hers. “No one will hurt you,” he said quietly. “I’ll see to it myself.”
Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. She studied him for a long moment, searching his face. Then, slowly, she stepped forward.
Alfred exhaled as though a mountain had shifted.
Her small body slipped into the warm water, shoulders tensing, then easing as the heat sank in. Alfred, sleeves rolled, knelt behind her.
“Now then,” he murmured, lifting the first handful of water to her hair, “let us see what beauty lies beneath these knots.”
Her hair was a battlefield—matted clumps, dust, old blood tangled at the ends. Alfred worked patiently, hands steady, easing out snarl after snarl with warm water and soap. Cassandra sat still, reading his careful movements, his softened expression.
By the end, her black hair lay smooth against her shoulders, glistening with clean strands.
Alfred stood up and guided her gently to the shower. Turning on the jet sprays, handing her a soap and a washcloth. Then, once again mimed washing his body.
He walked out as she started washing, giving her privacy but never abandoning her.
Her skin, once dull with grime, was clean and soft again. Alfred wrapped her in a thick towel, drying her gently, then produced a dress—white, soft, and impossibly fluffy compared to her old rags.
When she emerged from the bathroom, dressed and clean, even Bruce paused in the hall.
She looked… young. For the first time, like a child.
And Alfred, behind her, allowed himself the smallest smile of victory.
The next morning, Cassandra was different.
At breakfast, she moved quietly as always, but when Alfred appeared with the tea tray, she stopped fidgeting. She even looked up at him once, catching his eyes, and gave the faintest nod of acknowledgement.
For Alfred, it was more than a breakthrough. It was trust.
---
Dick, on the other hand, was loud, exuberant, impossible to ignore. He shadowed her constantly, chattering in words she didn’t understand, making goofy hand gestures, exaggerated faces. At first, she responded with suspicion, sometimes slipping away from him, sometimes narrowing her eyes at his endless energy. But Dick was persistent, and persistence was something she recognized.
One afternoon, Dick placed both hands on his chest, tapped twice, and pointed at himself. “Dick,” he said slowly. “Dick.”
She tilted her head.
Then he pointed at her, raising his brows. “You?”
Cassandra didn’t reply, but after a long pause, she tapped her chest once.
“Cassandra,” Bruce’s deep voice came from behind. He had been watching quietly.
Dick grinned wide, as though he had just discovered treasure. “Cassandra! Got it!”
And just like that, the crack in her walls stretched and stretched wide to accommodate three people.
---
Over weeks, Cassandra learned to eat without fear, to sleep in a bed, to follow the quiet cues of those who cared for her. Alfred’s patience, Dick’s energy, and Bruce’s quiet vigilance slowly chipped away at the feral shell. She was still wary, more shadow than child, but each day brought small victories: a smile, a shared cookie, a hand touched, a name learned.
Evenings in the dining room became moments of near-normalcy. Dick animatedly acted out stories, gesturing wildly, while Cassandra tilted her head, lips twitching in amusement. Bruce watched quietly, a small, rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Alfred murmured, “Another child, Master Bruce. Another chance.”
Bruce said nothing. But in his heart, he already knew—Cassandra wasn’t just a runaway assassin. She was theirs now.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter Text
Cassandra had already become a fixture in Wayne Manor within a month. Where once she hid and skulked in corners, now she sat at the table, ate meals beside Alfred and Dick, and even tolerated the television flickering in the background. She didn’t understand most of it—the moving pictures, the strange voices, the laughter from invisible audiences—but she watched with sharp, observant eyes.
Her silence still lingered like an unbroken wall, though Dick never stopped trying to climb it. Every day, he chattered at her, exaggerated his gestures, showed her books, tried to get her to mimic sounds. She never repeated them, but he kept at it anyway, grinning with relentless optimism.
Bruce watched it all quietly. Cassandra’s silence didn’t trouble him—he understood it. But he also knew that if she was to live a new life, she would need her voice. So he hired a specialized speech therapist to visit the Manor every week day. Cassandra sat in those lessons with quiet intensity, frowning at every sound as though it were another puzzle to crack.
---
One weary morning in late April, the family gathered for breakfast. Bruce looked utterly drained, his eyes shadowed from a long night patrolling Gotham. He sat at the head of the table, nursing coffee like it was a lifeline. Alfred, dignified as ever, poured cranberry juice into crystal glasses with practiced grace.
Dick hummed cheerfully as he buttered his toast, crumbs scattering across his plate. Cassandra sat across from him, small and still, her eyes flicking from one family member to the next, as though weighing a decision.
Then—she cleared her throat.
The soft sound drew all three men’s attention instantly. Bruce set down his cup. Alfred froze mid-pour. Dick’s head snapped up, toast forgotten.
Suddenly being at the focal point of the three men's attention made her a little embarrassed. Uncertain thoughts that she couldn't say started cloud in her. What if the word came out wrong? What if they disliked the tone of her sounds.
'No,' Cassandra thought resolutely. She had practiced in front of the mirror for hours. She was not going to mess it up. And even if she did, they would accept her anyway. For their care didn’t come with rules and conditions attached.
As she was contemplating, outside her mind, seconds passed and the silence stretched on; yet none of them broke their attention from her. Waiting for her. They always waited for her. Mind made up, Cassandra’s dark eyes locked onto Bruce’s. And then, softly but with no hesitation, she spoke her first word.
“Dad.”
The butter knife slipped from Dick’s hand. Alfred’s hands holding the juice jar trembled. And Bruce, his breath caught. The word hit him with more force than any blow he had ever taken. For a moment, he was young again, standing in an alley with blood on his hands, aching for someone to call his father back. And now—this small girl, this child who had known nothing but pain, had chosen him.
Dick broke the silence with a jubilant shout. “Cass! Oh yes! You started talking!” He bounced in his chair, eyes wide with joy. “That’s the best first word ever!”
Bruce rose without a word, his chair scraping the floor. He crossed the space in three strides and knelt by Cassandra’s chair. His bandaged hand cupped her cheek, and then he wrapped his arms around her. His voice, low and rough, whispered against her ear.
“Yes. Yes, Cassandra. I’m Dad now.”
Her small body stiffened, then slowly relaxed in his embrace. Her hands, tentative and unsure, lifted to clutch his shirt.
Behind them, Alfred’s eyes softened with pride.
“I’m not going to school today,” Dick announced loudly, breaking the spell. “No way! This is way too exciting! My little sister said her first word. That’s more important than math class.”
Bruce turned, one brow arched. “Nice try, chum. You’re still going to school.”
“Aww, come on—”
“Not up for debate,” Bruce said, though there was an undeniable warmth in his tone.
But his gaze met Alfred’s then, a silent exchange passing between them. Alfred inclined his head slightly, already knowing Bruce’s intent. Plans would be set in motion. Papers forged. Approvals secured. Cassandra Cain would no longer be nameless or unwanted. She would be Cassandra Martha Wayne.
---
Within days, Bruce had made it official. Birth certificates appeared, meticulously crafted. Adoption papers bore the seals of Gotham’s City Council. When it was done, Bruce felt a strange weight lift from his shoulders. Cassandra was not just a ward. She was his daughter now.
Alfred took it upon himself to explain the family legacy. One afternoon, he led Cassandra into the portrait gallery. The tall portraits of past Waynes loomed above them, each solemn face watching from gilded frames. Alfred’s voice was warm, reverent.
“Here, Miss Cassandra, is where our family is remembered. Each generation added, each story preserved. And now—your name shall be woven here as well, beside Master Richard, across from Master Bruce.”
Cassandra looked up at the portraits, wide-eyed. She didn’t fully understand the words, but she could read Alfred’s intent—acceptance. As her fingers traced the names on the tapestry, she found something she never thought was possible. Belonging. Family.
Alfred knelt slightly, lowering his voice. “From now on, you will never be alone in shadows again. You will always have a family to hold you, to speak to you, to love you.”
Something unspoken softened in Cassandra’s eyes.
---
The next days blurred into a flurry of change. Shopping trips with Dick and Bruce filled Cassandra’s world with wonders she had never experienced before—clothes chosen just for her, toys she was allowed to keep, colors and fabrics and textures that were hers to touch and explore.
Her room, across the hall from Dick’s, mirrored his own in size and layout. But where his was bright and bold, Cassandra’s slowly filled with small treasures—a shelf of dolls and pokemon plushies Dick insisted on picking out, books Alfred quietly added, soft blankets Bruce made sure were stocked.
Puzzles, color books, clays and slimes, beyblades strewn across the fireplace. The couches covered in hats and tiaras. Dirty clothes on the closet room's floor. Alfred Pennyworth's military disciplined cleanliness takes a hit with every mess.
But he couldn't find him to scold the girl for
She slept there more often now, no longer curling in shadows.
And each day, her words grew. “Cass.” “Dick.” “Alfred.” “Kiss.” “Hug.” Simple things, fragile but powerful.
Dick bragged to anyone who would listen—even if it was just Alfred in the kitchen—that his little sister was the fastest learner in Gotham. Alfred only smiled and nodded, already certain that Cassandra’s place in the Wayne family was not just secure, but destined.
Bruce, though he never said it aloud, felt it most of all. With every new word, every hesitant smile, he knew: the Manor wasn’t just full again. It was healing.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 9: The Dancing Bird
Summary:
Cass finds dance
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wayne Manor had changed.
It wasn’t just the rooms filled with light, or because the echo of footsteps no longer belonged to a solitary man. It was the sound of laughter—sometimes sharp, sometimes bubbling—and the rustle of play. For the first time in years, it felt like a home.
Dick was determined that Cassandra would know it as one too.
---
Most afternoons, when school ended, Dick dropped his bag in the hallway and went straight to find Cassandra. More often than not, she was waiting by the back doors, already barefoot in the grass, ready to play.
“Come on, Cass!” Dick would yell, leading her across the sprawling garden. He always called her Cass—his little shorthand, his way of pulling her closer. Sometimes, when Bruce wasn’t in earshot, he’d grin and whisper “Junior B,” and Cassandra, without fully understanding, would smile at the attention.
The adventure course became their playground. Bruce had built it originally for Dick’s training, but now the climbing walls, rope swings, and beams were just games. Cassandra moved across it with uncanny grace. She balanced as if the beam was an extension of her foot, swung from ropes as if she had done it her whole life.
“Not training,” Dick said, panting beside her, sweat sticking to his forehead. “Fun. This is fun, Cass.”
She didn’t answer—words were still scarce—but the way her lips tugged upward at the corners said enough.
---
Rainy days didn’t stop them. The playhouse became their fortress.
Dick spread graph paper and crayons across the floor, His iPad propped against a chair showing videos of people building elaborate wooden structures.
“We’re building a treehouse,” Dick announced with all the gravity of a general preparing for war. “Our treehouse. Not Bruce’s, not Alfred’s. Ours.”
Cass tilted her head, studying the screen, then crouched beside him to scribble. Her lines were shaky, his were crooked, but soon the paper was covered with childish diagrams labeled “Ladder,” “Roof,” “Secret Hatch.”
The next morning, Alfred appeared in the garden with lumber, nails, and gloves. “Tools appropriate to your size, Master Richard,” he said with a hint of wryness. “And perhaps a lesson in patience.”
It became their project. Hours of hammering, sanding, and arguing about designs. The treehouse was far from finished, but already it belonged to them.
---
Indoors, Dick introduced Cassandra to something he considered just as important as wood and nails: video games.
“Okay, Junior B, press X to jump, circle to dodge, square to punch.”
Cassandra hunched over the PS5 controller, her brow furrowed, tongue peeking out between her lips as she focused. Her character jumped once, then promptly fell into a pit.
“Death,” she said flatly.
Dick laughed. “Yeah, but you just respawn. It’s not real. Watch.” He restarted the level. “See? Just for fun.”
It took nearly a week to convince Bruce that video games wouldn’t “encourage bad habits.” But when Cassandra let out a surprised, bright laugh at a clumsy character tumble, Bruce conceded.
“Fine,” he muttered, though his eyes softened. “But keep it age-appropriate.”
---
Evenings belonged to Bruce. Cassandra’s vocabulary was growing, but she was still years behind where she should have been. So Bruce sat at the edge of her bed, picture book in hand.
“‘The rabbit hopped through the meadow…’” His low voice rolled like a steady drumbeat. Cassandra followed with her eyes, pointing occasionally at the illustrations, mouthing sounds.
Sometimes she fell asleep mid-page, her tiny hand curled around the fabric of his sleeve. Sometimes she stayed awake, insisting on “Again” until his voice grew hoarse.
On nights when her energy was boundless, Bruce carried her to the Batcave, letting her mimic stretches beside Dick.
One particular night she wore one of Dick’s old tunics, a crudely painted bat-symbol scrawled across it with splashes yellow paint on Cassandra's plam.
“No,” Bruce said firmly to her silent demand.
Cassandra frowned and skipped towards Dick, then in a small earnest voice, “ Big Brother.” Her phoenix shaped eyes curved innocently, the brown of her irises were so dark that it looked like the night sky and currently it was glittering like stars with all hopes in the world while looking straight into Richard Grayson-Wayne.
And yet...
“No,” Dick echoed with arms crossed. “I started early, Cass, but you’re not allowed until you’re twelve. Minimum.”
Cassandra’s glare could have cut glass. She stomped away and retreated to the kitchen, where Alfred was kneading dough.
“Well,” Alfred murmured, raising a brow at her as she leaned against his side, “it seems Miss Cassandra has decided to declare her independence.”
From the doorway, Bruce folded his arms, lips twitching at the corners. Watching Dick enforce the same boundaries he himself had once struggled to hold amused him deeply. His son was being a hypocrite, and Bruce found it… oddly comforting.
---
Alfred’s kitchen soon became Cassandra’s second refuge. He filled the air with Mozart and Beethoven played from his old vinyls while chopping vegetables. Cassandra sat cross-legged on the counter, eyes wide and unblinking as the music swelled.
“You know, Cass?” Dick said, leaning against the counter, trying to win her back. “Beethoven is cool, but I’ve got something better.” He dropped to his knees, hands clasped in mock-begging. “Please forgive me, Junior B. Come with me. I promise it’ll be worth it.”
She eyed him suspiciously, then followed.
That night, in the Manor’s movie room, the projector flickered to life: ballet, breakdance, jazz, flamenco. Cassandra sat forward, transfixed as bodies spun and leapt, bending to rhythm and music.
By the time the last performance ended, she had crept close, head resting against Dick’s shoulder. Forgiveness, silent but whole.
From the doorway, Bruce allowed himself a rare smile.
Two nights later, he made a plan to slip back into his daughter's good graces.
---
The velvet curtains of the opera house rose with a hush that rippled through the audience like a gentle tide. Cassandra’s small hands clutched the edge of her chair, her dark eyes wide and unblinking. The hall itself seemed impossibly grand to her—gilded moldings, crystal chandeliers that glittered like captured stars, and rows upon rows of red velvet seats stretching into the shadows. Every sound she made seemed swallowed by the space, leaving her hyper-aware of each footfall, each whispered breath around her.
Then, the music began. A single, haunting note drifted from the orchestra pit, then another, until a full melody cascaded over the hall like a flowing river. The strings sang of longing, of heartbreak, and of beauty so intense that it made Cassandra catch her breath. She had never heard anything like it. Her usual world was one of silence, or sharp commands, or the hollow echoes of stone hallways. This—this was alive.
The dancers appeared, gliding across the stage with an elegance that seemed otherworldly. Cassandra’s eyes followed the swans’ movements, captivated by the way they moved as one, their arms lifting like wings, their bodies arching in impossible lines. Every pirouette, every leap, held a gravity that made her chest ache with awe. The ballerinas’ tutus shimmered under the lights, catching reflections like pools of moonlight on water. Cassandra leaned forward, forgetting even to breathe.
As the story unfolded, she became entirely absorbed—the prince, the cursed swan, the battle between darkness and light. The music swelled in perfect synchrony with the dancers’ steps, guiding her emotions as if the orchestra could read her thoughts. When the swan queen raised her arms, the audience seemed to vanish around Cassandra; it was just her, the dancers, and the haunting ballads that soared through the hall.
At one particularly quiet moment, when the stage was bathed in soft blue light and the ballerina’s movements seemed suspended in air, Cassandra’s lips parted in a soundless whisper of wonder. Her hands tightly clutched Bruce’s, yet she couldn’t look away. Every subtle gesture, every soft bend of a wrist or tilt of the head, communicated more than words ever could.
When the final notes rang out and the dancers bowed, the audience erupted in applause, but Cassandra remained seated, heart hammering, eyes shining. She felt as though she had glimpsed a world entirely new—one of grace, art, and beauty that didn’t demand survival or vigilance, only attention and awe. Bruce didn’t watch the stage. He watched her. He caught her rapt expression and allowed himself a small, quiet smile. Cassandra had discovered something rare and precious: the wonder of the human spirit expressed through art, and it had touched her profoundly.
---
The limo ride home was quiet at first, city lights flashing across the windows. Cassandra leaned against Dick, whispering something only he could catch.
Then Dick grinned. “We should do this once a month, Junior B.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Why Junior B?”
Dick smirked. “Yeah. Because she’s such a mini-you.”
Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Explain.”
Dick sat up straighter, almost proud. “Well, first—both of you are amazing fighters. Like, scary good. But you hold back when it really matters. I’ve seen it, Bruce. And Cass does the same. She’s always pulling her punches.”
Cassandra tilted her head, watching quietly as if curious about his words.
“And then,” Dick continued, “you both have this… thing. Like you have to learn everything perfectly. You know every language, every detective trick, every skill. And Cass is the same. When we teach her something new, she doesn’t stop until she’s the best at it.”
Bruce blinked slowly, taken aback.
“Oh, and when you two get mad?” Dick grinned. “You don’t yell—you let everyone know by your actions. Cold shoulders, slamming doors, the whole Wayne package. Like father, like daughter.”
“Not to mention both of you hiss a little when the sunlight hits your eyes like vampires.” Dick proudly listed all his observations points.
For once, Bruce was left speechless.
From the front seat, Alfred let out a rare, full laugh that filled the car. “Well said, Master Richard. A great detective in making, isn't he, Master Bruce?”
Bruce leaned back, still stunned, while Cassandra looked between him and Dick, finally understanding how her nickname came to be with a soft smile.
---
Days later, Alfred signed Cassandra up for online dance lessons. She twirled clumsily through the marble halls of Wayne Manor, music filling her steps. She stumbled, fell, then got back up again—always determined, always striving.
And for the first time, Bruce saw her use her body not as a weapon, but as a vessel for joy.
---
Yet Gotham never slept.
At night, Bruce still donned the cowl. He still fought crime with ruthless precision, the shadows swallowing him whole. But now, as he perched on rooftops, he thought of more than vengeance.
He thought of Dick’s laughter, of Cassandra’s awe, of Alfred’s music. He thought of family.
And in that thought was both strength—and fear.
If I fall, Gotham loses Batman. But they would lose a father. Twice.
That truth burned into him, sharper than any blade.
So he fought harder, striking with both vengeance and love. For Gotham. For his children. For the fragile home they were building together.
And deep within, Bruce Wayne knew: the Bat had never been stronger.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 10: Wheels In The Alley
Summary:
Batman finds a cat
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The grandfather clock in Wayne Manor ticked steadily toward midnight, its deep chime echoing through the cavernous halls. The manor was quiet except for the scratch of a pencil against lined paper, the creak of a chair, and Alfred Pennyworth’s gentle encouragement.
“Remember, Miss Cassandra,” Alfred said, his voice calm, steady, and unhurried. “The letters must be uniform. See here? Curve the tail of the ‘g’ just so. Not too sharp, not too loose. Precision and grace, much like your dancing.”
Cass sat hunched over the desk, her small hands gripping the pencil too tightly. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she traced the loops of letters again and again. Her strokes were neat—too neat—like a soldier following orders. But penmanship, Alfred knew, was not simply about rigidity. It was about rhythm, patience, expression. She would learn.
On the rug, sprawled like he owned the place, Dick Grayson grinned up at her. “Don’t press so hard, Cass. You’ll snap the pencil.” He waggled his own stubby writing in the air like a flag. “Trust me, it’s not about being perfect—it’s about getting the words out so people can read them.”
Cass glanced at his messy scrawl, then back at her page. Her lips curved in the faintest flicker of amusement. Then, head bent, she copied Alfred’s example again, each stroke a small battle she was determined to win.
“Master Richard,” Alfred said in crisp cool tone, “Practice your calligraphy more. No child under my tutelage is allowed such dreadful handwriting.”
Dick groaned in frustration. Alfred, however, hiding his own smile, reached over to pour another cup of tea. These children—so different, yet bound together here—were proof that even in Gotham’s shadow, light could take root.
Upstairs, Bruce was suiting up.
---
The night air was heavy with humidity, clinging like a second skin. Gotham never truly slept, but tonight was quieter than most. The gangs were laying low. The Falcone and Maroni crews had been rattled by recent busts. Even the usual muggers seemed scarce, as though the city itself sensed the weight of the date.
Batman moved from rooftop to rooftop, his cape trailing behind him like a living shadow. Each thrum of the grapnel, each crouch over the city’s neon haze, was ritual. Motion kept the grief at bay.
But when midnight struck, and the clock turned over to June 26th, the ache returned. His parents. His loss. The reason behind the cowl. Every year, this night hollowed him out, reminding him of the boy in the alley with blood on his hands and silence in his throat.
Tonight, he cut his patrol short. No big cases called to him, no rogues were rampaging through the Narrows. Just the occasional purse-snatcher, handled quickly. The city could survive a few hours without him.
He fired his grapnel toward Crime Alley, his movements slower now, more deliberate. His boots hit the crumbling rooftop across from the place he’d vowed never to forget. Below, parked in shadow, the Batmobile waited.
And then he saw it.
Three wheels—gone. The fourth—halfway loose, tiny hands wrenching at it with furious determination.
Batman froze. For once in his life, he made a sound—just the faintest grunt of disbelief.
The boy’s head snapped up.
Big blue eyes. Ragged clothes. A mop of dark hair sticking out at odd angles. A child no older than seven, standing in the filth of Crime Alley with an iron bar clutched in one hand.
For a long heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then the boy snarled, lifted the bar, and hurled it straight at Batman’s chest.
The iron clanged against the armored plating and fell harmlessly at his boots.
Batman blinked.
And then—he laughed.
It started as a low chuckle, then bubbled up, breaking past years of repression into something raw and absurd. A child had just attacked him—Batman—with a tire iron. And somehow, in this cursed alley, on this cursed night, it was funny.
The boy froze, dumbfounded, staring at the impossible: the Bat himself laughing.
When the mirth faded, Batman crouched, his cape pooling around him. His voice was low, curious. “How did you get the tires off?”
The boy’s chin lifted defiantly. “With my fingers.”
Batman’s gaze flicked to the tires. Reinforced alloys, bolted down with military precision. No ordinary child could have budged them. Yet here they were, rolled neatly to the side.
Impossible.
And yet—the boy stood before him, shoulders squared, daring the world to doubt him.
“What’s your name?” Batman asked.
“Jason,” the boy shot back. “Jason Todd.”
A beat of silence. Jason stared at him, unblinking.
Batman’s voice softened, though the cowl masked it. “Jason… what is a six-year-old doing in Crime Alley at one in the morning?”
Jason scowled. “I’m not six. I’ll be eight in two months.” He crossed his arms, indignant. “I’m not a baby.”
Batman’s lips twitched beneath the cowl. “Where are your parents?”
Jason’s jaw clenched. His voice was brittle, but steady. “Mom’s dead. Overdosed. Dad’s in prison. Domestic violence.” He said it like a report, like facts on a page, but the rawness in his eyes betrayed him.
“And where are you staying now?”
Jason shrugged. “Streets. For a couple of weeks.”
The Bat’s silence stretched long and heavy. He busied his hands with reattaching the wheels—work that gave his mind room to process. The boy didn’t flinch at the sight of tools, didn’t run. Just stood there, watching, arms wrapped around his skinny chest as if bracing against a wind only he could feel.
When the Batmobile’s final wheel locked into place, Batman rose. “You can’t stay here.”
Jason glared at him. “Got nowhere else.”
Batman’s gauntleted hand shot out, catching the boy by the scruff of his threadbare hoodie. Jason yelped as he was lifted effortlessly off the ground, then unceremoniously dropped into the passenger seat of the Batmobile.
The engine roared to life.
Jason’s eyes went wide, his earlier bravado cracking. “Holy— This thing is real?”
“Seatbelt,” Batman said flatly, pulling into the alleyway’s mouth. Jason scrambled to obey, fingers fumbling at the harness.
The Batmobile carved through Gotham’s streets, neon lights streaking past. Jason pressed his face to the window, awe warring with suspicion. “Where’re we going?”
“Youth shelter.”
Jason’s head snapped around. “No.” His voice was sharp, panicked. “No way. I don’t trust them. Adults there—don’t care. Just yell. Just… no.”
Batman said nothing at first. His silence filled the cabin, heavier than the engine’s growl.
Finally, he reached into the console and withdrew a small communicator. Sleek, palm-sized, stamped with the Bat insignia. He pressed it into Jason’s hands.
“If you’re ever scared,” Batman said, his voice low and absolute, “or in danger—press this. It connects to me directly. I’ll come.”
Jason’s fingers curled around it. He didn’t look up, but his throat worked as he swallowed hard.
Outside, the shelter loomed. Batman slowed, pulled to a stop.
Jason sat rigid, clutching the communicator like a lifeline. He didn’t move to leave. Batman didn’t push him. Not yet.
Instead, Batman studied him—the fierce set of his mouth, the stubborn angle of his chin. This boy had survived things most grown men couldn’t. Alone. Angry. Defiant.
Something in him stirred.
“Stay here tonight,” Batman said finally. “At least for tonight.” His tone brokered no argument. “You’ll be safe.”
Jason hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded.
Batman opened the door, guiding him toward the shelter’s entrance. Jason’s sneakers scuffed the pavement, dragging like he was being led to prison. But he clutched the Batcommunicator tight, as if it burned with possibility.
Batman left him at the threshold, the shadows swallowing him once more.
---
The Batmobile glided silently up the long drive to Wayne Manor. Dawn was still a whisper on the horizon. Inside, Bruce Wayne peeled back the cowl, the weight of the night still heavy—but not crushing. Something lingered, something unusual.
A smile.
Small. Fleeting. But real.
Alfred, waiting in the foyer, noticed immediately. His eyes widened, though his voice remained even. “Master Bruce… I do believe this is the first time you’ve returned on this night with a smile.”
Bruce paused, one gloved hand on the cowl. His gaze distant, almost wistful. “Something good happened, Alfred.”
The butler tilted his head. “Indeed, sir? Dare I hope Gotham has grown a conscience?”
Bruce’s lips curved again, just barely. “Not Gotham. A boy.”
And for the first time in years, on the anniversary of Thomas and Martha Wayne’s deaths, the mansion did not feel quite so empty.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 11: The Boy Who Wouldn't Let Go
Summary:
Jason gets home
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
One week had passed since that strange night in Crime Alley, when Batman found a boy trying to strip the Batmobile of its wheels. Jason Todd had been left at the youth shelter with nothing more than a communicator and a promise. Bruce hadn’t forgotten him.
But in the days that followed, the world had been thrown into chaos on a scale even Batman had not fully anticipated.
Aliens. White Martians. They descended from the sky like a plague of shadows, their technology unlike anything humanity had faced. Cities across the globe burned, their armies useless. For the first time in generations, heroes from every corner of the Earth had stood together—Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash, Aquaman, Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, and Batman himself.
It took everything they had to push the Martians back, every ounce of strategy, sacrifice, and courage. And when the dust cleared, one truth remained: the world would never be the same.
That was when the idea of the League was born.
---
Now, in the deep silence of the Batcave, Bruce sat before the glow of the Batcomputer. Blueprints scrolled across the massive screens—lines, grids, and schematics of a structure that defied imagination: a satellite, a fortress in orbit, a headquarters for heroes.
The keystrokes echoed in the cavern, punctuated by the occasional hum of machinery. His cape was draped over the chair, his cowl resting beside the keyboard. Tonight, Bruce Wayne worked, not the Batman.
From behind him came laughter. The scuff of sneakers. The thud of bodies tumbling onto the practice mats.
Dick and Cassandra.
The two children sparred clumsily, their play caught somewhere between real combat and sibling horseplay. Dick ducked under one of Cass’s kicks, laughing breathlessly. Cass, her movements sharper, ended the round with a well-placed trip that sent him sprawling on his back.
“Oof—unfair!” Dick groaned.
Cass didn’t answer. Her dark eyes had already wandered toward the Batcomputer’s glow. She padded toward Bruce, her fight with Dick forgotten.
“Dad,” she said softly, tugging at his sleeve. “What’s that?”
Bruce glanced down, then back at the blueprints. For a moment he hesitated—Cass was still learning to read, her world just opening to the written word. But she could see. She saw everything.
“That,” Bruce said, adjusting the screen so both children could see, “is the future. Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash, Green Lantern Hal Jordan, Aquaman, Martian Manhunter—and myself. We’ve decided to form a League.”
“A League?” Dick echoed, propping himself up on his elbows.
“A Justice League,” Bruce clarified. “To deal with planetary threats like the White Martians. Things beyond Gotham. Beyond even Metropolis.”
Cass tilted her head. “So… your work changes?”
“No,” Bruce said, his voice even. “Gotham is still my city. I’ll remain a vigilante here. But I’ll also be a part-time member of the League. When the world needs us.”
Dick scrambled closer, eyes wide. “Wait—part-time superhero club in space? That’s so cool!” He pointed at the design. “That’s a satellite, isn’t it? You’re really building this?”
Bruce nodded. “For now, we’ve set up a temporary base in Washington, the Hall of Justice. But it’s… symbolic. We can’t base ourselves in any one country. The League must be above politics. Neutral. Global.”
Cass’s brow furrowed. “Up… in space?”
“Yes.” Bruce’s tone softened. “A watchtower. A place where heroes can gather without borders.”
Dick whistled low. “That’s gonna cost a fortune. I mean, we’re rich, but are we that rich? Like—space rich?”
Cass’s eyes went wide. “We… we going to be poor?”
Bruce couldn’t help it. A laugh escaped him—quiet, rare, but genuine. He leaned back in the chair, shaking his head. “No, sweetheart. We won’t go broke. Wayne Enterprises alone won't handle the expenses. As it is planetary scale—......”
But before he could explain further, a sharp chime cut through the Batcave.
Not the police band. Not League channels. Something far more personal.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. He reached for the small receiver. Only one person outside this cave held this line.
Jason Todd.
Bruce pressed the communicator. “Jason?”
Static crackled. Then a shaky, frightened voice filled the cavern.
“B-Batman? You have to come. Please—please come.”
Bruce’s chest tightened. “Jason, what’s happening?”
The boy’s voice trembled, rushed. “The shelter—it’s not safe. They’re—they’re bad people. They’re trying to sell us. The kids. To rich old men. Please—”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. “Stay calm. I am co—”
A scream. High-pitched, terrified. The line went dead.
“Jason!” Bruce barked into the silence. Nothing.
Dick and Cass clutched each other’s hands, fear flickering across their faces.
Bruce turned, kneeling in front of them. For once, the Batman spoke as a father. “I’ll be back soon. Both of you—stay with Alfred. Stay safe.”
Cass’s grip tightened on Dick’s hand. Dick’s jaw set. Neither argued.
Bruce rose, donned the cowl in one smooth motion, and stormed toward the Batmobile. Within seconds, the cave roared as the engine ignited, flames licking the cavern walls.
As he tore down Gotham’s streets, Batman flipped a channel on his console. “Gordon.”
“Batman,” came the gravelly reply.
“There’s a child-trafficking operation running under the cover of the Gotham Youth Shelter on Fifth. Mobilize units now.”
“God Almighty…” Gordon muttered. “I’m on it. Sending every car I’ve got.”
Batman didn’t waste words. He floored the accelerator.
---
The shelter loomed ahead—an old brick building, its windows barred, its paint peeling. Shadows moved inside. Batman’s jaw tightened.
He hit the eject. The Batmobile screeched to a halt as he launched onto the roof, cape snapping. He crashed through a skylight, shards of glass raining down.
Chaos erupted.
Half a dozen men spun, weapons drawn. Children huddled in corners, some crying, some gagged. And in the middle of it all—Jason Todd, clutching a broken baseball bat, standing between the thugs and a pair of smaller kids.
“Back off!” Jason yelled, swinging wildly. One thug cursed as the bat cracked against his knee.
The man raised his fist—only for Batman to drop on him like a thunderbolt.
The fight was brutal, precise. Batman moved through the room like a storm—elbow to jaw, boot to chest, gauntlet smashing a gun aside. Criminals went down one after another, groaning on the floor.
Jason didn’t stop either. He jabbed the bat into a thug’s ribs, shielding the younger children behind him. His face was pale, but his eyes blazed with stubborn fury.
“Jason!” Batman barked.
The boy turned—and then grinned, wild and breathless.
Minutes later, sirens wailed outside. Gordon and the GCPD poured in, cuffing the unconscious traffickers.
Batman stood tall, cape draped around him. Jason, scraped and shaking, stood at his side like a soldier who had survived his first war.
Gordon’s face was grim as he surveyed the scene. “Monstrous. Using a youth shelter as cover…” He shook his head. “These kids have been through hell.”
Batman’s voice was steady. “If not for Jason, we wouldn’t have uncovered it at all. He risked his life protecting the others.”
Jason shifted awkwardly, eyes darting to the ground.
“The Wayne Foundation,” Batman continued, “will fund a new shelter. Proper oversight. Security. Every child here will have a safe place to go.”
Gordon crouched, laying a hand on Jason’s small shoulder. “You’re a brave boy, son. Braver than most grown men I know.” He gave him a gentle pat before rising. “We’ll take the kids to GCPD for now, make arrangements from there.”
Batman gave a curt nod.
As Gordon turned away to give orders, Jason’s small voice rose, fragile but insistent. “Do… do I have to go with them? With the other kids?”
Batman’s head tilted, his white lenses narrowing. “…If you want to.”
Jason hesitated, clutching his bat tighter. “But… if I want to go with you… will you take me?”
The silence between them stretched for a beat, broken only by the crackle of police radios and the muffled sobs of children being led to safety. Then Batman spoke, his voice softer, warmer than Jason had ever heard it.
“I can.”
Jason’s eyes flickered with desperate hope. “I’ll be good. I’ll learn to fight like Robin. I’ll help you. I’ll be useful. Please… take me with you.”
Batman said nothing at first. He only placed a gloved hand on Jason’s trembling shoulder, guiding him gently toward the Batmobile. The boy climbed inside, clutching his bat like a lifeline, and Batman slid in after him. The cockpit sealed shut with a soft hydraulic hiss.
Only then, in the silence and safety of the armored car, did Batman reach forward to engage the autopilot. The Batmobile purred as it pulled away from the curb, city lights streaking across the windows.
Bruce turned toward Jason. The boy’s hands were crusted in blood and grime, shaking as he tried to hold them still. Bruce took them gently in one of his own, steadying them, grounding him. With his other hand, he reached up and released the clasps of his cowl.
The black mask came free, and Jason’s wide eyes lifted to see the face beneath—the man beneath.
“Since you want to stay with me,” Bruce said quietly, his voice no longer distorted, “you’ll be coming home with me as my son… not as a soldier.”
Jason’s breath caught. His gaze locked on the face he had seen on the news, on billboards, on magazines. His lips parted, and he whispered in awe and disbelief:
“…Bruce Wayne.”
The Batmobile carried them into the Gotham night, and Jason’s life shifted forever.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 12: The Lavish Treatment
Summary:
Jason experiences billionaire treatment
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Batmobile’s heavy frame rumbled into the cave, tires crunching over the stone ramp. Its lights cut through the darkness before dimming automatically as it rolled to a halt near the platforms. The waterfall roared faintly in the background, echoing off the cavern walls.
Alfred, Dick, and Cassandra were already waiting. Cassandra perched lightly on the edge of the steps, swinging her legs, while Dick leaned against a railing with his arms folded. Alfred, as always, stood tall and unflinching, though his keen eyes flicked immediately toward the driver’s seat.
The cockpit slid open. Bruce climbed out first, his cape trailing slightly. Then, with a small gesture of his gloved hand, he guided another figure out.
A boy. Small, thin, his clothes in tatters, his face smudged with dirt and blood. He clung to Bruce’s hand tightly, his other hand clutching nothing but air, unsure if he was allowed to let go.
Alfred’s eyebrows shot upward at once. His voice, crisp but carrying a ripple of dry humor, filled the cavern.
“Master Bruce… the interval between acquiring one stray child to the next is getting shorter and shorter.”
Bruce didn’t dignify the remark with a reply. He simply rested a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Dick, curiosity sparking in his blue eyes, pushed off from the railing and stepped forward. “Hey. What’s your name?”
The boy froze, shoulders hunching. His throat bobbed as he tried to answer but no sound came. He looked helplessly at Bruce.
Bruce’s voice was calm, reassuring. “His name is Jason. He’s seven years old. From now on, he’ll be staying with us.”
Jason startled a little, finding his voice at last. “I–I’m almost eight,” he blurted indignantly. His chin lifted in stubborn pride. “I’ll be turning eight in a month.”
Cassandra tilted her head, her voice soft but filled with wonder. “A little brother…”
Alfred glanced at her, his tone gentle but with a smile just tugging at his lips. “Yes, Miss Cassandra. It would seem you’ve become an elder sister now.”
The words lit Cassandra from within. She giggled—a bright, unrestrained sound that echoed through the cavern. Bruce found himself smiling, just faintly, as he listened.
Jason blinked at the exchange, confusion mixing with something warmer in his chest. No one had ever called him someone’s little brother before.
Alfred stepped closer, his eyes settling on Jason with a steadier, assessing gaze. “It would seem, young sir, that you require a proper bath… as well as a meal to warm your soul. Come now. Follow me.”
Jason hesitated, caught between uncertainty and a gnawing instinct not to trust strangers. His eyes darted up toward Bruce.
Bruce crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to Jason’s level. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “Come.”
He offered his hand again. Jason stared at it for a moment, then took it. Almost immediately, Dick and Cassandra were at his sides—Dick on the left, Cassandra on the right—walking with him as if he had always been part of their trio.
Together they followed Alfred into the elevator that rose from the cave floor. Jason’s eyes widened as the metal cage hummed upwards, walls of stone sliding away to reveal polished wood and warm lamps when the lift opened onto the manor’s first floor.
They took the grand staircase to the second floor, Alfred leading at a dignified pace. Jason trailed, clutching Bruce’s hand tighter, but his eyes darted everywhere. The gleam of chandeliers, the endless hallway lined with portraits and gilt frames, the sheer expanse of carpet—it was overwhelming, almost unreal. He’d never seen anything like it.
At last Alfred stopped before a door in one of the wings. He pushed it open with a practiced hand.
Jason stepped inside, blinking. The room was large, with tall windows, a bed covered in thick blankets, a desk by the wall, and shelves waiting to be filled. The layout, unknown to him, mirrored that of Dick and Cassandra’s rooms.
Alfred strode into the bathroom, twisting the taps until warm water gushed into the tub. Steam curled into the air. Then he turned back to the children.
“Miss Cassandra,” Alfred said. “Would you be kind enough to fetch a pair of your nightclothes—pajamas, as well as a few shirts and shorts?”
Cassandra nodded instantly, darting out of the room with the speed of a shadow.
Dick frowned. “Why can’t he just wear my clothes?”
Alfred raised a brow. “Master Richard, Jason’s size is far closer to Miss Cassandra’s than to yours.”
Dick huffed, then turned to Bruce. “Dad, tell the tailors to come tomorrow. Jason needs new clothes fitted.” He grinned at the boy. “we should all go shopping tomorrow. Get toys, stuff to decorate your room, all of it.”
Jason blinked, taken aback at the sudden change of conversation, but before he could reply Cassandra returned, arms full of soft folded clothes.
“Shopping?” she asked, eyes wide, voice full of excitement. “Yes! Shopping, shopping—yay!”
Jason’s cheeks went warm. The word “shopping” sounded like something from another life, something not meant for him.
Bruce raised a hand, his voice quiet but firm. “Not so fast. Don’t overwhelm him. Let him breathe first.”
Alfred’s eyes twinkled. “Quite right. Master Richard, Miss Cassandra—off with you both. Go down to the dining room and prepare for dinner. Master Bruce, I would suggest you freshen up as well.”
Bruce gave Jason’s shoulder a squeeze. “Go take a bath. Freshen up. Change your clothes. I’ll see you at dinner.” With that, he stepped out.
Jason hesitated, glancing between Alfred and the steaming bathroom. Alfred’s voice was calm, reassuring. “I’ll remain here, young sir. You need not worry.”
With trembling hands, Jason eventually let Alfred guide him. He bathed, shedding the grime and filth of weeks spent on the streets, the water running dark at first and then clear. When he stepped out, wrapped in soft towels and dressed in the clothes Cassandra had fetched, he felt different. Lighter.
Alfred offered his hand again, and Jason, after a pause, accepted it. Together they walked to the dining room.
The moment they entered, Cassandra and Dick shot up from their chairs and ran to him. Each grabbed one of his hands, tugging him forward with excited energy.
“Here,” Dick said, dragging him toward a seat. “From now on, this will be your chair.”
Bruce entered not long after, now in a crisp shirt. He sat at the head of the table, nodding for everyone to settle. Plates of food were already set out—warm, fragrant, comforting.
Jason sat stiffly at first, unsure how to act. But as the meal went on, Dick and Cassandra filled the air with chatter, asking him questions—what colors he liked, what foods, what toys—while Alfred refilled glasses and offered dishes with his usual quiet grace.
Jason’s head spun from all the attention, his chest tight with something unfamiliar. Overwhelmed, yes… but also warm. For the first time since his mother died, warmth pressed against the hollow ache inside him.
He looked around the table—the strange new family, the laughter, the steady presence of Bruce at the head—and for the first time in a long while, Jason felt as if maybe… just maybe… he was safe.
---
The morning light spilled gently across the breakfast table at Wayne Manor. Jason sat stiffly at the long polished table, still adjusting to the idea that he had a seat here at all. His fork hovered awkwardly as Alfred, ever precise, placed a steaming plate before him.
“Eggs benedict with English muffins and ham, and a little fruit to start with,” Alfred said, his tone as even as if Jason had been eating here his entire life.
Jason mumbled a quiet “thanks,” still not sure whether his words would sound too small in such a cavernous dining room. Cassandra, sitting beside him, had already demolished her toast and leaned toward him with a grin.
“Eat,” she whispered. “Alfred’s food… best.”
Jason gave her a sideways look and tried a bite. She was right. Warmth spread through him at once, the flavors rich and comforting, so different from the stale bread or cold leftovers he had scavenged in alleys.
As they ate, a soft chime echoed through the kitchen. Jason jumped slightly, but Alfred, without missing a beat, walked toward a wall-mounted intercom panel.
“This is Alfred Pennyworth, who calls at the gate?”
A crackling voice responded: “Sir, this is Masterson & Reeves Tailoring. We’ve arrived at the main gates for the fitting appointment.”
Jason blinked. Tailors? For me?
“Indeed,” Alfred replied, tone perfectly cordial. His fingers glided across the panel, pressing the control that unlocked the wrought-iron gates at the far end of the estate. “You may proceed to the main house. Someone will be along to receive you.”
Jason’s fork hovered again. “Tailors?”
“Yes,” Bruce said, matter-of-fact. “You’ll need clothes. Properly fitted ones. Alfred arranged for the best.”
“Master Bruce, where shall I have them wait? The children have not yet finished their meal.”
Bruce folded his napkin neatly, his expression as composed as ever. “Take them to the dressing rooms in the left wing. The ones near the tea rooms—they’ll be comfortable there until we’re ready.”
“Very good, sir.” Alfred bowed slightly and left the room with his usual quiet efficiency, while the children chattered on, Jason glancing between them with the faintest crease of wonder at how normal such wealth could seem to them.
Dick leaned in across the table, grinning. “This is the fun part, Jay. You get to pick fabrics, colors, styles—everything.”
Jason’s eyes darted to him. “Jay?”
“Yeah,” Dick said, unbothered. “Short for Jason. I can call you that, right?”
Jason hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “…Guess so.”
Cassandra giggled softly. “Jay.” She tested the word like it was a shiny new toy.
Jason felt his cheeks warm, but for the first time, he didn’t mind.
---
After breakfast, Alfred led them to the dressing rooms where three men in sharp suits stood waiting with measuring tapes draped over their shoulders and several assistants carrying fabric swatches and notebooks.
“Mister Wayne,” one of them greeted, bowing slightly. “Shall we begin?”
Jason froze in the doorway, suddenly overwhelmed. Bruce placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s just a fitting. Nothing to be nervous about. Come.”
The tailors ushered him onto a low platform in front of a tall mirror. Jason caught sight of his reflection—his too-thin frame, patched-up clothes—and looked away.
One tailor crouched, gently rolling a measuring tape along Jason’s arm. “We’ll need everyday shirts, trousers, shorts for the summer, slacks, some evening wear, and of course, winter coats.”
One of the tailors flipped open a binder filled with swatches—cotton, silk, wool, cashmere, soft flannels. Alfred leaned forward, tapping one or two fabrics with a decisive finger. “He’ll need durable cotton for daily wear, silk for formal occasions, and woolens for the colder months. Sturdy trousers and slacks, several pairs.”
Jason blinked. “Silk?” The word felt alien in his mouth.
“Yes,” Alfred said firmly. “A gentleman should have options.”
Dick nudged Jason with his elbow. “What colors do you like? Red? Blue? Green?”
Jason hesitated. No one had ever asked him before. His eyes drifted over the swatches until they landed on a deep navy. “That one,” he said quietly.
Cassandra clapped her hands softly. “Blue,” she repeated, delighted.
Bruce leaned down. “Pick a few more. Don’t be shy.”
After some coaxing, Jason pointed at dark green, then grey. Dick grinned. “Good choices, Jay. You’ve got taste.”
The tailors made notes: shirts, shorts, trousers, slacks, coats, sweaters, jackets. Alfred insisted on a winter overcoat of wool, lined with cashmere. Cassandra chose a softer cotton pajama set “for comfort,” as she said, with simple pride. Jason could hardly believe the sheer amount.
When the men finally packed their tools and swatches away, Jason let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
As the tailors were leaving, Alfred reminded them, “Delivery within a week. Promptness is appreciated.”
Jason slipped off the platform, dazed. “That’s… all for me?”
“All yours,” Dick confirmed, ruffling his hair.
Jason ducked away, but the warmth inside him grew.
Bruce straightened. “In the meantime, we’ll go out today and get what else you need.”
Jason blinked. “Out?”
“Shopping trip,” Dick said with a grin. “Toys, books, everything. You’ll see.”
---
Bruce led them all toward the garage. The doors opened onto a space as vast as a showroom, gleaming floors reflecting the shine of chrome and polished paint. Dozens of luxury cars lined the rows—sleek sports cars, vintage models, and limousines.
Jason froze. He’d never seen so many cars in one place, let alone ones that looked like they belonged to kings.
Bruce glanced at him. “Why don’t you pick what we’ll drive today?”
Jason’s mouth went dry. “Me?”
“Yes.”
Dick spread his arms wide, showing off the options. “We’ve got a Lamborghini Aventador, a Rolls-Royce Phantom, Bentley Continental, Aston Martin DB11, Maserati Quattroporte…”
Jason’s gaze landed on a cherry-red Aston Martin, its lines smooth and gleaming under the lights. Something about it seemed alive, like it belonged in motion. “That one,” he whispered.
Bruce’s mouth curved into the faintest of smiles. “Good eye.” He handed Jason the keys to hold, just for the weight of them, before taking them back to drive.
Jason slid into the backseat between Dick and Cassandra, his fingers brushing the leather. For the first time, the world outside the manor seemed full of possibility.
---
The mall was a cathedral of glass and light, filled with the hum of chatter and the scent of coffee and perfumes. Jason clung close to Bruce at first, but Cassandra slipped her hand into his, tugging him toward the toy store with uncharacteristic urgency.
“Cars,” she said, pointing. “Blocks. Train!”
And indeed, her eyes had locked onto a massive train set displayed in the front. She tugged Bruce’s sleeve. “For Jason.”
Jason blinked. “I—I don’t need all that—”
“Of course you do,” Dick interrupted. “Remote-control cars, helicopters, puzzles, Legos. You gotta have options, Jay.”
Jason glanced at Bruce, expecting him to stop the madness. But Bruce only nodded. “If she thinks you’ll enjoy them, we’ll take them.”
Soon Jason found himself surrounded by stacks of boxes—cars, blocks, puzzles. He was overwhelmed, but Cassandra’s delighted giggles made it hard to protest.
From toys they moved to shoes, where Bruce efficiently oversaw sizes. Jason tried on sneakers, dress shoes, even boots. “Comfort first,” Bruce murmured.
Electronics came next. Dick practically vibrated with excitement. “He needs an iPad. And headphones. Maybe a console too—”
Jason trailed behind, eyes wide at the glowing screens and shelves. While the others debated headphones, something else caught his gaze. A Kindle display—rows of slim readers, screens lit with endless books. His steps slowed. He reached out, almost unconsciously, and touched one.
Bruce noticed. “You want it?”
Jason hesitated, then nodded. “Can I?” It was the first time he had asked for something himself.
Bruce’s smile was faint but full of warmth. “Of course.”
---
Finally, Bruce steered them into a luxury watch boutique: Jacob & Co. The interior sparkled with cases of diamond-studded, flamboyant timepieces.
Jason’s eyes widened. “Whoa…” He pressed closer to the glass, marveling at the glittering, over-the-top designs. “These are… insane.”
Dick chuckled. “Yeah, kind of flashy.”
Jason lingered, fascinated by the wild designs, but then his gaze shifted to the next store over: Rolex. Sleek, timeless, powerful. He walked in, almost unconsciously.
As Bruce Wayne followed after him. A Rolex sales associate hurried to guide them. She swiftly presented three models on a velvet tray: a stainless steel Oyster Perpetual, a classic Datejust with a black dial, and a smaller Explorer—sleek and practical.
Jason’s gaze lingered on the classic Datejust. Its silver band caught the light, understated but solid. He bit his lip, uncertain.
Bruce nudged gently, voice low. “Choose what feels right. Don’t think of price, or what you think I want. This is about you.”
Jason hesitated, then touched the Oyster Perpetual with hesitant fingers. The associate slipped it onto his wrist. A little loose, but it fit. The weight of it felt real. Permanent.
His voice trembled. “For me?”
“For you,” Bruce confirmed. No hesitation.
Jason’s lips curved upward in a shy, proud smile. “I… I like it.”
Cassandra, watching, clapped softly. “Yours,” she repeated, as if blessing the choice.
And Jason, for the first time in months, felt like something in his life truly belonged to him.
---
By late afternoon, their arms were full of bags. The bulk of the purchases would be delivered to the manor, but Jason carried the Kindle in his hands as if it were made of gold. Cassandra and Dick each had a few toy bags they refused to let go of. Bruce carried a few shoe boxes himself.
For lunch, they stopped at a restaurant with soft lighting and round tables. The children shared plates of pasta and small desserts, Cassandra stealing bites from Jason’s plate until he finally, timidly, nudged a piece of bread back her way.
Laughter bubbled at their table like something natural. Jason sat listening, cheeks warm, his heart full.
---
When they returned to the manor, boxes had already been delivered. Dick and Cassandra wasted no time tearing them open, dragging Jason into his new room, helping him unpack the items they had bought.
“Tomorrow,” Dick said, tossing Lego pieces onto the desk, “we set up the train set.”
“Room—pretty,” Cassandra added, clapping her hands.
Jason smiled, small but genuine.
“See?” Dick said. “Now it looks like yours.”
Jason stood in the middle of the room, dizzy. A bed that was his. Toys that were his. Shelves waiting for more books.
“Dinner!” Alfred’s voice rang from the hall.
They crowded back to the dining room. Over roasted chicken and potatoes, Jason found himself talking more than before, recounting bits of the shopping trip—Cassandra’s insistence on the train, the funny shoes he had tried, the shiny cars in the garage. Alfred listened with an indulgent smile, Bruce with quiet pride.
Later, as the plates were cleared, Alfred rose. “Master Jason, if you would follow me a moment.”
Curious, Jason trailed behind. They crossed the hallway, turned left past the grand staircase, then descended two shallow steps to a pair of tall oak doors. Alfred pushed them open.
The library spread out before them, vast and warm. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, ladders resting against rails. The scent of old paper and polished wood filled the air. Tall windows framed the fading light outside.
Jason’s breath caught. “It’s… huge.”
“Indeed,” Alfred said. “Here, you will find a thousand worlds waiting for you.” His voice softened. “And perhaps, Master Jason, you’ll find a place where you belong among them.”
Jason stepped inside slowly, his fingertips brushing the spines of books. His Kindle was still clutched in his other hand. He turned in a slow circle, dizzy with wonder.
---
That night, Jason lay in bed in his new room. The blankets were soft, the shelves full, toys waiting in bins. His mind reeled.
A room of his own. Clothes being made just for him. Toys, books, even a library downstairs.
And more than that—Dick and Cass had not shunned him. They had dragged him into their world with open arms. Alfred’s care had been steady, Bruce’s hand firm on his shoulder.
For the first time in years, he felt safe. Wanted.
Maybe, Jason thought, this could be home.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 13: Crossing Bridges
Summary:
Jason drops the Todd
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The summer sun poured down in long golden shafts over Wayne Manor, gilding the edges of the old stone walls and making the gardens shimmer with warmth. July had settled on Gotham in a haze of heat, and for the first time in a long while, the house did not feel so heavy with shadows. There was laughter echoing in its halls, the kind that bounced off high ceilings and carried all the way out into the grounds.
Out on the edge of the garden, beneath the oldest oak on the property, the skeleton of a treehouse perched precariously between thick branches. Its foundation was solid—thanks mostly to Alfred’s careful guidance—but the walls were crooked, one window frame tilted at an alarming angle, and the roof was half-finished, covered by a tarp to protect it from rain.
Dick stood on a ladder, hammering nails into one of the beams, his tongue sticking out in concentration. “Junior B, hold that plank steady!” he called down.
Cass, standing on the ground with both small hands gripping the wood, frowned at the nickname. “Not Junior B,” she said carefully. “Cass.”
Dick smirked. “Cass when you’re being normal. Junior B when you’re in the field. You’re my sidekick in construction.”
Cass scrunched up her nose but didn’t argue. She was still learning her sentences, but her stubbornness was already fluent.
Jason stood off to the side, watching the exchange. He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts, his eyes narrowed in half amusement, half skepticism. He’d been living at the manor for a few weeks now, and though some of the raw shyness lingered, the boy had grown bolder each day. Finally, he stepped forward.
“You’re both doing it wrong,” he said flatly.
Dick looked down from the ladder. “Excuse me?”
Jason pointed at the frame. “That’s gonna fall over the second someone sneezes too hard. You need cross beams here, and there.” He made an X shape with his hands. “Keeps it steady. Learned it from watching construction crews in the Narrows.”
Dick raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so now you’re the expert?”
“Better than you,” Jason muttered, but there was no bite in it.
Cass’s eyes brightened. She tugged at his arm. “Help?”
Jason hesitated only a second before nodding. Within minutes, the three of them were hammering, sawing, and arguing in the easy way that siblings did. Jay found himself laughing when Dick tried to balance on the ladder one-handed, and Cass—ever watchful—caught the hammer before it could clatter to the ground.
By the end of the day, the treehouse still wasn’t perfect, but it was sturdier. Jason stood back, sweat dampening his dark hair, and for the first time since he’d moved in, he felt proud of something he’d built with other people.
---
The days that followed fell into a rhythm. A private tutor arrived each morning to prepare the children for Gotham Academy in the fall.
Cass struggled with her letters, gripping her pencil too tightly, her brows knit in fierce concentration. Jason, sitting beside her, leaned over and whispered, “Loosen up, or you’ll snap it in half.” She glared at him but adjusted, and when she finally managed to write a shaky but legible “CASSANDRA,” she held it up proudly for Bruce to see.
Jason himself surprised the tutor with his quick grasp of numbers. He was sharp, a fast learner who only needed a little encouragement. The man praised him often, and Jason would duck his head to hide the pleased smile that crept across his face.
Dick, of course, pretended he already knew everything. “Piece of cake,” he’d say, tossing his pencil in the air. “I should be teaching this class.”
“Sit down, Master Richard,” Alfred would chide, swooping in with tea for the tutor. “Your pupils require less showmanship and more study.”
Afternoons were for play. The three would dash out into the yard for games of tag or water balloon fights, their shrieks of laughter ringing across the manor grounds. Cass tried to mimic Jason’s slang, repeating phrases like “No way!” or “That’s cool,” much to Alfred’s dismay.
“You are corrupting the young miss’s vocabulary, Master Jason,” Alfred warned dryly one evening as Cass declared, “Dinner is sick!” with unearned confidence.
Jason just grinned. “She likes it.”
The butler sighed but didn’t press further. Truth be told, he was glad to see the boy smiling at all.
---
By late July, Jason’s walls had begun to crumble. He no longer sat apart at meals. He no longer flinched when Bruce ruffled his hair. Slowly, almost without realizing it, he had become a Wayne.
---
Two weeks later, Bruce gathered Jason into the study. The air was cooler inside, the thick curtains drawn to block out the summer glare. Jason shifted nervously in his chair, his tie askew. Alfred was fixing it with careful precision.
“Why do I gotta wear this?” Jason muttered.
“Because,” Alfred said, straightening the knot, “today you face an opponent far more daunting than any ruffian in Crime Alley: a judge.”
Jason made a face. “Sounds boring.”
“Perhaps,” Alfred conceded. “But it is necessary.”
Bruce crouched to meet Jason’s eyes. “All you need to do is tell the truth. I’ll be right beside you.”
Jason nodded, chewing on his lip. He wanted to believe him.
---
The courtroom was austere, sunlight streaming through tall windows onto polished wood. The judge, an older woman with sharp eyes, regarded Jason kindly but seriously.
“Jason Todd,” she began, “you’ve been brought here today to discuss your guardianship. Do you understand?”
Jason’s throat was dry. He nodded.
She asked about his parents. Jason stared at the floor as he admitted his mother had overdosed, his father was violent and still in prison. The words burned his tongue, but he forced them out.
“And what do you want, child?” the judge asked softly. “Where do you wish to live?”
Jason glanced at Bruce, who stood steady beside him, one hand resting gently on his shoulder. The boy’s voice was small but firm. “I wanna stay with him. With them. With my family.”
Silence stretched. The judge’s eyes softened. She nodded. “Very well.”
The paperwork was brought forward. Jason picked up the pen, his hand trembling. The line read Jason Todd. He stared at it a long moment.
Then, slowly, he wrote: Jason Peter Wayne.
Bruce’s breath caught. He hadn’t asked for it—Jason had chosen it himself.
The judge raised an eyebrow but smiled faintly. “Approved.”
---
When they returned to the manor, the doors burst open before they could even step inside.
“Welcome home, Jay!” Dick shouted, holding up a lopsided cake covered in icing and sprinkles. The words WELCOME HOME JAY were smeared but legible.
Cass stood beside him, holding a brightly painted sign: You’re officially a Wayne now! The letters were uneven, smudged with paint, but colorful and proud.
Jason froze in the doorway, blinking hard. “You guys…”
“Don’t get all mushy on us,” Dick teased, though his grin was wide.
Cass marched forward and shoved the sign into Jason’s hands. “Family,” she said simply.
Jason’s throat closed. He hugged them both at once, the cake wobbling dangerously in Dick’s hands. For the first time in years, he felt safe.
---
That night, after the celebration quieted, Alfred guided Jason through the hushed halls to a seldom-used room. The tapestry room.
Candles flickered against the walls, illuminating portraits of solemn-faced Waynes long past. A great tapestry hung along the far wall, embroidered with names spanning generations.
Jason stepped closer, eyes wide. He found Bruce’s name first—Bruce Thomas Wayne. Beneath it, stitched in neat letters, were Richard John Grayson-Wayne and Cassandra Martha Wayne.
And then—there it was. His own. Jason Peter Wayne.
Jason’s breath caught. “But… it only got approved today.”
Alfred’s voice was gentle. “Master Bruce may have been waiting on papers. But I knew. From the moment you stepped into this house, I knew you were here to stay.”
Jason touched the thread with tentative fingers. His name. Permanently sewn into the legacy of this family.
Alfred rested a hand on his shoulder. “This is your home now. This tapestry will hold your name, your children’s, your grandchildren’s. Wayne is not merely a bloodline—it is a legacy. And you, Master Jason, are part of it.”
Jason swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in his eyes. He whispered, “Thanks, Alfred.”
Alfred smiled softly. “Welcome home.”
---
That night, Jason fell asleep in his new room, the colorful sign Cass had made pinned to his wall, the memory of the tapestry still burning in his mind. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t dream of alleys or hunger or fear. He dreamed of belonging.
And in the quiet halls of Wayne Manor, the sound of children’s laughter lingered, like a promise that the house would never be empty again.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 14: Fights, Falls And Firsts
Summary:
Brothers fight
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jason stirred in his bed, half-awake, half-dreaming. Colors danced before his eyes—reds, blues, golds, greens—and for a moment he thought it was a hallucination. But when he sat up, blinking at the sunlight streaming through the tall windows, he realized he was wide awake: his entire room was filled with balloons. Hundreds of them, floating and clinging to the ceiling, spilling across the floor in a chaotic, beautiful display.
Jason’s jaw dropped. “What…?” he murmured, unsure if the scene before him was real.
A shadow appeared in the doorway. Bruce, casual in a gray sweater, leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “Happy birthday, Lad,” he said simply, his voice calm but warm, eyes softened with an emotion Jason wasn’t used to seeing from him.
Jason rubbed his eyes. “You… you did all this?”
Bruce allowed a faint, uncharacteristic smile. “I had help. But yes. Eight only comes once.”
Jason’s chest swelled, warmth flooding through him. He hadn’t had a real birthday since—well, ever. Not like this. No surprises. No balloons. Just his mom forgetting, his dad yelling, or nothing at all.
Before Jason could respond, a loud shout echoed down the hall. “Jay! Wake up! You’re missing cake for breakfast!”
Dick barreled into the room, Cassandra scampering right behind him, grinning. Dick held a shiny blue-wrapped package, and Cass clutched something behind her back, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Jason scrambled out of bed, still blinking. “Cake… for breakfast?”
“Big brother said so,” Cassandra announced proudly. “Alfred approved.”
Dick leaned down, ruffling Jason’s messy hair. “Of course. That’s the law on birthdays.”
Bruce raised a brow. “I don’t recall signing that law into effect.”
“You don’t have to,” Dick shot back with the authority of a seasoned negotiator. “It’s international.”
Jason laughed—an awkward, bubbling laugh, but real. He scrambled out of bed, bare feet hitting the carpet. Cass quickly shoved her package into his hands.
“Open,” she urged, her little voice tugging upward like she’d been practicing.
Jason tore the wrapping, revealing a baseball mitt, soft but sturdy, the leather smelling of new craftsmanship. “Broke it in,” Cass explained. “Play catch later.”
“And now mine!” Dick announced, shoving his box forward. Jason ripped it open to find— a custom-made Swiss army knife, polished and gleaming. “And this… this is for you. Look at all the features!” He proceeded to demonstrate, flipping out the miniature tools one by one, clicking and twisting each mechanism with theatrical flair.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to regret approving this gift, aren’t I, Dick?”
Dick shrugged, still demonstrating a tiny corkscrew. “Eh, maybe. But it’s awesome.”
Jason carefully examined the knife. “Wow… it’s… it’s really cool.” His eyes sparkled. “Thanks, Dickiebird.”
Dick froze. “Oh no. No, no, no.”
Jason smirked. “What? That’s what you get for calling me Little Wing.”
Cass tilted her head, amused. Bruce coughed discreetly into his hand, hiding the twitch of a smile.
“Breakfast,” Bruce said firmly, steering the moment forward. “Alfred’s waiting.”
---
The dining room smelled of sugar and cinnamon. Alfred stood beside the long table, a perfect white cake gleaming in front of him, frosted and decorated with neat blue piping. Candles flickered in the morning light.
“Happy birthday, Master Jason,” Alfred intoned with a dignity only he could muster.
Jason looked at the cake as if it might vanish if he blinked. His chest hurt—in a good way. Nobody had ever said those words to him with that much care.
He blew out the candles in one long breath. Cass clapped. Dick whooped.
Alfred served slices—cake for breakfast really was a thing here. Jason ate his slower than the others, savoring every bite.
“Don’t get used to this,” Alfred warned lightly. “Tomorrow, proper food returns.”
Jason grinned, frosting on his lip. “Worth it.”
---
After breakfast, Bruce rose from his chair. “Jason,” he said, his tone carrying that mysterious weight again. “Come with me. There’s something else.”
Jason followed, nervous and curious, down the manor steps and into the morning air. They walked across the garden until the scent of hay and the sound of quiet nickers reached him.
The stables.
Jason hesitated at the door. “You… you got me a dog or something?”
“Not quite,” Bruce replied, pushing open the door.
Inside, sunlight streamed across three stalls. Two were already occupied—one by a tall, elegant Thoroughbred horse, ears pricked; the other by a sleek black Arabian who tossed his mane proudly. In the third stall stood a Hanoverian, its bay coat gleaming in the morning sun. Curious eyes watching Jason as if already measuring him.
Jason’s breath caught. “No way.”
“This one’s yours,” Bruce said quietly.
Jason stepped closer, his hands trembling. The colt lowered its head, snuffling at his palm. Jason laughed, the sound breaking free without permission.
“What’s his name?”
“That’s for you to decide,” Bruce said.
Jason stroked the soft muzzle, eyes wide. “I’ve never… I mean… he’s mine? For real?”
“For real,” Bruce confirmed. “Dick and Cass each have their own. It’s only fair you do too.”
Jason turned. “Wait—you guys have horses? Since when?”
Dick and Cass had been trailing after them, trying—and failing—to hide their grins.
“Since forever,” Dick said smugly. “Mine’s the white one—Thunderbolt. Cass’s is the black one—Shadow.”
Cass gave her horse a fond pat, eyes shining.
Jason blinked at them. “So you’re telling me… I live in a house with a secret cave, a butler who bakes, a dad who’s Batman, and now I have a horse?”
“Welcome to the family,” Dick said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Jason shook his head in disbelief. “This world… it just outstands me.”
Dick shrugged. “When I left the circus, I missed all the animals. Monkeys, cicadas, everything. When I explored the estate and found an empty stable… well, you were lucky I asked Dad for a horse. And Cass got hers after seeing my horse refused to let her ride. So, it’s not about wealth—it’s about wishes.”
Jason smiled faintly, stroking the colt’s soft mane. “Ancalagon.”
---
Bruce gently guided Jason, steadying his small frame as he climbed onto the colt. “Keep your back straight, heels down, hold the reins lightly,” Bruce instructed.
Jason gripped the reins, heart hammering. “I… I’ve never ridden a horse before.”
Dick gave tips from behind: “Keep your balance, don’t panic, and always speak calmly to the horse.”
Cass, as always, observed, her hands moving instinctively as she whispered gentle words to Silverwind. The horse immediately relaxed beneath her touch.
Jason laughed nervously. “I think I’m going to fall!”
“You won’t,” Bruce said calmly. “You have to trust him—and yourself.”
By the end of the morning, Jason had gained enough confidence to trot slowly around the paddock, laughter and neighs filling the stable yard. Cass clapped every time he made progress, Dick offering pointers.
---
The morning sunlight crept lazily across the Wayne Manor estate, spilling through the tall windows and catching the polished floors with a soft, golden sheen. Inside, the manor was anything but calm. In the master bedroom, Bruce paced like a caged panther, tie in hand, cufflinks on the nightstand, and his mind already calculating a dozen strategies for how to get three children ready for their first day at Gotham Academy.
“Jason, stop pulling at your tie!” Bruce barked, his voice tight with controlled frustration. “If you wriggle it again, it will twist. You won’t get it undone in time!”
“I don’t care! It’s scruffy! I don’t like it!” Jason replied, tugging even harder, his tiny fists stubbornly gripping the silk knot.
Bruce exhaled sharply, grabbing Jason’s hands and holding them steady. “It is not scruffy. It is perfectly fine. You will wear it, and you will wear it properly. We leave in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?” Jason’s eyes went wide. “Oh god, we’re gonna be late! I don’t want to be late on the first day!”
From the other side of the room, Dick was rolling his eyes, buttoning his blazer with practiced ease. “Come on, Jay, it’s just school. Do it quickly. We’re gonna miss the school bus.”
Alfred stepped into the room with three backpacks in his arms and looked at him sharply. “Master Richard, you lot are not riding a school bus to Gotham Academy. The car will be ready, as always.”
Dick raised his hands in mock surrender. “Ah, right… forgot about that detail.”
Meanwhile, Cass was a storm unto herself. She had flung open the wardrobe door and yanked out her black t-shirt, the one with the bat scrawled across it, that Bruce had hidden in his room. She planted herself firmly on the floor. “Not wearing white shirt!” she declared, crossing her arms, her tiny body radiating defiance.
“Sqeetheart,” Bruce said quietly, his voice fraying at the edges. “The school uniform requires a white shirt under the pinafore. You will wear it.”
“No!” she shrieked, spinning on her heels and darting across the room, her small loafers squeaking against the hardwood. “No! No!”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel his composure fraying. “Alfred,” he muttered, eyes scanning the chaos, “what am I missing? How—how is this even possible?”
Alfred, standing neatly by the door with his usual calm demeanor, simply raised a brow. “Master Bruce, you are witnessing firsthand what I would call ‘the morning of absolute chaos,’” he said dryly. “Though I must say, Miss Cassandra is remarkably persistent.”
Jason’s hands were now tugging his tie into a messy, hopeless knot around his neck. “Oh god… oh god… we’re so late… we’re going to be late…” he muttered, bouncing on his heels.
Dick leaned down to whisper conspiratorially, “Tell me you didn’t put him in charge of his own tie.”
Bruce ignored him, crouching in front of Jason and grasping the knot like a surgeon. “If you do not stop moving, Jay, I will—” He stopped short as Cass barreled past, knocking Jason into the dresser.
“Cassandra Martha Wayne!” Bruce’s voice cracked. “Stop!”
“No!” she yelled, spinning away with a grin that somehow radiated victory.
Minutes later, after chasing Cass down the hall twice, coaxing Jason into a halfway decent tie, and nearly collapsing from the sheer stress of it all, Bruce resorted to desperation. “Sweetheart,” he said, his voice trembling just slightly, “if you wear the white shirt under your pinafore, you may accompany me on patrol tonight. One night. One hour. That’s all I promise. But only if you comply.”
Cass froze mid-spin, her eyes glinting. “Really?”
“Really,” Bruce said, straightening, trying to sound firm but secretly relieved.
“Fine,” she huffed, crossing her arms but slipping the white shirt on beneath her pinafore.
Jason blinked, trying to wrap his head around the scene. “Oh god… we’re actually going to make it… maybe… maybe…”
Dick muttered under his breath, “I don’t think any of us deserve to survive this morning intact.”
---
The manor was still filled with the clamor of uniforms, backpacks, and tiny arguments. Alfred stood at the doorway, hands folded behind him, observing. “Master Bruce, I dare say, if the children are not prepared in five minutes, the Gotham Academy will have their gates closed.”
Bruce groaned, finally adjusting Jason’s tie one last time. “All right, Jay… that’s as close as it gets. You’re going.”
Jason puffed out his chest, taking in his blazer and tie. “I… I guess this is good enough?”
Dick patted his shoulder. “Better than nothing. Now hurry up.”
And so, with backpacks in tow, the three children were finally ready. Bruce guided them into the elevator, pressing the button to descend to the garage. Jason’s eyes grew wide as he saw the vehicle waiting for them. His jaw dropped.
“You… we’re… we’re actually going to school in a Rolls-Royce Phantom?” he whispered, voice trembling with awe.
Bruce gave him a faint nod, eyes forward. “Yes. It is fully equipped for transportation and security. You are welcome.”
Dick leaned back, grinning. “And yes, Jay, it’s pretty much the coolest school ride in the city.”
The car rolled out of the manor gates, smooth as silk, tires barely whispering against the driveway. Jason stared out the window, the city rushing past, and felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: possibility. The day ahead stretched like a vast field of unknowns, and he was part of it now—not just a kid from the streets, not just someone trying to survive—but a Wayne, moving through the world alongside his siblings.
---
The morning sun gleamed over Gotham Academy as the Phantom rolled up the winding drive. Jason peeked out the window, his eyes wide at the sprawling campus—manicured lawns, ornate archways, and students milling about in crisp uniforms. Cassandra clutched his hand tightly, her small figure pressed against his side. Dick leaned back, grinning, already familiar with the school, waving at a few passing classmates.
“Welcome to Gotham Academy, Little Wing. This is where all the real chaos happens,” Dick said, nudging Jason with his elbow.
Jason’s eyes widened. “Real… chaos?”
“You’ll see.”
Bruce’s gloved hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, voice calm but firm. “Remember, manners first. Confidence second. And pay attention to your surroundings.”
Jason nodded, gripping his backpack strap. Cass, barely taller than him, tilted her head, eyes scanning the courtyard. “Big school,” she whispered, a mixture of awe and caution.
Dick hopped out first, opening the door for the younger two. “Come on, you two. Let’s find Barbara.”
They threaded through students chatting and laughing, eventually reaching a cluster by a marble fountain. A girl with red hair and bright green eyes looked up as Dick approached.
“Babs!” Dick called. “Guess what I have with me?”
Barbara’s grin was quick and mischievous. “Some discipline, I hope. Or not— these must be the new additions?”
“Yeah. This is my little brother Jason and my little sister Cassandra,” Dick introduced.
Jason nodded, cheeks warming. “Hi,” he murmured. Cass gave a small wave, looking at Barbara with curiosity.
Barbara knelt slightly to their level. “Nice to meet you both. Don’t worry, I’ll help you survive your first day.”
Jason whispered to Cass, “She seems… friendly.”
“I like her.” Cass replied.
---
The bell rang, and the trio split for their classrooms. Dick headed to fourth grade with confidence, already chatting with friends about projects and assignments. Jason paused at the second-grade doorway, hesitating. A cluster of children looked up as he entered, some whispering.
His teacher, a kindly woman with a warm smile, introduced herself. “Class, we have a new student today. Jason Peter Wayne. Please make him feel welcome.”
Jason gave a small nod, taking a seat near the window. He pulled out his notebook, staring out at the courtyard as the lessons began. Numbers and letters felt familiar, yet structured in a way he hadn’t seen before. Slowly, he began writing, a sense of curiosity overtaking nervousness.
Cass, meanwhile, entered first grade. Her small hands gripped her pencil tightly as her teacher guided the class through basic reading exercises. She concentrated hard, sounding out letters and words slowly, often glancing at Jason through the window as he worked. The teacher’s gentle corrections were met with swift understanding, Cass’s natural acuity shining through her cautious demeanor.
By mid-morning, both Jason and Cass were fully absorbed in their tasks. Jason enjoyed the simple arithmetic and reading exercises, a sense of accomplishment brightening his usually somber eyes. Cass, too, discovered a joy in forming words, her small victories punctuated by tiny smiles. Dick, in the meantime, rolled through fourth-grade history and geography, occasionally sneaking out his classroom, to check on his siblings’ progress.
---
Bruce’s hands tightened around the steering wheel slightly, hiding the worry that churned inside. Alfred had told him it was normal for children to navigate challenges, but Bruce could not help the gnawing unease.
When the Phantom rolled back into the manor later that evening, the silence was immediate. No laughter, no shouts, no questions peppering the room. The playhouse was empty. The halls echoed with an unnatural calm. Bruce stood at the top of the grand staircase, looking down at the empty rooms.
Alfred appeared beside him, calm as ever. “Master Bruce, the manor is… unusually quiet. Are you… concerned?”
Bruce exhaled, shoulders stiff. “It’s… strange. The rooms are empty. There’s no one bothering me, no chatter. Nothing.”
Alfred tilted his head, voice gentle but matter-of-fact. “Master Bruce, I believe you are suffering from a mild case of ‘empty nest syndrome.’ You are unused to the absence of your children after months of their constant presence.”
Bruce ran a hand over his face. “I worry about them… are Jason and Cassandra doing alright? Are they nervous? Will they be able to manage?”
Alfred placed a steadying hand on his arm. “They have good heads on their shoulders, sir. They will fare admirably. Trust their judgment, as I trust yours.”
Bruce nodded slowly, trying to internalize the reassurance, though a tension lingered in his chest.
Meanwhile in Gotham Academy....
The lunch bell rang, and the three reconvened with Barbara at a round table in the bustling cafeteria. Jason and Cass followed Dick, eyes wide at the towering stacks of food trays, the chatter, and the clatter of cutlery.
“Hey, check it out,” Dick whispered, sitting down and waving to Barbara. “We’ve got a spot with the best view. You’ll love it.”
As they settled, a group of older students at the next table began murmuring.
“Look at them,” one sneered. “The Wayne family has fallen far. A circus boy, a street urchin, and… what is she? Some foreign kid?”
Another snickered. “Yeah, what happened to Gotham’s noble lineage? Now it’s just… them.”
Barbara’s green eyes narrowed. “How dare you?” she said sharply.
“Oh, come on, Gordon,” another boy retorted. “Don’t act like you’ve earned your spot here. Your dad’s the commissioner, so the school felt sorry for you.”
Jason’s jaw tightened. Without thinking, he leapt from his chair and tackled the first boy, sending him sprawling onto the floor.
Dick immediately acted, dumping his tray of spaghetti and meatballs over the second boy’s head. “Mess with my siblings again, and you’ll regret it.”
The third boy lunged at Dick, trying to grab him by the hair. Before he could react, Cass swung her small fist, connecting squarely with his nose. A sharp yelp cut through the cafeteria.
Dick stood tall, voice icy. “If anyone—anyone—makes another nasty comment, and my father will see to it personally that your families are ruined.”
A hush fell. Even the lunchtime chatter seemed to freeze. One of the cafeteria supervisors approached, frowning.
“Youngsters! I’m going to have to call the headmaster. And your parents—”
Jason’s eyes locked onto the remaining bullies, gaze sharp, cold, and controlled. “You do not want to escalate this further. Trust me. Parents will not hear of this.”
The supervisor paused, unsure, and the group of bullies swallowed their pride, muttering to one another. Finally, they slunk away, grumbling.
The supervisor looked at Jason, shaking his head. “I… very well. No parents. But this better not happen again.”
Jason returned to the table, sliding into his seat, breathing hard but relieved. “Nobody’s calling our parents. That’s enough for them to understand.”
Barbara exhaled, impressed. “You all… handled that.”
Dick smirked, picking at his tray. “Just another day at Gotham Academy.” Cass muttered quietly, “Deserved more punches.”
Jason just nodded, cheeks flushed, adrenaline still coursing through him.
Later that afternoon, Bruce’s Phantom rolled through the gates of Gotham Academy. Jason, Cass, and Dick filed in, greeting him warmly.
“How was your day?” Bruce asked, keeping his tone neutral, hiding his concern.
“Good,” Jason said, forcing a small smile. “Really good.”
“Yeah,” Cass added. “Lots of learning.”
Dick leaned back, a grin tugging at his lips. “Pretty normal day. Nothing too wild.”
Bruce glanced at them, his eyes sharp. “Anything… unusual happen?”
The trio exchanged glances, quickly diverting their attention to snacks and their reflections in the car windows.
“No, Dad. Everything was fine,” Jason said.
“Absolutely fine,” Cass echoed.
---
The Batcave was quiet, save for the faint hum of monitors and the occasional clink of tools. Bruce stood over the compact workbench, adjusting a few fittings on Dick’s spare Robin suit, small but sleek enough to fit Cassandra.
“You’re sure about this?” Alfred asked, standing beside him.
Bruce’s jaw was tight, voice calm. “She promised she’d wear the shirt. I promised one hour of patrol. This is it. I’ll make sure she’s safe. Jason and Dick, behave while we’re gone.”
Cass peered up at Bruce, her excitement barely contained. “I get to go out? Really?”
“Yes, Sweetheart. One hour. That’s it,” Bruce said, his eyes scanning the equipment, making sure everything fit snugly. “Let me get ready.”
Finally, Bruce stepped into view, Cassandra tugging on his cape, vibrating with energy. “Dad! I’m ready!”
The night air was crisp as Bruce led Cassandra through the Batcave corridors, helping her adjust the Robin suit. The small girl practically vibrated with energy, her eyes sparkling with adrenaline.
Jason muttered under his breath, watching them leave. “Why do Cass and I have to bend backwards to be allowed to patrol? I could handle that. This is so unfair.”
Dick stepped closer, voice firm. “Jay, it’s not about whether you can. Both of you are not twelve yet. You lack experience, and you haven’t trained properly. That’s my rule, and it’s for your safety.”
Jason’s eyes flared. “It’s a stupid rule. You’re not even twelve! Why do we have to follow the stupid rule? You’re just afraid we will be better than you!”
Dick’s hands shot up. “Afraid? No. This isn’t about ego. Cass is an amazing fighter but patrol isn’t just about fighting. It’s about observation, planning, knowing when to retreat, and working with a partner. And you… even though you’ve got street smarts, you don’t know structured combat. You don’t know how to formulate backup plans, or escape routes.
Jason snorted. “I know how to fight. I’ve been surviving out there since I was a kid!”
“That doesn’t mean you’re ready for Gotham streets,” Dick countered, arms crossed. “And even if you are capable, my rules are clear: until you are twelve, you stay put. End of discussion.”
Jason’s face twisted. “You’re such a hypocrite, Dick! You act like you care about rules but you bend them all the time.”
“Because I know when to bend and when not to!” Dick shouted, tension rising.
You’re unbelievable!” Jason shot back, both of them now shouting, voices bouncing off the stone walls of the Batcave.
Alfred’s calm voice interjected, attempting diplomacy. “Gentlemen, please—your vocalizations are becoming excessive. I shall not intervene physically, but I do implore civility.”
Neither of them relented. The shouting match escalated further until Cassandra and Bruce returned an hour later, the night patrol having been a whirlwind of adrenaline for Cass. She was practically bouncing, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
Jason’s eyes flicked to her, envy mingling with frustration. “Look at her, all happy. And I’m stuck here.”
Cass, still catching her breath, noticed the tension between her brothers. Her smile faltered, and she quietly asked, “Why you two… not talking?”
Bruce raised an eyebrow at Alfred, who simply inclined his head toward the two boys.
“They had an disagreement,” Alfred whispered. “But, sir, I assure you, it’s best to allow them to resolve this on their own.”
Cass frowned, her happiness dampened by the unspoken feud.
---
The next morning, the ride to Gotham Academy was silent. Jason stared out the window, Dick kept his eyes straight ahead, and Cass sat quietly, sensing the tension. Bruce’s knuckles gripped the steering wheel just slightly tighter.
At the manor that evening, the children dispersed to their usual playhouse activities but more individually. Dick was engrossed in a video game, fingers moving nimbly across the controller. Jason sat at a table, meticulously constructing a Lego set. Cass, frustrated, stomped over.
“Come on! Work on the treehouse with me!” she demanded.
“No,” Dick replied without looking up. “I’m busy.”
Jason muttered, still focused on his pieces. “Yeah, same.”
Cass’s small foot stomped again. “Bad brothers!” she shouted and stormed out, slamming the door.
Dick immediately set down his controller, running after her. “Hey! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to make you mad!”
Jason’s head snapped up, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, now you care about making her mad? Funny, that wasn’t the case when you were being a hypocrite yesterday.”
Another verbal argument ignited, voices rising, each sibling shouting points and counterpoints.
Suddenly, Dick’s voice cracked, raw and intense “Go! Go fight in the streets and fall to death like my parents did!”
The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy. Silence followed. Dick’s chest heaved, and tears streamed down his face.
Jason froze, eyes wide. Cass, small but fierce, immediately ran to Dick and wrapped her arms around him. Jason, guilt and shame weighing heavily, approached slowly, wrapping his own arm around his brother.
The three of them clung together, a tight, messy embrace, breaths mingling, tears falling, hearts racing.
Finally, Dick pulled back slightly, wiping his tears. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. But the rules… they stand.”
Jason nodded. “Okay. I am sorry too. But I’ll train. By the time I’m twelve… me and Cass—we’ll be ready to patrol.”
Cass smiled, sniffling, her small hand patting Dick’s back.
Messy faces, snot-streaked cheeks, but laughter soon bubbled up, breaking the tension entirely.
Moments later, Bruce and Alfred entered the playhouse, carrying a tray of snacks. They paused, surveying the scene: the three siblings, now calm and laughing, working together on the treehouse with focus and joy.
Bruce exhaled, shoulders relaxing.
Alfred’s calm voice reached him, eyes twinkling slightly. “See, Master Bruce? I told you… the children will sort this among themselves.”
Bruce allowed a small, relieved smile, nodding in agreement. The chaos of the day, the arguments, the tension—all dissolved into the warmth of their shared laughter and teamwork.
---
The quiet of the manor was broken by the sharp trill of Bruce’s business line. He picked up the handset, instantly alert.
“Bruce Wayne,” he answered, voice calm but firm.
“Sir Wayne, this is Headmaster Hawthorne of Gotham Academy,” came the measured voice of the man on the other end. “I wanted to inform you about a situation that occurred during lunch yesterday.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Go on.”
“There was a verbal confrontation in the cafeteria involving your children,” Hawthorne continued. “Other students were making snide remarks regarding their backgrounds… comments about Mister Grayson-Wayne ’s circus upbringing, Mister Wayne’s prior circumstances, and Miss Wayne’s… ethnicity.”
Bruce’s grip on the receiver tightened. “I see. And how did my children respond?”
“They retaliated physically,” Hawthorne said carefully. “Mister Wayne tackled one of the students. Mister Grayson-Wayne … well, he disposed of a portion of his lunch over another, and Miss Wayne, strikingly, intervened with a direct blow.”
Bruce exhaled slowly, voice controlled but laced with authority. “I understand. That behavior will not recur. I apologize for the disruption. Rest assured, the children will be made aware of appropriate conduct moving forward.”
There was a pause. “Additionally,” Hawthorne said, “some parents have lodged complaints. The administration was considering suspension or contacting guardians, but…”
“I will ensure that no formal action is necessary,” Bruce interrupted smoothly. “Consider any consequences resolved. And… I will make arrangements for contributions to Gotham Academy. Philanthropy, if you will, to prevent further issues. I trust this will settle matters sufficiently.”
“Understood, sir,” Hawthorne replied, a subtle note of relief in his voice. “I appreciate your prompt attention.”
Bruce hung up, setting the receiver down with a measured hand. He exhaled, closing his eyes for a brief moment before Alfred appeared silently in the doorway, tray in hand.
“Well,” Alfred said, placing the tray down on the counter, “it seems the children handled themselves admirably.”
Bruce shook his head, pacing slightly. “Admirably, yes. But they shouldn’t have had to fight for themselves at all. That shouldn’t have been necessary.” His voice grew quieter, almost reflective. “It’s my fault. I never… introduced them to high society properly. It’s left openings for… prejudice, for misunderstandings.”
Alfred nodded slowly. “I understand, sir. There was, of course, very little time to consider these things. When Master Richard came to you…” Alfred’s eyes softened with memory. “He had lost his parents and you had not yet formalized the adoption. Then Miss Cassandra arrived… nonverbal, requiring every ounce of your attention. And Master Jason… a sudden, unexpected situation entirely. The circumstances, sir, were… pressing.”
Bruce ran a hand across his forehead. “Exactly. It all happened so fast. I wanted to care for them, train them, provide stability, and… in that whirlwind, I neglected an important matter—presenting them. Announcing them. Introducing them to Gotham, to the society that will watch over them.”
Alfred’s voice was gentle but firm. “We can always remedy that, sir. The past cannot be changed, but the future can be carefully planned.”
Bruce’s eyes lit with resolve. “Yes… a gala. A charity gala, in October. Not just for philanthropy, not just for Gotham’s elites, but… to present my children properly. To show them, to show everyone… that they are here to stay. That they are Wayne through and through.”
Alfred allowed a small smile to form. “A fitting solution, sir. I shall begin preparations immediately. Invitations, arrangements, all the necessary protocol. The children’s introduction will be… impeccable.”
Bruce finally exhaled, nodding firmly. “Good. Make it so, Alfred. This time, there will be no omissions. My children will be presented in the proper light. Gotham will know their place, and I will ensure they are safe, respected… and recognized for who they are.”
Alfred inclined his head. “As always, sir, your foresight is admirable. And the children will benefit greatly from your meticulous planning. This shall be a proper introduction, indeed.”
Bruce turned his gaze toward the window, looking out over the sprawling grounds. The manor seemed quiet, almost too quiet, but a firm determination set in his eyes. He would not allow another misstep. His children, his family, would have their place in the world, properly secured and protected.
The next months would be meticulous in planning, each detail accounted for—from the guest list of Gotham’s elite, to the arrangements, to the proper etiquette his children would need. Bruce had seen enough to know that preparation was everything. This gala would not just be a social event—it would be a declaration.
And for the first time that evening, Bruce allowed himself a brief sense of satisfaction. Gotham might try to test his family, but they would be ready. They would be Wayne.
---
The following Saturday morning, the sun filtered softly through the tall windows of Wayne Manor. The manor was quiet, the usual chaos of the children’s laughter and footsteps temporarily suspended as Alfred had prepared a more formal agenda.
“Master Richard, Miss Cassandra, Master Jason,” Alfred announced in his usual measured tone, “if you will kindly gather in the drawing room, we are to begin lessons in proper etiquette. These are matters which will serve you well at the upcoming gala and in any interactions with Gotham’s society.”
Dick exchanged a glance with Jason. “Et-i-what now?” he whispered, muttering under his breath. “Is this going to be like homework but with… posh?”
Jason groaned, dragging his feet. “I hate homework… and I hate posh.”
Cass, for her part, simply tilted her head, curious, and followed Alfred obediently.
Alfred led them into the drawing room, where the long dining table had been cleared, and chairs arranged meticulously. Candlesticks gleamed, and fine china was neatly stacked.
“Etiquette is not mere finery, children,” Alfred began, his voice gentle but firm. “It is a framework, a set of tools that will allow you to navigate social situations with confidence and dignity. Today, we will begin with posture and conversation.”
He gestured to the first chair, inviting Dick to sit. “Master Richard, posture. Sit as though you carry yourself not only for yourself but for those who observe you. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, chin level.”
Dick plopped into the chair, immediately slouching. “Relaxed? What does that even mean? Isn’t this, like… too straight?”
Alfred’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of amusement. “I believe that will require more demonstration.” He guided Dick’s shoulders, corrected his elbow position, and even gently tilted his chin until the posture aligned. “There. Observe the difference between confidence and carelessness. Master Jason, your turn.”
Jason sat reluctantly. “Do I have to? My back hurts already…”
Alfred ignored the complaint. “Your stance will convey the person you are to the world. Even a brief interaction leaves a lasting impression. A drooped posture can be interpreted as lack of interest, weakness, or worse. Now, straighten yourself.”
Cass, however, impressed Alfred immediately. She seated herself with an intuitive grace, observing every instruction and copying it meticulously. “Like this?” she asked in her small, precise sentences.
“Exactly, Miss Cassandra,” Alfred said, allowing a small nod of approval. “You have an innate sense of presentation. Master Jason and Master Richard, you would do well to watch her example.”
The morning progressed with lessons on conversation etiquette. Alfred began with the most basic rules: how to greet a person properly, how to introduce oneself, and how to use polite phrases.
“Master Jason, when greeting someone, do not merely nod. You must make eye contact, offer a firm handshake if appropriate, and speak your name clearly. Repeat after me: ‘Jason Wayne.’”
Jason rolled his eyes but complied. “Jason Wayne,” he muttered. Alfred’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“More clarity,” Alfred insisted. “Articulate each word with confidence.”
“Jason…Wayne,” Jason repeated, enunciating slowly. Alfred allowed a small, satisfied nod.
Dick smirked. “Easy. He sounds like he’s auditioning for Gotham’s High Society Theater.”
“Master Richard!” Alfred warned, “This is not a jest. Even humor can be weaponized if delivered with poise, but right now, focus.”
Cass, meanwhile, repeated her name perfectly, her soft voice clear and confident. Alfred allowed himself a small smile. “Well done, Miss Cassandra. Your progress is… most encouraging.”
After mastering introductions, Alfred moved the children to the dining table to teach proper table etiquette. The children grimaced as he brought out a formal place setting: forks, knives, spoons, and cups arrayed in exacting order.
“You will learn the proper use of utensils,” Alfred explained. “Each has its purpose. A spoon is not to be used for solid food. A fork is not to spear your food like a weapon.”
Dick immediately picked up a fork like a sword. “Like this?”
“Master Richard!” Alfred exclaimed. “Not like a sword!”
Jason, predictably, tried to mimic Dick, resulting in a tangled mess of utensils. “It’s impossible!” he protested.
Cass, ever observant, quickly managed to grasp the proper technique, patiently demonstrating to her brothers. Alfred allowed a small nod. “See, Master Jason, Master Richard? Attention and patience yield results.”
By afternoon, Bruce entered the drawing room. He had prepared a visual presentation on Gotham’s elite families—a digital slideshow detailing lineage, influence, and social standing. The children crowded around, eyes wide as images of opulent estates and portraits flashed before them.
“You will meet these people at the gala,” Bruce explained. “Each family has its traditions, their own expectations. Some are generous, some… less so. You must navigate these interactions carefully. Confidence, politeness, and awareness are your tools.”
Jason leaned forward. “Do we have to… remember all these names?”
Bruce smiled slightly. “Not all at once. But knowing whom you are interacting with, understanding their tendencies… it will keep you safe and respected.”
Dick rolled his eyes. “Safe and respected… sounds like fighting in a social battlefield.”
“Precisely,” Bruce replied. “But one must fight differently in social situations than in the streets. Words, gestures, even glances… these can disarm, influence, or persuade.”
Alfred interjected gently. “Think of it as a continuation of your training. The body, the mind, the voice—each element plays a part in the encounter.”
The children spent the next several hours alternating between lessons from Alfred and Bruce’s presentations. They practiced formal greetings, polite responses, subtle humor, and careful posture. At first, there were frequent mishaps—forks dropped, names mispronounced, composure lost—but by the day’s end, each child had improved markedly.
Cass beamed, clearly proud of mastering a difficult posture drill. Jason, reluctantly impressed with his own progress, whispered to Dick, “Hey… maybe we’re not terrible at this.”
Dick grinned. “See? Told you I had some natural talent.”
Alfred allowed himself a satisfied nod. “Indeed. Progress is evident. Tomorrow, we shall refine these skills further, introduce nuances of conversation, and prepare for interactions with greater challenges.”
Bruce, observing the children, felt a rare surge of satisfaction. Gotham was harsh, the world would be harsher—but here, in the safety of the manor, his children were learning not only the skills to survive but to thrive. And when the gala arrived, they would not merely be presented—they would stand as a unified, confident,
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter Text
The grand doors of Wayne Manor opened to the glittering expanse of the ballroom. Chandeliers hung like frozen stars, their crystal prisms catching the light in bursts of rainbow shimmer. The polished marble floors reflected the dancing lights, and the string quartet near the far end played a delicate waltz that seemed to float through the room.
Crystal glasses clinked, laughter floated over the string quartet’s music, and the scent of exotic flowers from the back gardens mingled with the rich aroma of gourmet hors d'oeuvres. Bruce Wayne stood atop the sweeping staircase, flanked by his three children.
Dick, ten, walked with a confident straight-backed stride, his dark hair perfectly combed, wearing a tailored navy suit with a small diamond tie pin that caught the light. Jason, eight, wore a crisp black suit with a bow tie, slightly oversized sleeves giving him a boyish charm, and the silver cufflinks twinkling. Cassandra, also eight, in a deep burgundy dress with delicate embroidery and her hair tied back by a gem crusted butterfly clip , held herself with the poise of a child who knew exactly how much attention she could command without raising her voice.
Most of the guests assumed these three were Bruce’s biological but illegitimate children. The two boys’ dark hair and piercing blue eyes matched Bruce’s perfectly. Cassandra’s 'oriental' features, however, seemed to hint at something different, and her composed, mature way of speaking only added to the air of mystery.
As they slowly descended, each with a measured grace, their eyes taking in the room full of Gotham’s most influential families.
“Remember,” Bruce said, voice calm but firm, “stand tall, make eye contact, and smile. Simple courtesy goes a long way.”
Bruce stopped at the foot of the stairs and addressed the nearest cluster of socialites.
“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce my children,” he said, sweeping his arm gracefully. “This is Richard, Jason, and Cassandra.”
The guests turned politely, smiling at the children.
“Richard, you’ll do wonderfully one day,” one woman said. “Bruce has trained you all well, I’m sure.”
Dick inclined his head politely. “Thank you, ma’am. I hope I make my father proud.”
Jason merely nodded, murmuring, “Thank you, ma’am,” with a soft smile.
Cassandra offered a brief, “Hello,” her small voice carrying perfectly in the room’s acoustics.
The introductions continued, Bruce presenting his children to different groups. Guests were polite, offering smiles and small compliments, but nothing overbearing.
“Ah, Richard has your father’s eyes,” one man said.
Jason was whispered about as “very composed for his age,” while Cassandra drew polite comments about her grace and manners. Bruce’s sharp gaze monitored every reaction, ensuring the children were treated with the proper respect.
After Bruce had introduced his children to most of the guests and the siblings were beginning to feel more at ease navigating the ballroom on their own, a familiar voice carried across the room.
“Bruce! Brucie, there you are!”
The group turned to see a tall, lean man with a bright green jacket and an easy grin, accompanied by a striking woman in a sleek black dress, her hair flowing in waves like night shadows.
“Ollie,” Bruce said, nodding in acknowledgment. “Dinah, good to see you.”
“Dinah Lance,” she said warmly, offering a brief, polite bow to Bruce’s children.
Oliver’s gaze fell on Dick, Jason, and Cassandra, a mischievous sparkle lighting his eyes. “Brucie… how the hell did you get approval from the City Council to let you have kids like these? You’re a dumb, drunken bachelor in the tabloids, and suddenly—voilà! Mini Bruce clones running around?”
Dick tilted his head, frowning slightly. “How do you know my dad?”
Oliver chuckled. “Boarding school. You remember me—Queen. Oliver Queen. We shared the same hellhole of a school until Bruce here dropped out at sixteen.”
Jason’s eyebrows shot up. “High school Bruce? You mean… he was normal?”
Oliver threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing against the gilded walls. “Normal? Ha! Not a chance. Bruce was—well, imagine an emo kid, hair always a mess, brooding in the corner, getting into fights constantly. But… brilliant. Way ahead of everyone else, always calculating, acing everything.”
Cassandra’s lips twitched, amused by the contrast between Oliver’s description and the composed figure standing a few steps away.
“Emo, huh?” Jason said, nudging Bruce. “I can kind of see it. Wait… fights? With who?”
Oliver grinned. “Oh, you know… everyone who dared cross him. He was… terrifying. Brilliant, and terrifying. I swear, Bruce, you never told anyone about that time in the chemistry lab? Or the fencing match that ended with three teachers in stitches?”
Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I do not recall it that way.”
Oliver laughed harder. “Of course you don’t. That’s why you were always so… enigmatic. Serious all the time, everyone terrified of you. Yet somehow, you survived school unscathed. And brilliant as ever.”
Jason’s grin widened. “Sounds… kind of badass.”
Oliver raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you should have seen him then. Total nightmare. But also… insanely sharp. You’d want him on your side.”
Dick, watching the interaction, leaned slightly toward Bruce, voice low, almost inaudible. “Well… everybody has secrets.” he said cryptically, letting the words hang in the air just long enough to catch Bruce’s attention. He glanced at Oliver, then back to Bruce.
Jason frowned slightly, confused. “What does that mean?”
Dick shrugged, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Just that everyone has layers. Some things… are just for later.”
Bruce inclined his head slightly. “Indeed. Learning patience is an important lesson.”
Oliver laughed, shaking his head. “I swear, some things never change, Brucie. Emo genius, total menace—and now a family man. Makes me wonder what else you’re hiding.”
Bruce gave nothing away, just a faint nod. The subtle exchange between him and Dick remained invisible to Oliver—just a shared acknowledgment that some truths were theirs alone to understand.
Dinah smiled at the children again. “They seem wonderful.”
Jason puffed up a little, trying to appear composed but clearly thrilled. Cassandra’s smile was reserved but genuine. Dick simply stood tall, eyes sharp, aware of the small, private understanding he shared with his father.
---
Once the formal introductions were complete, Bruce left the kids to mingle.
“I’ll catch up with you all later,” he said, “but remember to stay courteous. Observe, but don’t react rashly.”
As Bruce moved through the crowd, discussing Wayne Enterprises’ next philanthropic donation and his hopes for the children’s future leadership of the company, the kids began their first interactions on their own.
A group of three older socialites approached Dick.
“Richard, such a handsome young man. Your father must be proud,” said one woman.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Dick replied, bowing slightly.
“Are you interested in the arts or business?” another asked.
“I enjoy both, ma’am. I’m learning,” Dick said politely.
When this group passed, another trio approached. Their tone shifted slightly.
“You children are quite fortunate to have such a father. I hope you live up to the Wayne name,” one sneered. “Though it’s unusual he has so many children with… different mothers.”
Dick’s lips curved in a small, confident smile. “Fortune isn’t everything, ma’am. But the Wayne name has taught me the value of… measured response.”
The woman blinked, momentarily flustered, while Dick moved on smoothly, maintaining his composure.
---
Jason was approached by a set of parents whose children had once tried to bully him at school.
“Jason,” one said, voice dripping with fake sweetness, “I hope you’ve learned to be more… flexible in social settings. Some of us worry you might be too… rigid.”
Jason kept his small shoulders squared. “I understand your concern, sir,” he said calmly, “but I have found that courtesy and patience often resolve more than aggression.”
The adults attempted a few more snide remarks, but Jason’s calm, polite tone and firm posture left them visibly frustrated.
---
Cassandra first engaged with politeness. “Hello, I’m Cassandra,” she said in small words, nodding respectfully.
“Cassandra, your father’s eyes are certainly reflected in your brothers,” a woman remarked, “though you… your seems different.”
For a moment, Cassandra remained quiet, her small nod acknowledging the comment. But then, an older man, more boldly, added, “Yes, at least the boys resemble their father. And you… well, your features—so different. Makes one wonder how good your mother might have been to convince your father to take in a child with such obvious features.”
Cassandra paused. The room’s polite air made the guests think she would stay silent. Instead, she spoke clearly, articulating every word:
“Sir, appearances may mislead you, but intelligence and character are not dictated by looks. You assume difference is shameful; I assume it is a chance to surprise you. My father’s choices reflect care, and if you judge children by appearance rather than action, you reveal far more about yourself than us.”
The guests blinked, caught off guard. Even some of the other children nearby whispered, impressed by her eloquence.
---
Once the groups dispersed, exhausted constant polite deflection and calculated retorts, the three siblings regrouped. They quietly excused themselves from the ballroom and made their way to the hallway connecting the ballroom to the back garden. Antique cars lined the walls, models preserved like treasures.Jason leaned against a 1920s roadster. “Finally—some peace.”
“Until Alfred finds us,” Dick muttered with a smirk.
A shadow shifted near the far end of the hall. Cass squinted. “Who’s there?”
Dick stepped forward, voice low and playful. “Probably a kid hiding. Or… a mouse.”
A tiny figure emerged, barely taller than Cassandra’s waist. His small frame hugged the shadows, eyes wide and cautious.
“Uh… hi,” Dick said, smiling warmly. “Don’t be scared. We’re not going to eat you.”
Jason added with a wink, “Unless you’re made of chocolate.”
The boy’s lips twitched into a small smile. “I… I’m not. I’m just… hiding.”
“Why hide?” Cassandra asked softly.
In a voice was barely audible. “It’s… stuffy in there. Too many people.”
Dick crouched slightly to be eye-level. “Well, you’ve got our attention now. What’s your name, little shadow?”
The little boy hesitated, then, encouraged by their friendly demeanor, spoke louder. “Tim… Timothy Drake.
“Oh? Drake?” Dick raised an eyebrow. “Gotham Academy?”
Tim nodded, his voice small. “My parents… Jack and Janet—they’re still in there. I came out to get some air.”
Dick grinned. “Don’t worry. We’ve been there. I’m Dick, that’s Jason, and this is Cassandra. Welcome to the Hallway Club.”
Tim’s lips twitched, a hint of a smile. Conversation slowly unfolded, awkward at first, then easier, as the children shared stories of Gotham Academy and the exhausting, superficial etiquette of high society.
---
By the time they reached the back garden, the flowerbeds stretched like living mosaics beneath the soft moonlight. Dick exhaled. “The vultures in there… they were practically circling us.”
Jason laughed softly. “I’d rather face Cass in training every night and humiliation than deal with those old hoots.”
Cassandra giggled, “You exaggerate.”
Tim, still small, added, “Those people aren’t just rude—they’re blind. And dumb. No observational skills.”
Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
Tim’s voice pitched up with excitement. “Nobody realized that Batman well… Bruce Wayne—he’s… well…”
He froze mid-sentence, eyes wide as he realized what he had just said. The other three children froze with him, hearts suddenly pounding.
Tim’s eyes went wide. “I—I didn’t mean… I—”
Before they could respond, he bolted back toward the ballroom.
Jason’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Wait… did he just—?”
Cass’s face went pale. “He knows.”
Dick’s voice was a mix of disbelief and concern. “Nobody is supposed to know. Only sanctioned superheroes dealing with extraterrestrial or international threats—approved by the UN—are allowed to operate. Vigilantism is still illegal.”
The implication hit them like a shockwave. Tim Drake, this tiny, shy boy… he knew. He knew.
The children exchanged looks. Fear, worry, and determination swirled in their eyes. Dick’s jaw tightened. “We can’t let this slide. Not a word leaves here, and we need to find out how much he knows.”
Jason nodded grimly. “Drake Manor. We go tonight. We confront him. Figure out what he’s planning, and whether he’s a threat or… something else.”
Cassandra’s eyes sparkled, the thrill of the challenge shining through. “Agreed. We do this quietly. And carefully.”
Dick turned back to glance at the ballroom, lights twinkling like false stars. “No one else can know. If word gets out…” His voice trailed, heavy with implication.
Jason smirked grimly. “Then let’s go. Tonight, we find out what Tim Drake is hiding.”
The three of them melted into the shadows of the garden, the moonlight glinting off the flowers as they silently disappeared into the night.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 16: The Child From The Abandoned House
Summary:
Is it kidnapping if the kid wants to be napped deep down?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The manor was silent again after the gala. The grand ballroom had emptied hours earlier, its glittering chandeliers dark now, echoing only with faint memories of music and laughter. Bruce moved slowly through the dimly lit halls of Wayne Manor, each step softened by the familiar rugs.
His children had been exhausted from the evening — all the introductions, polite conversations, smiling at strangers. They had held up better than most adults would, but he could see the way their shoulders sagged once the final guest left.
One more duty was pending Bruce before Batman would answer the call of Gotham.
---
In Dick’s room, Bruce pulled the covers up to the boy’s chin.
“Goodnight, chum,” Bruce murmured, brushing back a stray lock of dark hair.
Dick’s eyes blinked open, still restless. “Hey, Bruce? Did I do okay tonight?”
“You did more than okay,” Bruce assured him. “You carried yourself with confidence. I was proud.”
Dick smiled faintly, finally closing his eyes. “’Kay. Just checking.”
In Jason’s room, Bruce found the boy pretending to be asleep, though the uneven rhythm of his breathing gave him away.
“You don’t have to fake it,” Bruce said, tugging the blanket straight.
Jason cracked one eye open. “Wasn’t fakin’. Just… thinkin’.”
“About?”
Jason shrugged under the covers. “About how rich people are weird.”
That earned a quiet chuckle from Bruce. “Get some rest, lad. You handled yourself well tonight.”
Jason smirked before his eyelids fluttered shut for real.
Finally, Bruce stepped into Cassandra’s room. She was already curled up, quiet as always, watching him with unreadable dark eyes.
“Sleep, sweetheart,” Bruce said softly, smoothing the blanket over her small form.
Cass gave the smallest nod, already half-asleep, trusting.
Bruce lingered just long enough to be sure they were settled before he turned away. In the cave below, the Batmobile purred to life, echoing through stone. Batman left the manor behind, thinking his children were safe, dreaming in their beds.
He didn’t realize three pairs of eyes would open again an hour later.
---
An hour later, three bedroom doors clicked open.
Dick padded into the hallway barefoot, rubbing at his eyes and glancing over his shoulder. Jason darted out next, hair mussed, carrying a flashlight he absolutely wasn’t supposed to have. Cassandra emerged last, silent as always, her shadow gliding over theirs until the three converged at the playhouse tucked behind the Manor.
The rendezvous point. Inside, they huddled close, whispering.
Jason leaned back with satisfaction. “Security’s down. I disabled all the protocols from the Batcomputer.”
Dick raised a brow. “You know how to hack?”
Jason’s grin widened. “Nah. I just pulled out all the chords and shut the emergency generator ”
Dick pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “And I’ve got the map. Drake Manor’s right here.” He say pointing at the circled red dots.
“So, basically our neighbor,” Dick announced, adjusting the strap of his pajama top like it was armor.
Jason frowned. “We don’t have neighbors.”
“We do,” Dick corrected. “It’s just the estate’s over 150 acres so we don’t notice. Drake’s property butts up against ours, just beyond the lake house.”
Jason muttered, “Or maybe they’re just creepy enough that no one wants to remember.”
“Either way,” Dick said, “Timothy Drake lives just past the lake house. That’s where we’re headed.”
Cass nodded. “I’ll lead.”
Jason blinked at her, then grinned. “Yeah, of course you will.”
So they set out together, three small figures slipping across moonlit lawns, bound for secrets none of them could have imagined.
---
The night was cool, damp with the scent of grass. Their footsteps crunched softly on gravel.
“You think he really knows?” Jason asked suddenly, voice hushed.
“Tim?” Dick whispered back. “He said it like it slipped out. He’s too young to fake that.”
Cass walked a step ahead, gaze fixed. “Knows.”
Jason shoved his hands into his pockets. “So what? He’s just a kid.”
Dick’s expression was serious. “And that’s exactly why we can’t ignore it. Nobody’s supposed to know. If someone finds out…”
The weight of the law against vigilantes pressed silently over them.
The Wayne estate stretched like a kingdom. Six acres of manicured lawns, shadowed trees, and winding gravel paths. Their bare feet slapped against the cold earth, breath clouding in the crisp night as they trekked past the lake house. Beyond it, the landscape grew wilder—less polished, more sinister under the moonlight.
A looming boundary wall cut across the dark like the spine of some giant beast.
Jason was the first to climb. “You’d think billionaires could spring for something less horror-movie chic.” He swung a leg over, muttering, “What’s next, lightning bolts?”
As if on cue, clouds shifted and thunder grumbled low on the horizon.
Dick grinned. “Careful. Gotham has a sense of humor.”
They dropped into Drake land.
---
The Manor waited for them in silence.
Wayne Manor was cavernous, but alive—Alfred’s care polished it to a soft glow. Drake Manor, by contrast, looked abandoned. The windows were black voids. Vines crawled the stone walls like veins. The air smelled of mildew and dust.
“Okay…” Jason whispered, sweeping his flashlight beam across cobwebs draped from the ceiling like funeral veils. “I’m officially voting this the spookiest billionaire house in Gotham.”
Dick reached for a light switch. Click. Nothing. He tried another. Still nothing. “Guess the Drakes don’t believe in electricity. Or paying bills.”
“Or living here,” Jason muttered.
They split. Dick and Jason went upstairs; Cass vanished into the shadows below.
---
The upstairs groaned beneath their feet. Door after door opened to reveal emptiness: guest rooms untouched, sheets yellowing with age, master bedroom stripped bare as if it hadn’t been slept in for years.
Jason cursed under his breath. “Do people actually live here?”
Then they found it.
A single room. Clean. Precise. The bed perfectly made, sheets taut. Books stacked neatly. Clothes arranged by color in the wardrobe. No dust, no cobwebs—just eerie tidiness.
Tim’s room.
Jason frowned, running a hand across the desk. “Kid’s either a neat freak or the only person in this whole house.”
Dick’s stomach sank. “Which means he’s alone.”
They shared a look. Then they went to find Cass.
---
She was standing in the drawing room, a silent sentinel beside the fireplace.
The fire was faint—embers clinging to life. Across from it, on a worn sofa, a small figure lay huddled under a blanket, clutching a pillow.
Timothy Drake.
Jason’s flashlight beam caught his face, and the boy stirred. Dark hair fell over his eyes. His small frame looked swallowed by the blanket. He blinked awake, startled by the sight of three older kids watching him.
At first, his expression was confusion. Then fear. His lips parted in a sharp inhale, and his arms tightened around the pillow as if for protection.
“You—” His voice cracked. “Why are you—are you here to—”
Dick crouched, palms open in peace. “Hey, Timmy. Relax. We’re not here to hurt you.”
Tim’s eyes darted between them, panicked. “You—know—I know—and you—”
“We know you know,” Dick said gently. “That’s not why we’re here.” He hesitated, then asked the question that had been gnawing since the moment he saw the emptiness upstairs. “Where are your parents?”
Tim blinked. “…Business trip.”
“They left you here? Alone?”
“…Always alone.” The answer came out matter-of-fact, as if he’d said it a thousand times.
Jason’s jaw clenched. “How long?”
Tim tilted his head, confused by the question itself. “Since I can remember.”
Dick’s throat went dry.
Jason pressed, voice sharper. “Nobody comes? No housekeeper, no nanny?”
Tim shook his head. “No. Just me.”
“…And food?”
Tim shifted under the blanket. “I order food. Online. Sometimes… I just don’t eat..” He said it like it was normal. Like any child should survive like that.
Jason looked like he might explode. His voice came out low, dangerous. “They just leave you here. All this money, and they leave you like this?”
Tim shrank back at the anger in his tone, and Dick swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. Dick looked at Jason, eyes burning with anger. “This isn’t just neglect. This is—”
Cass raised a hand, cutting him off. She pointed at Tim, her voice steady and soft.
“Little brother.”
Silence followed. The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.
Dick and Jason both froze, then exchanged a look. Slowly, realization dawned.
“…Yeah,” Dick whispered. “Of course.” He turned back to Tim. “Timmy… would you like to come with us? Stay with us? Be family?”
Tim blinked, stunned. “…What?”
Jason stepped forward, gentler now. “You don’t have to decide tonight. Just… come see how awesome we are.” Without waiting for permission, he scooped Tim up in his arms and Tim let out a yelp.
Jason smirked but then blinked at the weight. Or rather, the lack of it. The boy was shockingly light. Too light. Jason felt his chest tighten with fury. No seven-year-old should weigh this little. No seven-year-old should look this small.
He swallowed the anger and forced a grin. “See? You’re practically pocket-sized. Don’t worry, Dickiebird, Cass and I will protect you.”
“Don’t call me that,” Dick muttered automatically.
Tim, wide-eyed, whispered, “I’m not… four.”
“I didn't say that, you did,” Jason said darkly. “But you sure look like it. Thanks to your lousy parents.” Jason’s grin vanished. His jaw tightened again. “You’re so damn small.”
But he held Tim close anyway.
---
The trek back to Wayne Manor was quiet and slower, Jason carrying Tim while Dick and Cass flanked. Tim clinging to Jason’s shoulder like a lifeline.
This time, they didn’t sneak. They marched straight to the front gate. Tim, exhausted, had dozed off against Jason’s shoulder.
Dick pressed the intercom button.
A groggy Alfred answered. “Yes? Who is buzzing at—” The monitor flicked on. Three pajama-clad children appeared on the screen, muddy and disheveled, Jason carrying a small boy swaddled in blankets.
Alfred froze. His hand flew to his chest. “Oh, dear Lord… my heart. Have they…? Oh, heavens. They’ve caught Master Bruce’s habit of collecting strays.”
He hurried to open the gates.
---
The Batmobile roared into the Cave minutes later.
Bruce shed cape and cowl, jaw tight with unease. Alfred had called him with only one line: You’ll want to see this for yourself.
The elevator doors slid open. Alfred was waiting, expression grave but tinged with something softer.
Bruce’s voice was low. “What happened?”
Alfred’s lips twitched. “It would appear, Master Bruce, that your children have selected another member for this family.”
“…What?”
Bruce stepped into the drawing room.
His kids were huddled together on the sofa, each clutching mugs of hot chocolate. Wrapped in blankets between them sat a child who looked far younger than he should have, eyes darting nervously, hands trembling around his mug.
Bruce noticed the mud on Dick’s pajama knees, the scratches on Cass’s arms, the dirt on Jason’s face. He remembered tucking them into bed.
And then Alfred’s words hit him fully.
His stomach dropped.
Oh no.
His children had kidnapped a kid.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 17: Threefold Assault
Summary:
Little stalker
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Richard John Grayson-Wayne. Jason Peter Wayne. Cassandra Martha Wayne.”
The full names cracked like thunder in the drawing room.
All three children froze on the sofa, cocoa mugs halfway to their lips. Tim, wrapped in blankets between them, flinched at the sound, his small shoulders curling in tighter.
Bruce stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes narrowed. He wasn’t Batman at that moment, but he wasn’t just Bruce Wayne either. He was both—the cowl stripped away, the father and the vigilante glaring down together.
“Would one of you like to explain,” Bruce said slowly, “why I returned home to find you muddy, scratched, and in possession of a boy who does not belong to you?”
Dick tried to look innocent. “Uh… surprise?”
Jason muttered, “It’s not kidnapping if he wanted to come.”
Bruce’s head turned sharply. “Jason.”
Jason winced. He knew that tone. The one that meant he’d pushed exactly too far. “Okay, okay.” He leaned forward, hands flying as he spoke. “Look, the kid was all by himself, alright? Alone. No one else in the whole Drake Manor. His parents? Gone. Like, for days, weeks—I don’t even know. And he’s been living like that. By himself. Ordering food like some kind of feral raccoon.”
Tim’s brows furrowed at the comparison.
Jason pressed on, voice rough. “I don’t care how rich they are, that’s not parenting. That’s not even babysitting. That’s just—dumping your kid and forgetting he exists. What were we supposed to do? Leave him there?”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “That does not mean you can kidnap someone.”
Cass sat up straighter, dark eyes sharp. “Not someone.” She jabbed a finger at Tim. “Ours. Now. Baby brother.”
Tim’s head whipped toward her, startled. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, as though unsure whether it was safer to argue or just… let that declaration stand.
Bruce dragged a hand down his face, the exhaustion of Gotham and parenthood crashing together. “Cassandra…” His voice was muffled. “You cannot just—”
“Actually,” Dick interrupted, leaning forward with unusual seriousness, “there’s another reason we brought him.”
Bruce dropped his hand. “Another?”
Dick nodded. “He knows.”
The words hit Bruce like a thrown batarang. His eyes snapped to Tim, narrowing. “Knows what?”
“That you’re Batman.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Tim shifted under the blankets, shrinking back under the weight of Bruce’s stare. Then, slowly, he lifted his chin, forcing himself to meet it.
“I figured it out.” His voice was quiet, but steady.
Bruce’s brow furrowed. “…How?”
Tim’s small hands twisted in the blanket. He spoke with the careful precision of someone assembling a puzzle piece by piece.
“I was at Haly’s Circus. The night… the Graysons fell.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Dick, then back to Bruce. “I saw Dick perform a quadruple somersault. Nobody else in the world could do it. Not like that.”
Dick stiffened, breath catching in his chest.
Tim continued. “Then, a few months later… Robin appeared. And one night, I saw Robin do the exact same move. The same somersault.” He paused, watching Bruce carefully. “So… if Dick Grayson was Robin, then the only person who could be Batman… was you.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched.
Tim pressed on, the words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “And the timeline—it fit. You came back from traveling, and then Batman showed up in Gotham a few weeks later. No one else had the training, the resources, the reason.” His voice softened. “It had to be you.”
The room was still.
Bruce stared at the boy—this small, underfed, fragile child who looked half his age—and for once in his life, he had no words.
Jason broke the silence first. “See? He’s smart. Scary smart. And he’s been alone. You can’t just leave him there, Bruce. He deserves better.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “The news channels have never caught Robin doing somersault on camera.”
Tim shook his head. “No. I saw it.” He swallowed. “I followed Robin. At night. I—I started watching him on the streets. I took pictures.”
Jason’s eyes widened. “You what?”
Tim glanced down, ashamed. “I wanted proof. I borrowed one of my dad’s cameras. Whenever Robin went out, I tried to find him. And I did. I’ve been taking pictures of him for… for a long time.”
Bruce’s breath caught, ice flooding his veins. “You were… following Robin? Alone? In Gotham’s streets?”
Tim nodded, hesitant.
Bruce took a step forward, looming now. His voice dropped, heavy with something closer to fear than anger. “You’re telling me a child—barely old enough to cross the street alone—was wandering Gotham at night, trailing vigilantes, taking pictures, and no one stopped you?”
Tim’s lip trembled, but he tried to defend himself. “I was careful. I stayed in the shadows. I didn’t get too close.”
“That’s not careful,” Bruce snapped. “That’s reckless. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”
Tim’s eyes darted away, shame burning his face.
Jason stood abruptly. “So what? You’re gonna yell at him? He figured it out, Bruce! He’s smarter than half the cops in Gotham, and he’s seven!” Jason’s fists clenched. “And his parents didn’t even notice he was gone. That’s the real crime.”
Cass’s voice cut through, steady and sure. “He’s ours.”
Bruce turned to her, exasperated. “Cassandra—”
“Dad, please.” Jason said quietly.
Of course the first time Jason calls me dad would be to force me to my knees, Bruce thinks bitterly.
But Dick spoke next, calm but firm. “He already knows, Dad. He put the pieces together. He’s been watching. He’s part of this now, whether you like it or not.”
Tim’s small voice slipped in between them all, almost too soft to hear. “…Do I get to stay here?”
The question stunned the room into silence.
For the first time since the confrontation began, Bruce really looked at Tim—not just the danger he represented, not the slip of a secret, not the problem to be solved. He saw the boy: undersized, neglected, brilliant, desperate enough to chase shadows for comfort.
Bruce’s anger faltered, leaving something raw in its place.
Alfred, who had been silent until now, stepped forward with a tray of fresh cocoa. He set it down gently, as though breaking the tension with the soft clink of porcelain. “If I may, Master Bruce,” Alfred said quietly, “some strays choose us, rather than the other way around.”
The words landed like a quiet verdict.
Bruce exhaled slowly. His hand rubbed over his face. For once, he didn’t have an immediate answer.
Jason leaned closer to Tim. “See, kid? You’ve got backup. And he might look like a hardass but Dad is very soft on the inside.”
Cass reached over, tugged the blanket tighter around Tim, and said again, softly but fiercely: “Baby brother.”
Tim blinked rapidly, uncertain, overwhelmed. “…Family?”
Dick smiled gently. “Yeah. Family.”
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment. Then, with a heavy sigh, he finally spoke.
“…We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
The children exchanged glances. It wasn’t victory, but it wasn’t defeat either.
For now, it was enough.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 18: A Resolve In Making
Summary:
Timmy is lonely
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Bruce did not sleep.
He sat in the study long after the children had been put to bed, the decanter of scotch untouched on his desk, the only light the faint glow of the fireplace. The boy’s words repeated in his head—calm, matter-of-fact, as if deduction were a game and truth a trophy:
“If Dick Grayson is Robin, then Bruce Wayne has to be Batman.”
It was brilliant. Terrifying. Unforgivable that someone so young had been trailing Robin through Gotham’s back alleys with a camera in hand. But it was also… heartbreaking.
Bruce pressed his palms together, elbows on the desk. His children—his wards—had kidnapped Tim Drake because they were afraid. Afraid of being exposed. Afraid of losing the only family they had built together.
And Tim… Tim had not screamed, had not threatened to tell anyone. He had only explained, quietly, that he had figured it out because he had been watching.
Bruce closed his eyes. A boy so small, wandering Gotham alone at night.
That should have been impossible. That should never have been allowed.
---
Saturday morning was strangely quiet in the Manor. Alfred had laid out breakfast—pancakes, eggs, fruit, bacon—but it was the chatter around the table that filled the room more than the food.
“Tim, you have to sit here,” Dick insisted, patting the chair between himself and Cassandra. “This way you’re in the middle. Safer.”
Tim hesitated, hovering like he might vanish if anyone looked too closely. “Um. I don’t… I don’t want to take anyone’s seat.”
“It’s your seat,” Cass said simply. She tugged his sleeve, guiding him down.
Jason leaned across the table, shoving a plate toward him. “You like bacon, right? Everyone likes bacon. If you don’t, you’re weird.”
That earned a small laugh from Tim—thin, uncertain, but real.
Alfred, silently observing, cleared his throat. “Young Master Drake, may I say… your dining etiquette is impeccable. Truly. Knife and fork, posture, pacing yourself—it is all… quite perfect.”
Tim froze, looking down at his plate. “I… I was taught young. My parents… they wanted me to not embarrass them in front of their guests.”
Jason exchanged a glance with Dick. “That explains a lot about why he’s so quiet.”
Dick nudged Tim’s arm lightly. “Don’t worry. You’re with us now. You don’t have to impress anyone except yourself.”
Bruce watched silently over his coffee. With every tidbits Tim shared, he wanted to throttle Jack and Janet Drake to hell and back.
---
The playhouse was bright with sunlight streaming through the large windows, dust motes dancing in the golden beams. Toys, games, and art supplies were scattered across the floor, but for the first time since arriving at Wayne Manor, Tim felt a flutter of excitement. He had never been in a room like this, and he had never had someone ask him what he wanted to do.
Dick leaned back on the edge of the small sofa, watching him closely. “Alright, Tim, your choice. Pick a game. Anything you like.”
Tim hesitated, fidgeting with the sleeves of his sweater. “I… I’ve never played anything like this before.”
“That’s fine,” Dick said warmly. “Really. Just choose. No pressure.”
Tim scanned the games lined up along the shelves: checkers, chess, Monopoly, Jenga, and a stack of board games with colorful boxes he didn’t recognize. His eyes lingered on one—a racing game with tiny cars and a track that looped and twisted. He picked it up, hands trembling slightly.
“Alright,” he whispered.
“Perfect!” Dick grinned. “I’ll play with you. Jason, Cass, you two want to join?”
Jason rolled his eyes dramatically. “Fine. But don’t cry when I crush you, tiny human.”
Cass huffed. “He’s allowed to try without you insulting him first, Jason.”
“Cass has started to talk more since meeting Timmy boy,” Jason made an observation. “You can’t have favorites, Junior B.”
“Don’t call me that!”
The game began. Tim’s car wobbled along the track, often veering off course. He tried to correct it, but the tiny controls felt foreign.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” Tim muttered, his voice barely audible. “I can’t play it… good.”
Cass smiled softly, leaning over. “It’s okay to lose, Tim. You have fun. That’s what matters.”
Tim gave a small nod, feeling some of the tension in his chest ease.
Jason, never one to stay quiet, slapped down another game—a strategy board game with cards, quick rounds, and easy scoring. “Try this one. It’s more your speed.”
They played, and to everyone’s surprise, Tim excelled. He calculated moves quickly, caught patterns Jason hadn’t anticipated, and even beat Dick in one round. His eyes lit up with pride, and for the first time that week, he laughed freely.
“Whoa,” Jason said, leaning back. “Where did you learn that? You’re… really good at this.”
Tim shrugged shyly. “I… I’ve played cards sometimes. Alone.”
Cass smirked, folding her arms. “See? You’ve got it in you. You just need the right game.”
After a while, Dick clapped his hands. “Okay, that’s enough for the game marathon. Time for a little training.” He led them to the small climbing wall and obstacle course in the corner of the playhouse. “Don’t worry. Nothing dangerous. Just agility and balance. Everyone does this, even me when I was little.”
Tim’s eyes widened as Dick demonstrated a small sequence: climb the wall, swing across the rope, balance on the beam, and jump down carefully. “Okay, your turn,” Dick said encouragingly.
Tim hesitated, but once he began, it was clear he had a natural talent for observation and movement. He mirrored Dick’s actions with uncanny precision, learning from each demonstration. Dick’s eyebrows shot up.
“Where did you learn to move like that?” he asked, genuinely impressed.
Tim shook his head, cheeks red. “I… I just… watch and remember.”
Jason snorted. “Of course. Tiny genius. Not enough food, probably too much brain.”
Cass laughed. “Shut up, Jason.”
After a few rounds, Jason clapped Tim on the shoulder. “Alright, let’s go see the stables. You gotta meet our horses. You’ll love it.”
Tim looked intrigued but slightly hesitant. “Horses?”
Cass shook her head quickly. “No, no, no. First, we make a list. For Tim’s room. Colors, toys, shelves… everything.” She held out her iPad. “You’re going to choose.”
Tim froze, staring at the device. “I… I’ve never chosen anything on my own. I… I don’t know what to pick.”
Dick crouched next to him. “That’s okay, Tim. We’ll help you. Nothing has to be perfect right away. Just start with one thing you like. Color? Toy? Whatever pops into your head first.”
Tim’s small fingers hovered over the screen, unsure. Jason leaned over, smirking. “Go on, little man. Pick something. Don’t overthink it. You’re with us now.”
Cass added softly, “It will be your room. Not anyone else’s rules, just yours.”
Tim’s eyes shone, a mix of disbelief and cautious excitement. He finally tapped the screen, choosing a soft blue for the walls. One by one, he added a few small items: a bedspread, a bookshelf, and a toy car. His confidence grew with each selection, and by the time the list was done, he was smiling—really smiling.
Jason clapped. “See? That wasn’t so hard. You’re learning fast.”
Dick grinned. “And this is just the beginning. Wait until we add the little personal touches. Posters, gadgets, things you actually like, not just… whatever’s around.”
Tim looked at them, eyes wide. “You… you really mean it? This is… really for me?”
Cass reached over, patting his shoulder. “Of course. You’re ours now, little brother. Ours.”
Behind the rock climbing wall, Bruce lingered unseen, the words lodging deep in his chest. Never chose anything on his own.
---
The Wayne Manor library was as quiet as a cathedral, the smell of old books mingling with the faint aroma of lemon polish. Afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, casting warm gold on the mahogany shelves. Bruce sat in his usual leather chair, a book open but not really being read, while the kids occupied a large table near the window.
Alfred arrived like clockwork, pushing a trolley laden with neatly arranged snacks—fruit slices, finger sandwiches, warm pastries, and a pitcher of fresh juice.
“Here we are,” Alfred said, placing a small plate in front of Tim with the same precision he did for the others. “Afternoon tea.”
Tim stared at the plate like it was something alien. “I… I can’t eat this.”
Cass, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her book, tilted her head. “Why not?”
Tim ducked his head. “I’ve never had three meals a day before. Not… not like this. And snacks too. I can’t eat this much food.”
For a moment, silence hung in the air. Bruce’s brow creased slightly, but he said nothing, letting the kids take the lead.
Dick leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to finish everything, Tim. Just take small bites. Your body will get used to it.”
“I’ll feel sick,” Tim mumbled.
“That’s why you go slow,” Dick said softly. “Little bits. You need energy, especially if you’re going to be running around with us. You can’t climb and play and build on nothing.”
Jason grinned around a mouthful of sandwich. “Yeah, dude, you gotta bulk up. How are you supposed to catch up with your age’s height if you don’t eat?”
Tim gave a weak laugh. “I don’t… think I can.”
Cass put down her book. “Eat some. Listen to Dick.”
Alfred, who had been quietly arranging more plates, added gently, “Young Master Drake, it is not uncommon for one’s appetite to be shy at first. Small steps, and soon it will feel natural.”
Dick slid Tim’s plate a little closer. “Just try one thing. A bite of the sandwich. One piece of fruit. That’s all. No pressure.”
Tim hesitated, glancing at all their expectant faces. Finally, he picked up a small strawberry slice and nibbled at it.
“There you go,” Dick encouraged. “See? No big deal.”
Tim swallowed. “It’s… good.”
Jason smirked. “Told you. Alfred’s snacks are basically magic.”
Tim tried a small bite of the sandwich next. Alfred gave a small approving nod. Bruce, still pretending to read, allowed a faint, proud smile to flicker across his face.
Cass reached for her tablet. “When you’re done, we need your help.”
Tim blinked. “With what?”
“The treehouse,” Dick said, grinning. “We’re building one out near the grove. But some of the apps we’re using say we need to cut back some more branches for the structure to be steady. You’re good at spotting details—think you could help us plan which ones?”
Tim looked up, surprised. “You… want me to help?”
“Of course we do,” Dick said. “We’re making this for all of us. You’re part of ‘us’ now.”
Jason leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. We need someone smart enough not to make the whole thing collapse on our heads. And that’s obviously not me or Dick.”
Tim gave a small, shy smile and took another bite of his sandwich. “Okay. I’ll try.”
“Atta boy,” Dick said, ruffling his hair gently. “That’s all we ask. Just try.”
Bruce watched silently over his book. He should intervene, clarify, explain that this was temporary. But when Tim’s eyes lit up as Dick called him “family,” when Cassandra whispered ours, when Jason muttered little brother, Bruce couldn’t bring himself to break the moment.
The boy’s face transformed with each word—shyness cracking, insecurity battling with desperate hope. It was like watching a starving child being offered food and still doubting it was real.
---
That night, Bruce walked the halls while the Manor slept. Every decision he’d ever made pressed down on him. He had taken in Dick because the boy was alone. He had taken in Cass because she needed saving from a life she never chose. He had taken in Jason because the system had already failed him.
But Tim… Tim had parents. Parents who had chosen absence over love.
Was it his place to interfere? Was he stealing someone else’s child?
And yet… leaving him to that neglect felt like a cruelty even worse.
Bruce stood outside the playhouse the next morning, pacing, as sunlight filtered through the autumn leaves. Inside, the children’s voices carried, soft laughter mixing with the clatter of toys.
Then the door creaked open.
Tim stepped out, small, thin, clutching the camera Bruce had confiscated the night before. His eyes were too old for his age, wary but resigned.
He stopped in front of Bruce and looked up.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to keep me.”
The words hit Bruce harder than any blow.
Tim shifted his weight, his voice trembling but steady. “You shouldn’t decide just because Dick, Cass and Jason want me. They’ll… they’ll forget about me soon enough. Everyone does.”
Bruce’s throat tightened. “Why would you say that?”
Tim looked down, hugging the camera to his chest like armor. “Because nobody ever wants me. It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend.”
For the first time in years, Bruce felt something inside him fracture. This child wasn’t begging, wasn’t demanding. He was offering himself up to rejection, already certain it was coming.
Bruce crouched so they were eye level, his voice low and raw. “Timothy Jackson Drake.”
The boy flinched at the full name.
Bruce’s hand hovered, then gently settled on Tim’s shoulder. “You are not forgettable. And I will never let you go back to being alone. Do you understand me?”
Tim’s lip trembled. His eyes filled, wide and disbelieving. “But… you don’t even—”
“I know enough,” Bruce said firmly. “And I’ll learn the rest. You’re staying, Tim. You’re mine now. Ours. Family.”
For a heartbeat, Tim just stared at him. Then, slowly, he nodded. The tiniest, most fragile smile flickered across his face.
Inside the servants corridor, the other children cheered. They had been listening all along.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 19: Foundations
Summary:
Battles of school and legality
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning air was crisp, the sun low but warming the streets of Gotham, when Bruce stopped the car in front of the school gates. The familiar Gothic architecture loomed, students already milling about on the steps and in the yard. Bruce switched off the engine and turned to the four children in the back seat.
“Remember,” he said carefully, glancing at each of them, “behave, stay together, and look out for one another. He got out of the car and helped the kids out one by one. Bruce adjusted the straps of Tim’s backpack once more, crouching slightly so his voice would carry just enough.
“Timothy,” he said, deliberate, calm. “You needn’t be nervous. Remember, just be yourself.”
Tim nodded, clutching the straps tightly. His heart thumped so hard it felt like it might jump out of his chest.
Bruce leaned closer to the three older kids. His voice lowered almost to a whisper. “Watch over him. Make sure he’s not overwhelmed. He’s still… adjusting.”
Dick, perched by the window, gave a small, confident salute. “Don’t worry, Dad. We’ve got him covered. Right, team?”
Jason rolled his eyes dramatically. “Yeah, yeah. Tiny human included. Don’t worry.”
Cassandra, quietly confident, merely nodded, already moving toward the gates as if she’d been leading this whole parade all along.
The moment the group stepped into the school yard, heads turned. Whispers rose like wind through the autumn leaves. Students paused mid-stride, mid-conversation, eyes drawn to the unusual formation: the Wayne children walking together, and—there—one smaller boy in their midst.
Tim shrank back slightly, hoping to melt into the shadows of Dick’s taller frame. But the attention was impossible to ignore. He had spent years invisible at Gotham Academy, quietly passing the hours between classes with no one noticing his presence. And now… now all eyes were on him.
Dick leaned over, a gentle hand brushing Tim’s shoulder. “Ignore them. They’re curious, that’s all. Nothing more.”
Tim nodded, though his stomach churned.
When they entered their respective classrooms for first period, Tim’s steps were hesitant. He returned to the same seat he had occupied since the school year began, the one by the window at the back corner. For a moment, he dared to hope that perhaps he could remain invisible still.
---
During third period the Geography classroom smelled faintly of chalk and disinfectant, mixed with the lingering aroma of warm pencils and paper. The sunlight slanted through the tall windows, painting golden strips across the desks, but Timothy Drake hardly noticed. He sat in another back corner, his small shoulders hunched over his notebook as if trying to shrink himself.
For years, he had perfected this posture, this habit of being unseen. Other students were a blur, their voices like distant static, their laughter echoing in corridors he never entered. And today, just like every other day, he was ready to remain that blur.
“Hey,” a cheerful voice broke the murmur of the classroom.
Tim froze, glancing up to see a girl with short, curly hair and bright green eyes peering down at him. “Uh… hi,” he mumbled, his voice so small it seemed to disappear before it left his lips.
“I’m Marissa,” she said, smiling. “You’re also in my math class. I haven’t really… talked to you before. What’s your name?”
Tim blinked. No one had asked his name in months. Not seriously. Not with genuine interest. His chest tightened, and his hands fidgeted with the pencil in front of him. “Tim… Timothy,” he said softly.
“That’s a nice name,” Marissa said. She slid the notebook she had been holding slightly closer to show him a doodle she had drawn in the margin. “Do you like to draw?”
Tim looked at it, and for a moment, the rigid mask of caution slipped. “I… sometimes,” he admitted. His fingers traced the edge of his notebook, a small smile flickering before disappearing as quickly as it had come.
“You’re really quiet,” Marissa observed, tilting her head. “Do you like reading too?”
Tim nodded faintly. “I… I read a lot.” The words felt strange leaving his mouth, but warm at the same time. A small spark of pride lit inside him—the first in a long while. Someone was noticing him, really noticing him, without any expectation or judgment.
Another voice joined in, a boy with tousled brown hair and freckles named Ethan. “I saw you in the library last week. You were… um, reading a big book all by yourself. That was… cool.”
Tim’s throat tightened. “Thanks.”
“Yeah,” Marissa added. “It’s nice to meet someone who likes books as much as I do. Do you like adventure stories?”
Tim’s heart lifted. “Yes… yes, I do.”
For the first few minutes, the conversation felt like a fragile bridge being built—timid, shaky, but real. He answered their questions about favorite stories, favorite subjects, even about his lunch habits, which had always been a lonely topic. Tim began to laugh quietly when Ethan described a particularly messy science experiment gone wrong.
But then, almost imperceptibly, the tone shifted.
“So… uh,” Marissa said slowly, frowning as she adjusted her satchel strap. “You… you were walking to school today with… the Wayne kids?”
Tim’s stomach clenched. He had hoped to avoid this. He looked down at his hands, fumbling with the eraser on his desk. “I… um… they… I just… we…” His words tangled.
Ethan leaned forward, curiosity in his freckled face. “Yeah. Like, Bruce Wayne drove you here? And you were walking with Dick Grayson, Cassandra… uh… Jason? How do you even know them?”
Tim swallowed hard, and the faint glow of happiness he had felt moments ago flickered and dimmed. His chest felt tight, like someone had pressed a hand down on it. He had known this would come—the moment someone would see him walking with the Waynes and start asking questions—but he hadn’t prepared for how small, exposed, and fragile he would feel.
“They… they’re… just acquaintances,” he managed to stammer, his voice trembling. The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
Marissa tilted her head, looking unconvinced. “Acquaintances? You don’t look like an acquaintance. You’re… they’re joking with you. You seem… really close.”
Tim’s lips pressed together, holding back the truth that threatened to tumble out. Close? They were more than close. Dick had called him family; Cass had whispered “ours” and “little brother”; Jason had promised he was here to stay. And yet… in his mind, he was terrified. They couldn’t stay. They wouldn’t. They would get bored of him, like everyone else always had.
He wanted desperately to tell Marissa, to tell Ethan, to tell the entire world: They’re my siblings. They’re mine. But fear held him tight. Fear that if he spoke it aloud, it would vanish, just like it always did. “I… I mean… we’re… um… just friends,” he said finally, his voice so small it was almost swallowed by the classroom air.
Marissa frowned, sensing the hesitation. “You really mean it, right? You’re not… I don’t know… making it up?”
Tim shook his head quickly. “No… no, I mean… um… yeah. Friends. That’s all. Just friends.”
Inside, his heart ached. Friends. The word sounded so paltry, so inadequate, compared to what he truly felt. They’re my family. My family. They love me. They chose me. And yet, he could not say it—not here, not now, not yet.
Ethan leaned back, looking thoughtful. “You’re really quiet, Tim. I didn’t know you were so smart. How did you… get to know them so well?”
Tim’s throat tightened. Don’t tell them. Don’t say anything. They’ll take it away if I say too much. “I… um… I just… we… we spend time,” he murmured.
Marissa’s eyes softened, a small frown still lingering. “Well… I guess that’s nice. I wish I had someone to walk with like that.”
Tim forced a tiny, uncertain smile, wanting to say me too, wanting to reach out, but he could not. He lowered his gaze. Of course they don’t care about me. They just care about the Waynes. I’m not enough. I’m… not worthy.
The bell rang, signaling the end of class, and Tim exhaled shakily, a small, almost imperceptible relief coursing through him. He had survived the attention. He had smiled, he had spoken, he had answered questions. But the truth remained buried deep: he wanted to be more than “just acquaintances.”
As the students filed out, Ethan whispered, “See you at recess?”
Tim nodded quickly, barely looking up. “Y-yeah…”
And in his chest, a quiet hope flickered, fragile but real. He wanted to stay with Dick, Cass, and Jason. He wanted to be theirs. And perhaps, just perhaps, one day he could call them his family without fear.
---
The hallways of Gotham Academy always hummed with low chatter, footsteps, and the rustle of books being shifted between arms. Dick, clutching his math binder, walked casually toward his next class, his usual sunny grin plastered across his face. He looked like every other fourth grader—but his ears picked up things that other kids would miss.
Two older boys leaned against the lockers ahead, speaking in low voices. Dick slowed, pretending to fiddle with his shoelaces so he could catch the words.
“Did you see him this morning?” one whispered. “The Drake kid. Walking with the Waynes like he’s one of them.”
The other snorted. “Yeah. My parents already told me to try and be friends with Richard or Jason after the gala. Said something about ‘building connections for the future.’ Like we’re businessmen at ten years old.”
“They all looked like they belonged. But him? The Drake kid doesn’t fit. He’s just… weird. Doesn’t talk to anyone.”
Dick straightened slowly, his eyes bright but his jaw set. He approached, radiating his usual charm, the very picture of Bruce Wayne’s eldest ward. “Hey,” he said, flashing a winning smile. “Talking about me?”
The older boys startled, fumbling with their books. “N-no, not exactly, we just…”
Dick tilted his head, still smiling but with a sharp glint in his blue eyes. “See, here’s the thing. If you’re gonna talk about my little brother, you should probably get his name right first. It’s Timothy Drake. He’s smarter than most kids here, and he’s one of the bravest people I know.”
The boys glanced at each other nervously. “We didn’t mean—”
“Sure you did,” Dick interrupted, his tone still honey-sweet but unyielding. “But that’s okay. Because here’s the truth: if you want to build connections, maybe start by being decent. Otherwise, you’re not getting anywhere near me, Jason, Cass… or Tim.”
His smile widened, dazzling and practiced, but his eyes dared them to argue. Neither did. They mumbled excuses and shuffled away.
Dick watched them go, his grin fading into something softer. He muttered under his breath, almost like a vow, “Don’t worry, Baby Bird. Nobody’s pushing you out on my watch.”
---
The playground was alive with shrieks and laughter, kids chasing each other across the blacktop, basketballs thudding against the court. Jason sat on the edge of the sandbox, his arms crossed, watching a few second graders kick a ball back and forth.
He wasn’t paying attention until the whispers reached him.
“Isn’t that the Dick’s brother?” one boy snickered. “He looks like a troublemaker.”
Another chimed in, louder this time. “And that other kid, Tim? Total nerd. Skipped grades. Probably spends all his time with books instead of actually playing. Bet he begged the Waynes to let him hang around.”
Jason’s fists clenched. He hopped off the sandbox, storming toward them. “What did you say about Tim?”
The boys froze. Jason was smaller than some of them, but his glare burned hotter than Gotham’s summer pavement.
“We were just saying,” the tallest boy muttered. “He’s weird. He doesn’t belong with you guys.”
Jason shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning forward with a mocking grin. “Funny. You think reading books makes someone weird? At least he’s got brains. What do you have? A kickball?”
The boys scowled, but Jason didn’t let up. “Tim’s smarter than all of you put together. And he’s braver, too. He has won science olympiads. What’ve you done? Oh right—nothing.”
The tallest boy sputtered. “You’re making that up.”
Jason smirked. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. Doesn’t matter. What matters is this—Tim’s with us now. That makes him family. And if you’ve got a problem with him, then you’ve got a problem with me.”
The group went quiet. One muttered something about Jason being crazy, and they shuffled off toward the basketball court.
Jason watched them go, shoulders still tense. Then he muttered under his breath, “Don’t worry, Tim. Nobody’s calling you a nerd without going through me first.”
---
First grade was always a jumble of crayons, flashcards, and scattered chatter. Cass sat quietly at her desk, her dark eyes sharp even as she carefully traced letters on the worksheet in front of her.
A girl beside her, Lily, leaned closer. “Hey, Cassandra. Who was that boy walking with you this morning?”
Cass didn’t look up. “Tim.”
“Tim?” Lily pressed. “Who is he? Is he your cousin or something?”
Cass shook her head once. “Brother.”
Lily blinked. “Brother? I thought you only had Dick and Jason as brothers.”
Cass finally looked up, her expression calm but unreadable. “Now Tim, too.”
The other girl furrowed her brows. “But how? You don’t look alike.”
Cass shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
A third classmate, Jacob, leaned over. “Is he rich too? Like, is he moving into your house?”
Cass simply said, with quiet certainty “Shut it.”
Her tone left no room for argument. The others exchanged confused, frustrated looks, but Cass had already returned to her letters. To her, the case was closed.
---
The cafeteria buzzed with the usual chaos of clattering trays, squeaky chairs, and dozens of conversations overlapping. Tim walked slowly behind the others, clutching his lunch tray like it might shatter if he dropped it.
Old habits tugged at him. Find the corner table. Sit alone. Don’t make a scene.
He drifted toward the edges, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Uh-uh,” Dick said, steering him back. “Not anymore. You sit with us.”
Tim’s throat went dry. “I… I don’t want to take your spot.”
Jason snorted from behind them. “You’re family. That means you automatically have a spot.”
Cass tugged his sleeve and pointed to the bench. “Here.”
Tim sat down hesitantly, and for a moment, the noise of the cafeteria faded as he glanced around at the three of them—his siblings—smiling at him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
They ate together, with Jason telling dramatic stories that made Cass roll her eyes and Dick laugh so hard milk nearly came out his nose. At first Tim only picked at his food, but then Dick nudged him gently.
“Hey. You’re not alone anymore. Eat with us.”
Tim swallowed, then took a small bite. It felt strange—warm, safe, like something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Jason leaned in. “See? Not so bad. Next time, you’re sitting next to me so I can steal your fries.”
Cass smirked. “Don’t steal.”
“Borrow permanently,” Jason shot back.
For the first time, Tim let out a genuine laugh. It was small, soft, almost fragile—but it was real.
And sitting there, surrounded by the chaos of the cafeteria, he realized something: maybe he didn’t have to be invisible anymore. Maybe—just maybe—he could belong.
While Tim finally began to taste what belonging felt like, across the city Bruce was preparing for the war that would decide whether it could last.
The study smelled faintly of polished wood and old books, but tonight the air was heavy with something sharper—determination. Bruce sat behind the long oak desk, files neatly stacked before him, while three of Gotham’s most reputable family law attorneys occupied the armchairs across from him.
Alfred, as always, stood at his shoulder, silent but present, the calm anchor in the storm.
“Mr. Wayne,” began Marianne Larkin, the lead attorney, a woman with silver-streaked hair and a gaze as sharp as glass. “We’ve reviewed everything you’ve given us. The Drakes’ absence from Gotham, the extended time Tim has spent here without their supervision, the lack of proper medical or emotional support—there’s a clear pattern of neglect.”
The second lawyer, David Kane, adjusted his glasses. “We’ve subpoenaed financial records. It appears Jack and Janet Drake have spent significant time abroad for business and leisure while Tim was left effectively alone. That supports a claim of neglect.”
The third lawyer, Harriet Zhou, leaned forward. “Mr. Wayne, you should understand—child neglect is a serious accusation. The court will not terminate parental rights unless it is clear and ongoing. However, we can file for temporary guardianship while the investigation proceeds. That places Tim legally in your care.”
Bruce’s voice lowered, deliberate and calm. “Temporary guardianship isn’t enough. He deserves permanency. Stability. He deserves to know he has a home.”
Harriet Zhou set down her pen and folded her hands neatly in her lap. “There is one more factor we need to address, Mr. Wayne. Jack and Janet Drake. They may not match your fortune, but they are still a powerful name in Gotham society, with no shortage of allies.”
David Kane spoke carefully, weighing each syllable, “They will fight this. Not just for pride, but because if you take Timothy, you take the Drake legacy with you. And they will not let that stand unchallenged.”
Bruce’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing. His silence felt heavier than any words.
“They’ll argue their lifestyle is provision, not neglect,” Marianne added. “That traveling abroad is work, that absence is sacrifice for the sake of their son. They’ll point to his enrollment in the best schools, his fine clothing, the mansion he lives in. They’ll try to make it seem as though leaving him alone is temporary, a regrettable but unavoidable part of their careers.”
Alfred’s expression tightened, his hands folded neatly behind his back. “Forgive me, madam, but material comforts do not replace presence. A child cannot be raised on empty mansions and bank accounts.”
Bruce finally spoke, voice like steel pulled from ice. “They can fight. They can hire every lawyer in Gotham. They can throw their name and money around until the city drowns in paper. But none of it changes the truth.”
He leaned forward, meeting each lawyer’s gaze in turn. “Tim has been abandoned. Not once, not twice—consistently. He eats alone. He comes home to silence. He has been invisible to his own parents for years. And they can dress it up in every excuse money can buy, but I will not let him slip through the cracks because the Drakes care more about their reputation than their child.”
For a moment, the room stilled. The three attorneys exchanged looks—part concern, part admiration.
David cleared his throat. “Then we will prepare accordingly. We’ll build the case not only on neglect, but on emotional abandonment. That will resonate with the court. We’ll need testimony—teachers, staff at Drake Manor, anyone who’s seen firsthand that Timothy has been left to fend for himself. And the journals. You mentioned he keeps records?”
“He does,” Bruce said, voice even, though his jaw tightened. “Photos. Notes. Quiet documentation of his life. Enough to break anyone with a conscience.”
Alfred’s lips thinned. “If the court has a conscience.”
Harriet added softly, “But you should know—the Drakes will try to turn this back on you. They’ll say you’re attempting to expand your ‘Wayne empire,’ that you’re stealing another family’s child to stage a takeover of Drake Industries.”
Bruce didn’t flinch. His voice dropped to something darker, something final.
“Let them say it. I don’t care how they spin it. This isn’t about me. This is about Tim.”
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet scratching of pens as notes were taken. Finally, Marianne looked up. “Very well, Mr. Wayne. By tomorrow morning, the Drakes will be served notice. And by the next two weeks, we will have Timothy Drake under your guardianship.”
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 20: The Legal Battle
Summary:
Inside a courtroom
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sky above Gotham was a pale gray, clouds heavy with the promise of rain, the streets slick and reflective. Bruce Wayne’s private jet had landed just as the city began its morning stir, and by the time Tuesday morning arrived, Jack and Janet Drake had been officially served with notice. The envelope, thick and stamped, was delivered with meticulous care. Marianne Larkin, David Kane, and Harriet Zhou had overseen the service personally, ensuring every signature, every seal, left no room for dispute.
By noon, the Drakes were back in Gotham. Their arrival was understated, yet the air around them carried authority and unspoken pride. Jack’s tailored suit was impeccable; Janet’s fur-lined coat brushed lightly against the marble floor of the airport terminal. Their private attorneys followed closely, whispering summaries and reviewing briefs on digital tablets.
“They’ll fight this,” Marianne said quietly to Bruce as they watched the family step out of the car.
“They always do,” Bruce replied evenly, though his jaw tightened imperceptibly. Alfred’s presence behind him was steady, the silent reassurance he had been for decades.
---
Wednesday morning brought a crispness that made the courthouse steps gleam in the weak sunlight. Bruce, flanked by Alfred and his legal team, walked up the stone steps of Gotham’s Family Court. The Drakes were already there, their expressions composed but taut, their lawyers at their sides. Cameras and reporters were absent—this was strictly private—but the atmosphere hummed with tension.
Inside the courtroom, polished wood reflected the muted light filtering through high windows. The judge, a woman with a lined but commanding face, sat behind the bench. The clerks shuffled papers; the bailiff nodded to the assembled parties. Bruce noted the Drakes’ calm posture, the faint but unmistakable pride in their stance.
He remained silent. The room was a battlefield in miniature, every word about to be weighed against years of precedent and legal technicality.
---
Marianne Larkin rose first, her silver-streaked hair catching the light as she moved with precise authority.
“Your Honor,” she began, voice steady, “we present evidence indicating prolonged neglect by Jack and Janet Drake toward their son, Timothy. Extended absences from Gotham, insufficient supervision, and lack of consistent emotional or educational support have created a demonstrable pattern of neglect.”
She slid a thick folder toward the judge. “We have school records, teacher statements, and photographic evidence documenting Tim’s extended solitude and self-care while his parents were abroad.”
David Kane adjusted his glasses. “Financial documents show consistent travel and work-related absences. Tim has been left largely unsupervised during crucial developmental years. The documentation is clear: these are not isolated instances, but a systemic pattern.”
Harriet Zhou leaned forward, her hands folded. “The court should note that this neglect extends beyond material needs. Emotional abandonment is just as critical. Mr. Wayne has meticulously preserved Timothy’s journals, detailing loneliness and lack of parental guidance. This child has been invisible to his own parents.”
The judge’s eyes flicked to Bruce briefly. He met them without a word, his calm demeanor belying the determination in his chest. He knew what the law required—proof beyond mere assertion. He knew patience was key.
---
Jack Drake’s attorney, a man in his fifties with a carefully manicured beard, spoke with slow precision.
“Your Honor, the Drakes provide Timothy with the finest schooling, clothing, and opportunities. Their absences are work-related and necessary. The child is enrolled in elite institutions and has every material comfort. Suggesting neglect overlooks the provision and care that wealth affords.”
Janet’s lawyer added, “Mr. Wayne’s petition appears designed to remove an heir from a prominent family. He aims to expand his influence, encroach upon the Drake legacy. The child is not endangered; his environment is exemplary.”
Jack and Janet remained silent, their composure firm, their gazes steady. The courtroom hummed with the weight of technical arguments. Every word, every phrase was measured; every claim was countered by procedural precedent.
Bruce remained still, letting his team handle the arguments. Words would only be as effective as evidence and precision allowed.
---
After hours of presentation and cross-examination, the judge cleared her throat.
“I have reviewed the documentation and heard the arguments. While the evidence suggests concerning parental absence and possible emotional neglect, the court cannot grant temporary guardianship until the legitimacy of the proof is established. The child must legally remain under the custody of his biological parents until then. A follow-up hearing is scheduled for next Wednesday.”
The words hit Bruce like a cold wind. Not because they were unexpected, but because the law—fair, impartial, procedural—was not necessarily aligned with immediate justice. He maintained his composure, his expression a mask of control, but inside, a storm churned.
Harriet Zhou spoke softly. “We anticipated this outcome. It is not a defeat, only a delay. Our strategy remains intact. We have one week to strengthen our case.”
David Kane nodded. “We will gather further evidence, including staff testimonials and additional documentation from school and home. This child’s welfare is paramount, and the law will recognize it in time.”
Bruce exhaled slowly, the sound almost lost in the quiet of the courtroom. “Very well. We proceed.”
---
Outside the courthouse, Alfred adjusted his cufflinks, quiet as always. “Sir, the week ahead is critical. Master Timothy’s safety remains our responsibility.”
Bruce nodded, his gaze distant. “I know. The law moves on its own schedule, but Tim cannot wait. Every day back in their care is another day he feels invisible.”
Marianne Larkin placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Our evidence is sound. Next week, the court will see the truth, and it will weigh heavily. They may have money and influence, but the child’s well-being is undeniable.”
Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line. “They will fight tooth and nail. They will try to spin every absence as ‘necessary,’ every lonely hour as ‘independence.’ But truth… truth cannot be argued against forever.”
Alfred’s expression softened slightly. “And when the truth is revealed, the boy will be safe.”
Bruce allowed himself a slow nod, already planning the coming days, knowing every detail mattered. Every note, every photograph, every testimonial could be the hinge on which Timothy’s future turned.
---
The city outside the courthouse carried on, oblivious to the private battle unfolding within its walls. Bruce walked to the car, his mind already a map of strategies and contingencies. Jack and Janet Drake lingered, exchanging terse words with their attorneys, eyes flicking toward him with controlled animosity.
The week ahead was uncertain, but the trajectory was clear: a child’s future was on the line, and Bruce Wayne would see it protected, regardless of procedure, politics, or wealth. The legal battle had begun, and the outcome would not be dictated by power alone.
Inside, Timothy Drake’s small absence would be felt. The court’s fairness, procedural and unyielding, had delayed justice but not denied it. Bruce’s resolve hardened. One week. Seven days. One week until the next hearing. And he would not fail.
---
The Wayne Manor study was quiet except for the faint tick of the grandfather clock. Bruce’s three older children sat in scattered chairs, tense and alert, sensing the weight of the day even before a word was spoken. Tim stood near the window, hands clasped in front of him, unsure whether to look out or at Bruce.
Bruce rose from his chair, his suit perfectly tailored, but his expression softer, almost burdened. “Children,” he began, his voice calm but firm, “the court has made its initial ruling.”
Dick leaned forward, brows furrowed. “Temporary guardianship?”
Bruce shook his head slowly. “No. The judge has determined that, legally, Timothy must remain under the care of his biological parents until evidence of neglect is fully established.”
Jason’s shoulders slumped, his usual bravado faltering. “So… Tim has to go back?”
“Yes,” Bruce said, his eyes briefly flicking to Tim. “For the next week, until the follow-up hearing, he will be returning to the Drakes’ residence. It is only a procedural matter, nothing more—but the law requires it.”
Tim’s small frame stiffened, and his lips pressed together. He had feared this, but hearing it spoken aloud made it painfully real. His chest felt heavy, as if the room itself were pressing down on him.
Cass’s dark eyes softened. She moved to Tim’s side and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re coming back, Tim.”
Tim nodded faintly, trying to hold back the tremor in his voice. “I… I understand.”
Dick gave a small, reassuring smile, though his eyes betrayed concern. “We’ll be right here the moment it’s over. Don’t forget that, Baby Bird. One week. That’s nothing in the grand scheme.”
Jason stepped closer, clapping a hand on Tim’s other shoulder. “Yeah. And hey, when we get you back, we’ll have the biggest celebration ever. You’ll see.”
Tim managed a tiny smile, a fragile ember of hope among the storm of disappointment.
Bruce knelt slightly, lowering his voice to a gentle murmur meant only for Tim. “Tim, I know this is hard. But you are not alone. Not ever. Remember that. Your family—your true family—is waiting for you. And we will see this through.”
Tim’s hands clenched, holding onto that promise. “I… I will try,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Bruce stood, his face set again in its usual mask of resolve. “Alfred,” he said, turning to the ever-present butler, “take him back safely. Keep him comfortable.”
Alfred nodded, his expression unreadable but his eyes betraying a quiet understanding. “Right away, Master Bruce.”
---
The Bentley, sleek and silent, carried them through Gotham’s gray streets, rain beginning to streak the windshield in thin, glimmering threads. Tim sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the city he had hoped might finally feel like home, and now felt temporarily unreachable.
Alfred drove with the steady precision he always did. “You’re safe, Master Timothy. Nothing that has happened changes that. Remember, a week is a small measure. You will return to your family soon.”
Tim’s small hands clenched in his lap. “I… I know. But it feels… like I’m being taken away.”
“You are not being taken away,” Alfred said gently, eyes on the road. “You are simply being returned to your home while the court considers the facts. Your position, your worth, your place with the Waynes—that does not change. You are loved. That, no one can touch.”
Tim closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him, though the lump in his throat refused to ease. The car glided through the wet streets, the city lights reflected in the rain like fractured stars, as he prepared himself for the week ahead. A week under the Drakes’ roof, a week of testing patience and endurance, a week before the truth could be fully acknowledged.
Alfred’s voice broke the silence again. “We will make it through. And you will return to your true family, Master Timothy. I promise you that.”
Tim nodded faintly, the smallest spark of resolve igniting in his chest. A week. That was all. And Bruce Wayne, and Dick, Cass, and Jason, would be waiting.
Outside, Gotham’s rain fell steadily, washing the streets clean, carrying with it the quiet assurance that family was not something a legal technicality could sever.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 21: Returning Home
Summary:
It's in the title
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As Alfred guided the sleek black Bentley up the long driveway of Drake Manor. Tim sat quietly in the back seat, hands folded over the straps of his small backpack, staring out at the familiar yet suddenly alien gates. He had spent so long imagining this place as his home in theory, but now… the thought of returning under the current circumstances made his stomach twist.
Alfred parked smoothly at the gate, the engine’s hum fading into the quiet estate grounds. Jack and Janet Drake were waiting, their expressions calm but sharp, their eyes immediately assessing. Alfred stepped out first, opening the rear door. Tim hesitated before climbing out, feet shuffling over the gravel.
“You can leave him here, Pennyworth,” Janet said, voice crisp and composed. “That will be all. Thank you.”
“Yes, madam,” Alfred replied, his tone even but carrying that familiar weight of authority. He leaned slightly toward Tim, placing a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Keep your chin up, Master Timothy. You are stronger than you know,” he murmured softly, a private message only for Tim. Tim nodded, swallowing hard, feeling the faintest flicker of comfort.
Alfred straightened, gave a small nod to the Drakes, and turned the Bentley around. Tim watched as it disappeared down the driveway, leaving him standing alone before the grand facade of Drake Manor. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft crunch of his shoes against the gravel.
Janet’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Jack’s jaw tightened. “Timothy,” Janet began, her voice measured but cutting, “we need to understand exactly how you think this is acceptable behavior. Being pulled into someone else’s affairs without our permission… it’s irresponsible.”
Jack stepped closer, his tone equally sharp but tinged with disappointment. “You had a responsibility to respect the rules here, to honor your place. Yet you throw yourself into… adventures that distract from your duties. Do you understand how that looks?”
Tim’s throat tightened. He wanted to protest, to explain that he wasn’t abandoning them, that his choices weren’t meant to be defiance. But the words stuck, tangled in the knot of fear and helplessness lodged deep inside him. He only nodded faintly, shrinking under their gaze.
“You must realize,” Janet continued, pacing slowly with the precision of someone who weighed every word, “that actions have consequences. We’ve provided you with tutors, opportunities, guidance… and yet you choose to attach yourself to others who may not respect your position or family.”
Tim’s small voice trembled as he tried to find footing. “I… I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to what?” Jack interrupted, his tone clipped. “You didn’t mean to disregard your obligations? Or you didn’t mean to bring outside influence into our home?”
Tim’s hands twisted in his lap. The weight of their disappointment pressed against him, more suffocating than any scolding or threat could ever be. Every ounce of confidence he had built in the past weeks—the laughter with Dick, the teasing from Jason, Cass’s quiet but solid support—felt like it was being siphoned away, leaving him exposed, small, and painfully aware of the rules he could not break.
“You will remain here,” Jack continued. “Until the court decides otherwise, you will attend no school in Gotham. No distractions, no… friends.”
Tim’s heart sank. Gotham Academy, the one place he had glimpsed belonging, was off-limits. His brief hope, the warmth of laughter and camaraderie with Dick, Cass, and Jason, felt like it had been yanked away.
Janet stopped pacing and folded her arms. “You need to understand, Timothy, that gratitude and respect aren’t optional. They are expected. Every day you live here, every privilege you are afforded, carries the weight of responsibility.”
Jack nodded, adding one final layer to their quiet, relentless pressure. “And if you fail to meet those expectations… if you cannot honor the trust placed in you, you may find yourself excluded from opportunities you take for granted.”
Tim swallowed, his heart thumping painfully, a mix of shame, longing, and the tiniest ember of hope he clung to. He wanted to argue, to say that Dick, Jason, and Cass cared for him, that Bruce believed in him—but he knew there was no place for that in this house right now.
He turned toward the large windows, where the sunlight glinted off the marble floors and polished furniture, a space that felt vast and indifferent. And yet, within that suffocating presence of expectation and disappointment, Tim tucked away a small token of hope—a folded piece of paper Dick had pressed into his hand earlier in the week, a tiny charm Cassandra had slipped into his pocket, Jason’s exaggerated wink and promise to look out for him.
It wasn’t much. But it was enough to remind him that he wasn’t entirely alone, even here.
He stood silently, shoulders squared as best he could, while the Drakes continued to outline their sharp, measured frustrations. Alfred’s words still lingered in his mind: You are stronger than you know. And for now, that quiet conviction became his anchor, a faint but unyielding shield against the cold weight of his parents’ expectations.
---
The mansion was opulent, yes, but empty of warmth. Tim navigated the long halls in silence, footsteps echoing against marble floors. Meals were formal, conversations clipped, and laughter—real, genuine laughter—was nowhere to be found.
Yet, in small ways, his siblings’ presence lingered. He would pull out the charm, letting it dangle between his fingers during meals. Jason’s doodle made him smile quietly at night, a tiny rebellion of humor in an otherwise cold space. Dick’s note, hidden beneath his pillow, whispered reassurance he could not voice aloud.
I am not invisible. Not to them. Not completely.
He carried these fragments of hope like a shield, a quiet promise that the world he longed for still existed beyond these walls.
---
Meanwhile, in the sanctuary of Wayne Manor, Bruce worked tirelessly. The study smelled of polished wood, leather-bound files, and ink, but tonight the air carried something heavier—determination.
Stacks of Tim’s journals were spread across the desk, photos of his solitary meals, notes from teachers, and documentation of repeated neglect. Marianne Larkin, David Kane, and Harriet Zhou sat nearby, reviewing exhibits, discussing strategies, and cross-referencing timelines.
“The Drakes’ lawyers will argue provision, not neglect,” Marianne said. “They’ll claim wealth equals care. They’ll highlight his school, clothes, and extracurriculars as proof of attention.”
Bruce’s jaw flexed. “It’s not enough. Presence matters. Guidance matters. Love matters. None of which they have provided.”
Alfred placed a hand lightly on Bruce’s shoulder. “And the tokens, sir. The moments he clings to, the proof of his attachment to his siblings, may serve as emotional evidence. They are tangible care he has received elsewhere.”
Bruce’s gaze softened, if only briefly. “Yes. And that care will be the foundation of our argument. Tim deserves a family that sees him, not one that flaunts him as a possession.”
---
Wednesday arrived with the cold sterility of a Gotham morning. The family courtroom smelled faintly of paper, polish, and legal tension. Bruce sat firmly, suit immaculate, calm as ever. Across the aisle, Jack and Janet Drake’s lawyers waited, poised to argue fiercely.
The judge, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes softened by years of experience, called the case to order. “This court is convened regarding the guardianship petition of Mr. Bruce Wayne for Timothy Jackson Drake.”
Bruce stood, presenting carefully, deliberately. “Your Honor, I do not seek to remove Timothy from the Drake legacy. He will retain his name, his inheritance, and all rights therein. My petition is for his emotional well-being, to provide him the family, stability, and guidance he has consistently been denied.”
He laid out the evidence: photos of solitary meals, journal entries detailing isolation, letters from teachers noting neglect, and the daily absence of Jack and Janet Drake.
Marianne Larkin spoke next, highlighting emotional abandonment. “A child cannot thrive solely on material wealth, Your Honor, youngTimothy has been left without guidance, without presence, and without a home that provides emotional care.”
David Kane added, “This is not a dispute over wealth or legacy. This is about a child’s right to a family that loves and protects him. We have evidence beyond financial provision—it is consistent neglect in all but name.”
The Drakes’ attorneys argued eloquently, citing travel, education, and investments in their son. They emphasized, carefully, the importance of the Drake legacy, the social standing, and the inheritance.
Bruce countered calmly, eyes meeting the lawyers’ cold glances. “I am not interfering with Drake Industries, nor do I seek to take his inheritance. The Drakes’ wealth is intact. All I ask is the right to be his guardian, to provide the care he has never received. This is not about money, influence, or legacy—it is about a child’s right to be seen, to be loved.”
---
The court fell silent as the judge reviewed documents, notes, and arguments. Finally, she spoke. “After reviewing the evidence, testimonies, and petitions, the court finds in favor of Mr. Bruce Wayne. Timothy Drake shall be placed under his guardianship, effective immediately. All rights to the Drake name, inheritance, and related matters shall remain with the child, and Mr. Wayne shall have no interference in Drake Industries.”
A collective, quiet relief swept over Bruce, Alfred, and their legal team. For Tim, who could not be present in court, this would mean freedom, warmth, and a family that truly belonged to him.
---
Later that afternoon, Alfred drove through the familiar streets of Gotham, the city bustling but feeling like a protective cocoon around the car. Tim sat quietly, fingers still clutching the tokens from his siblings.
“You’re going home,” Alfred said softly. “All the waiting, all the cold… it ends today.”
Tim nodded, a tremor of disbelief in his chest. He swallowed hard, tears threatening to escape but held them back. For the first time in years, he could believe. I am not invisible. I belong. I am theirs.
As Wayne Manor came into view, he felt the anticipation ripple through him. The front doors loomed, but now they were not intimidating—they were home. A place where he could finally laugh freely, eat without silence, and be enveloped in care and love he had always longed for.
Alfred parked the car and looked at him with a quiet, proud smile. “Go on, Master Timothy. They’re waiting for you.”
Tim took a deep breath, clutching the bat-shaped charm once more, and opened the door. The warmth, laughter, and chaos of Wayne Manor welcomed him back. For the first time, he felt it—not fleeting, not tentative, but real. He was home.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 22: The Dream
Summary:
Little bird has a dad?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The front doors of Wayne Manor swung open, and the scent of polished wood and faint vanilla candles greeted Tim as he stepped inside. The sound of laughter and chatter—so foreign and yet so familiar—filled the entryway. Balloons bobbed in clusters, a small banner reading “WELCOME HOME TIM!” hung above the staircase.
“Look who’s back!” Dick called, his grin wide, arms open as he rushed forward. “Baby Bird’s finally home!”
Tim hesitated, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Hi…” he said softly.
Jason bounded forward next, giving Tim a playful punch on the shoulder. “Timbo! Don’t tell me you got all formal on us just because you had a week of boring Drake lectures.”
Cass appeared behind them, her dark eyes sparkling with warmth. “Timmy,” she said gently, tugging him into a brief hug. “We missed you.”
Tim felt a rush of emotion. The laughter, the teasing—it was chaotic, loud, and safe all at once. And through it all, Bruce stood quietly, observing. When Tim finally glanced at him, he saw the faintest smile, approving but patient.
“Champ,” Bruce said softly, the nickname slipping naturally, “I hope you’re ready to catch up with your family.”
---
Later that afternoon, Bruce led Tim down a long hallway to the tapestry room. The walls were lined with portraits: the Waynes of generations past, their faces captured in oil and canvas, eyes seeming to hold centuries of expectation and pride.
At the far corner, the genealogical tapestry stretched, intricate threads weaving a family tree through decades. Bruce traced a finger along the stitching. Bruce Thomas Wayne. Beside it, the full names of Dick, Jason, and Cass glimmered in gold thread. And now, there it was: Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne.
Tim’s breath caught. “That… that’s me?” he whispered.
Bruce knelt beside him, his voice low and steady. “Yes. You belong here, Tim. Permanently. Not just today, not just tomorrow. Always.”
Tim’s hands trembled slightly as he reached out to touch the tapestry. “I… I never thought…”
“You’ve earned this place, Tim. Not by inheritance, not by obligation. But because you are part of this family, and we’ve all chosen you to be here.” Bruce’s hand briefly rested on Tim’s shoulder. “And I will always see you. That will never change.”
“Thank you, Mr Wayne.”
---
Over the next few days, the Manor became a place of laughter and inclusion, each interaction stitching Tim more firmly into the family. He found himself included in school runs with Dick and Jason, lunch breaks filled with teasing and shared snacks. Board games, video games, even late-night storytelling became routine.
At first, he laughed quietly, self-conscious, but the warmth of their inclusion broke through. Jason taught him minor tricks in dodgeball, Dick offered guidance on teamwork and strategy, and Cass shared quiet observations that made Tim feel clever without feeling instructed.
Even in the mundane, the family’s presence was transformative. Small tokens, playful banter, and careful attention stitched together the fabric of belonging.
---
One evening, long after the household had settled, Bruce found Tim alone in the library. A late lamp cast a warm glow over stacks of journals, books on tactics, and puzzle sheets laid out for review.
“You’re still awake, champ,” Bruce said gently, pulling a chair beside him.
Tim shrugged, eyes flicking to the notes. “I… I like looking at this stuff. Strategy, thinking ahead… it’s fun.”
Bruce nodded. “It’s more than fun. It’s practice. Observation, deduction… the mind is a weapon as much as the body. And you’re already very observant.”
Tim’s eyes brightened, pride mixing with relief. “You… you really think so?”
“I do. And you come to me if stumble at it. No pressure. Just… father and son.” Bruce smiled faintly, using the words with care, letting their weight sink in without forcing it.
Tim swallowed. “Father…?” he said softly, unsure.
Bruce’s gaze softened. “Not yet, Tim. You call me what you’re comfortable with. But know this: I’m here. Always. And I will never let you feel alone again.”
---
The living room of Wayne Manor was quiet, the late afternoon sun casting long golden streaks across the floor. Dick lounged on the sofa, legs crossed, Cass was perched on the armrest with her notebook forgotten at her side, and Jason leaned lazily in a chair, tossing a small batarang from hand to hand. Tim sat on the rug, hugging his knees, gaze fixed somewhere between awe and determination.
“I… I’ve been thinking a lot,” Tim began quietly, voice hesitant at first. “About… about what I want to do. Who I want to be.”
Dick raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Go on, Baby Bird.”
Tim swallowed, then spoke with more conviction. “I want to be a hero. Not just because it sounds cool, or because I like gadgets. I want to protect people. I want to make a difference. I… I don’t want anyone to feel invisible, like I have sometimes.”
Cass smiled faintly, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “That’s… brave, Timmy. And you already have a good heart. That counts for a lot.”
Jason smirked, tossing the batarang to the rug. “Yeah, Timbo. Words are nice and all, but you gotta be ready to fight when it counts.”
Tim nodded eagerly, a flicker of excitement replacing his earlier hesitation. “I know. That’s why I want to learn. I want to train, to get stronger, to understand strategy, to be able to help.”
Dick leaned back, a grin tugging at his lips. “We can help with that. You won’t be alone, Tim. We’ve got your back.”
Cass nodded, folding her arms with quiet approval. “We’ll teach you. And you’ll figure out the rest, like you always do.”
Jason leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. “Yeah, Timmy. You keep at it, and soon you’ll be running alongside us. Maybe even giving us a run for our money.”
Tim felt a swell of warmth in his chest, a rare mix of hope and belonging. “I… I just want to be ready. To be someone who matters, who can actually do something when it counts.”
Dick nudged him lightly. “You already matter, Baby Bird. But yeah… let’s get you ready to be more than that. You’ll see.”
The room settled into a comfortable silence, the kind that carries both reassurance and unspoken promises. Tim looked around at his siblings, and for the first time, the weight of the past week seemed a little lighter. He wasn’t alone—not really. Not with them, and soon… not with Bruce either.
---
The living room chatter faded as footsteps approached from upstairs. Tim turned, and there was Bruce, his presence calm but undeniably commanding. He gave a small nod to Dick, Cass, and Jason.
“Tim,” Bruce said quietly, voice low but warm, “I hear you’ve been thinking about what it means to be a hero.”
Tim straightened, heart thudding. “Yes, Mr. Wayne. I want to help, to be prepared… to actually make a difference.”
Bruce’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “Good. Because being a hero isn’t about speed or strength alone. It’s about awareness, strategy, and understanding the world around you. And most of all… it’s about responsibility.”
Tim’s gaze met his. “I… I understand, sir. I want to learn.”
Bruce nodded, motioning for him to follow. “Then it’s time you see where that learning begins.”
The group ascended to the high balcony of the Manor, overlooking the hidden entrance that led to the Batcave. Dick, Cass, and Jason’s excitement was evident, though tempered with the unspoken rule that Tim should have this first moment with Bruce. Tim’s small hand brushed against the railing, hesitating only briefly before he followed.
Bruce pressed a small panel on the wall. With a soft hum, the floor beneath them shifted, revealing the familiar descending ramp into the Batcave. Tim’s eyes widened as he saw the cavernous space below, the technology, the vehicles, and the countless displays of tools and weaponry.
“This is…” Tim began, voice catching. “This is incredible.”
Bruce gave a rare, faint smile. “It’s a workspace, a sanctuary, and a training ground. You will learn here, but remember—being a hero starts here,” he said, tapping Tim’s chest gently, “with who you are. The rest… we’ll build together.”
Tim felt a shiver of excitement and purpose. “I… I won’t let you down.”
“You won’t,” Bruce replied firmly, placing a reassuring hand on Tim’s shoulder. “And you’ll have support. Your siblings have already begun to teach you the fundamentals. Now, I’ll guide you further. Step by step. Strategy, discipline, and courage—those are as important as any gadget or skill.”
Dick leaned over, grinning. “Ready, Baby Bird?”
Cass gave a small nod. “We’re all here, Timmy. You’ll fit right in.”
Jason smirked. “Time to see if you can keep up, Timbo.”
Tim swallowed hard, chest swelling with anticipation, but now tempered by the warmth of belonging. He turned to Bruce, taking a small, steadying breath. “Thank you… Mr Wayne,” he said quietly.
Bruce paused, letting the word settle, a small glimmer of hope in his eyes at the hesitation. “Good. That’s the start.”
And with that, Tim stepped forward, into the dimly lit expanse of the Batcave, ready to learn, ready to grow, and finally ready to begin his journey as part of the family he had longed to truly call his own.
---
The first exercises were simple—running obstacle courses, learning basic combat stances, understanding movement and timing. Tim fell a few times, tripped over padded beams, and accidentally knocked over a small training dummy. Each time, his siblings laughed, lightly teasing but never harshly, guiding him through correction.
“You’re doing great, Tim,” Dick encouraged, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “Baby Bird’s got speed. Just needs control.”
Jason grinned, handing him a practice baton. “And power! You can’t just flap your wings, Tim—you gotta punch!”
Tim’s grin grew despite the effort. “I… I can do that!”
“You already are,” Bruce said softly from the side, observing. “Strength isn’t just physical. It’s knowing when to act and when to wait.”
Tim looked up, and for the first time, called him by the nickname he had practiced all week. “Thanks, B.”
Bruce’s eyes softened. “Anytime, champ. Remember, patience is part of strength.”
---
One evening, Bruce found him in the library again, going through notebooks of combat techniques.
“You’re at it late again,” Bruce said gently, sitting beside him.
Tim turned, trying to hide the nervous energy in his posture. “I… I wanted to review today’s exercises. Maybe figure out what I did wrong.”
Bruce studied him, the soft curve of the boy’s determination etched clearly on his face. “Mistakes aren’t failures, Tim. They’re lessons. And every lesson you learn now will prepare you for decisions you’ll make later—not just in training, but in life.”
Tim nodded, feeling the weight of Bruce’s words settle comfortably on his shoulders. “Okay. I’ll try to… think like you.”
“You don’t need to think like me,” Bruce said gently. “You need to think like yourself—and I’ll help you see the path.”
Tim looked up, voice quiet but full of awe. “So… you’ll teach me?”
Bruce smiled faintly. “Yes. And in time, you’ll teach me too, in ways you may not even realize yet.”
---
As days passed, the siblings and Tim’s bond deepened. Shared dinners were filled with laughter, playful arguments over game rules, and teasing that carried genuine affection. Bruce joined them in small ways, sitting quietly while observing interactions, stepping in only to guide, correct, or encourage.
One night, after a particularly challenging Batcave session, Tim sat beside Bruce on a metal crate, his chest still rising from exertion.
“B…?” he asked softly.
“Yes, champ?”
Tim took a deep breath. “I… I feel like I finally belong. Like… like this is really home.”
Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder, firm but gentle. “It is, Tim. You’re part of this family. You’ve earned your place. And every day, we’ll keep showing you that. Not just in words, but in action.”
Tim smiled, small but genuine. “Thanks… B.”
“You’re welcome,” Bruce replied, letting the silence stretch between them, a comfortable, protective quiet.
---
Training sessions became routine, interspersed with schoolwork and casual sibling play. Tim learned small tricks in dodgeball from Jason, honed strategy skills with Dick during chess games, and explored quiet corners of the Manor with Cass, noticing details that even she hadn’t pointed out.
Tim’s confidence grew with each success, his laughter louder, his steps surer. He realized that belonging wasn’t about grand gestures or titles—it was in shared jokes, shared challenges, and quiet moments of trust.
By the end of the week, he moved with more assurance in the Batcave, called Bruce naturally by his nickname, and laughed easily with Dick, Jason, and Cass. Each day cemented the bond that had started in hesitant glances and formal words.
Tim had come home—not just to a house, but to a family.
And for the first time, he knew that he would never be invisible again.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 23: The Holiday Gift
Summary:
The last addition
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Snow dusted the sprawling grounds of Wayne Manor like powdered sugar, clinging to the trees and glittering faintly under the glow of lanterns along the driveway. The estate’s frozen lake shimmered in the distance, a sheet of silver beneath the December moon. Inside, warmth radiated from the hearth, filling the halls with crackling firelight and the faint scent of cinnamon drifting from Alfred’s seasonal experiments in the kitchen.
It was three days before Christmas, and the Manor hummed with a particular sort of expectation.
Tim sat cross-legged on the rug in the den, sketching neat little diagrams of snowflakes in the margins of a notebook he was supposed to be using for homework. Cass lay sprawled across the sofa beside him, flipping through a book of winter poems, her socked feet nudging Tim’s arm whenever he bent too close to the fire. Jason was perched in the armchair, legs dangling over one side, tossing a baseball up and catching it again, the steady thwack filling the room.
But it was Dick who dominated the atmosphere, his energy practically spilling from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, wearing his robin uniform, and beamed at them like someone who’d been waiting for this moment all year.
“You guys don’t get it,” he said, brushing the last flake from his sleeve with dramatic flair. “Last year I had Bruce and Kate and I even met Superman —don’t get me wrong. But it wasn’t the same. No siblings.This year? I’ve got you three. We’re doing this big. Full holiday mode.”
Jason smirked, catching the baseball again. “Look, I am already questioning your sanity enough because of those pixie boots and that damn leotard.”
Dick ignored him, stepping further into the room, grin unfaltering. “But this year—listen. Tomorrow we will decorate the best Christmas tree ever. I’m talking lights, ornaments, tinsel, the whole show. Then the lake—ice skating. I checked it tonight. It’s perfect. Skating, falling, hot chocolate, all of us together.”
Tim glanced up, his pencil stilled. “A big tree? Like… with lights and everything?”
“With lights and everything,” Dick said, dropping to the rug beside Tim and ruffling his hair. “And after that, we’ll make the stupidest, coziest holiday breakfast ever. Tim — you get to pick the star for the top. That’s an important job. I’m serious.”
Tim’s mouth dropped open a little. “Me? Really?”
“Yeah, little man.” Dick gave him a mock-salute. “Star guy. Don’t blow it.”
Jason rolled his eyes but the edges of his mouth softened. “You’re really leaning into brother-of-the-year, huh?”
Dick shot him a thumb. “Call me that tomorrow when I’m the one who organizes the snowball fight.”
Cass tucked a stray curl behind her ear and smiled, a small, bright thing. “Skating sounds nice.”
Tim hugged his knees, trying to tuck the excitement away so it didn’t look like too much. “That actually… sounds really nice.”
“It will be,” Dick promised. His voice went softer for a moment. “We’re together this year. That’s what matters.”
The words hung between them—easy and ordinary and full of meaning. The crackle of the fire filled the small silence.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Bruce appeared, already dressed for patrol in dark layers, cowl waiting nearby. His presence steadied the room. He gave the group a long, appraising look; his gaze lingered on Dick a heartbeat longer than the others.
“Ready?” Bruce asked, the single word both command and question.
“You are really gonna let him go out in that ridiculous leotard? That too in this weather?” Jason exclaims in exasperation.
Bruce sighs,“I tried to talk him out of it.”
“Pants restricts my movements,” Dick sprang to his feet, all grin and kinetic energy. “I’ll be back before dawn. Tree and skating tomorrow—full commitment.” He turned to the others, palms flat, as if swearing them to the plan. “Promise?”
Jason snorted. “We’ll put up with your holiday zeal if you promise not to hang tinsel on the ceiling fan.”
“Deal,” Dick said. “Tomorrow. Star duty for Timbo. Don’t embarrass me.”
Tim flushed, half-pleased, half-mortified. “I won’t. I’ll pick a great star.”
Bruce rested a gloved hand briefly on Dick’s shoulder. “Be careful.”
“Always,” Dick said, grinning at Bruce. He looped his arm around the older man for the briefest instant, then was gone—off into the night with Batman at his shoulder.
The front door thudded shut, leaving the Manor quieter than it had been for months. Jason leaned back, letting out a long breath. “He’s ridiculous.”
Cass’s smile stayed. “He’s happy. That’s what matters.”
Tim watched the doorway for a long moment, the warmth of the room settling in him. “I like it,” he said at last, soft and content.
Jason tossed the baseball to the rug. “Then sleep. Tomorrow we decorate and he won’t stop talking about the star he picked for, like, twenty-four hours straight.”
Tim tucked the notebook under his arm and, for the first time since he’d arrived, felt like tomorrow might be exactly what he needed.
---
The city had changed with the season. Gotham’s usual grime and shadow were softened by snowbanks piled along the gutters, rooftops frosted in white, and the occasional glimmer of holiday lights strung between fire escapes. For one rare week out of the year, Gotham seemed almost festive—though danger, as ever, lurked in every alley.
Batman and Robin moved across the skyline, capes snapping in the icy wind, boots crunching faintly on the snow-dusted rooftops.
“You know,” Robin said as they paused on a ledge overlooking the East End, “patrolling in December has one advantage. Bad guys can’t run as fast on ice.”
Batman’s mouth twitched under the cowl. “And one disadvantage. You can’t either.”
Robin puffed out his chest. “Speak for yourself, B. I’ve got acrobat balance. Ice is basically my home turf.”
A muffled crash carried from a block away. They moved instantly, leaping the gap, descending into the alley where three men were prying open the back door of a jewelry shop. The moment shadows shifted above them, the criminals froze.
“It’s Christmas,” Robin called, dropping lightly onto the fire escape rail. “Shouldn’t you guys be wrapping presents instead of stealing them?”
The men bolted, scattering. Batman hit the ground behind them like a hammer. His cape flared wide, blocking the alley’s exit. Two men went down with bone-rattling precision—an elbow to the jaw, a sweep of the leg, a controlled crash into the snow. Robin landed in front of the third, hands on his hips.
“Don’t even try it,” he warned.
The man did. He lunged, fist swinging. Robin ducked, sprang, and planted both feet against his chest in a neat kick that sent him sprawling into a drift.
“See?” Robin said breathlessly as he tied the man’s wrists with a cable-tie. “Grace. Balance. Home turf.”
Batman hauled the other two upright and shoved them against the brick wall until they slid down into the snow, groaning. He didn’t comment, but the faintest grunt might have been approval.
As they waited for GCPD sirens to echo closer, Robin glanced at the faint glow of Christmas lights in the shop’s front display. “Think anyone ever realizes how weird it is that the two of us are out here instead of, y’know, drinking hot cocoa somewhere warm?”
Batman’s silence stretched long enough that Robin thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then Bruce said, voice low but steady, “Someone has to keep them safe. That’s the promise.”
Robin sobered, shifting his weight. He understood. He always understood. But he still leaned a little closer, dropping his voice. “I know, B. But tomorrow—just for one day—you have to let Christmas be about us too. Okay?”
A faint pause. Then: “Okay.”
The sirens grew louder. Batman fired a line and rose back to the rooftops. Robin followed, heart lifted despite the cold. The city stretched endless before them, lights glittering through the falling snow.
But midway across the next block, Batman slowed. His head tilted, the cowl shadowing his face.
“Something wrong?” Robin whispered, matching his crouch.
Batman’s eyes narrowed. “We’re being followed.”
Robin blinked. “I didn’t see—”
“Not sight.” Batman’s voice was clipped, controlled. “Scent.”
He inhaled once, sharply, and something unreadable flickered across his face. Then he moved, silently, across the rooftops, tracing something invisible. Robin followed, more cautious now. The night air seemed to thicken with tension.
Batman halted suddenly. Across the way, the snow-dusted roof of an abandoned high-rise glowed faintly under the moon. A figure stood there—motionless, poised, like she belonged to the shadows and the winter both.
Emerald eyes caught the light.
Batman’s breath hitched, so quiet Robin almost missed it. “...Talia.”
The woman’s lips curved. “Hello, beloved.”
Robin’s eyes widened. He barely had time to process before she shifted her gaze to him, her tone lilting with the ease of someone who already knew him. “And this… must be your sidekick. The infamous Robin.”
Her eyes softened. “Hello, Richard.”
Robin froze at the sound of his name. His voice faltered. “H-how—”
“Go home,” Batman said sharply.
Robin spun. “What? B, I’m not—”
“Now.” Batman’s tone left no space for argument.
For a beat, Robin searched his face, saw something raw flicker beneath the iron mask. Slowly, miraculously, he obeyed—firing his line, vanishing into the night.
Batman turned back. His jaw was tight, his chest rising unsteadily. “What are you doing here, Talia?”
The snow swirled gently between them, carried on the night wind. Gotham’s skyline stretched out in silence, but Batman’s world had shrunk down to the woman before him—the one ghost he had never expected to see again.
Talia al Ghul tilted her chin, her emerald eyes shimmering with secrets. “Do not fear, beloved. I am not here to cause you or your city trouble.” Her voice was calm, melodic, like a lullaby wrapped around a dagger.
Batman’s stance didn’t ease. “Then why?”
A faint smile ghosted her lips. “Because I have come to deliver something very precious.”
She stepped back into the shadows. For a moment, the night seemed empty. Then, another figure leapt onto the rooftop—small, compact, but deliberate in his movements. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he landed.
A boy.
He could not have been older than five. His hair was black, falling in dark, uneven strands across his forehead. His eyes, sharp and green, caught the light in a way that was unmistakably al Ghul. But his jawline, the straight cut of his nose, the shape of his brow—it was Wayne, through and through.
Batman went utterly still.
The boy’s gaze locked on him, unblinking. “Hello, Father.”
The words hit like a blow. For the first time in years, Batman’s breath faltered. His chest tightened. He managed, finally, to rasp, “You… you said you miscarried.”
Talia’s smile softened, tinged with something bitter. “I lied.”
Bruce’s voice roughened. “Why would you lie about something like that?”
Her eyes flickered with old sorrow. “Because I knew you, beloved. I knew your duty was to Gotham. That city is the heartbeat of your existence. And if you had known about him…” She gestured toward the boy. “You would have felt your duty to your son. You would have stayed with me for love, but always looked back at Gotham with longing. And I could not bear to hold you like a prisoner.”
The words seared him. Anger flashed across his face, sharp and unguarded. “Then why come now?”
For the first time, Talia faltered. She lowered her gaze briefly, then lifted it again with steel in her eyes. “Because my father sees Damian as nothing more than a vessel. A host body for his own rebirth. I cannot allow it. I will not sacrifice our child to Ra’s al Ghul’s endless hunger for life.”
Batman’s fists clenched. His voice was low, dangerous. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying that I am going to war against my father,” Talia said. Her words rang like steel across the rooftop. “It will not be swift. It may take years before the League is safe again. But until that time, Damian cannot remain with me. He must be hidden. Protected. He must be with you.”
The boy—Damian—stood perfectly still, his small shoulders squared, his chin lifted with almost unnatural composure. But there was a tension in his posture, a wariness. His eyes flicked between Bruce and Talia as though measuring the weight of their words.
Bruce stepped forward, his voice rough but steady. “I’ll take him. I’ll protect him.” His eyes softened, breaking through the armor of the cowl for just a moment. “And I’ll protect you too, if you’ll let me. You don’t have to fight this battle alone. You don’t have to make the League safe for him. You can come here. Stay with me. With us.”
For a moment, the mask of the Daughter of the Demon cracked. A hint of longing flickered across her face. But then she shook her head, resolute. “Beloved… you have your duty to Gotham. I have mine to the League. Neither of us can walk away.”
Silence stretched, heavy as the snow falling between them.
At last, Talia knelt before Damian. For the first time, her poise wavered; her hands trembled as she cupped his small face. She pressed a kiss to his dark hair, her voice breaking as she whispered in Arabic, “Habibi… be safe.”
Damian blinked once, but his lips pressed into a tight line. He refused to cry.
Talia rose, eyes meeting Bruce’s one final time. They held there, full of a thousand unsaid words. Then she turned, melted into the night, and was gone.
The rooftop felt colder for her absence.
Batman stood frozen, staring down at the boy she had left behind. Damian stared right back, chin high, gaze unflinching. Neither moved. The silence stretched until it felt unbearable.
Bruce’s throat worked, but no words came. For the first time in years, Gotham’s Dark Knight didn’t know how to speak.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 24: Last To Arrive
Summary:
Blood or no blood
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The ride back to the Cave was silent.
The hum of the Batmobile filled the dark tunnels as the headlights carved through stone, but neither Bruce nor the small boy seated beside him spoke. Damian sat upright, his posture far too stiff for someone so young. His green eyes darted across the interior with undisguised awe—touching the console with his gaze, not his fingers, as though memorizing every detail.
Bruce glanced at him once, then looked back to the road. He could feel the weight of the silence pressing between them. He had faced criminals, gods, and demons without hesitation, but right now… he had no idea how to talk to his son.
At last, he cleared his throat.
“How old are you?”
Damian didn’t hesitate. “I turned five three days ago.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. Five. He had missed five years. Birthdays, first words, everything. He forced his voice to stay even.
“What do you like to do?”
“Training with my katana,” Damian replied matter-of-factly, as if it were no different from saying soccer or puzzles.
Bruce blinked. “...Right.” He had no answer for that. Silence returned, heavier this time.
He tried again. “We’re going to the Manor. You’ll meet your siblings. I—”
“I know,” Damian interrupted, his voice cool. “Mother told me about them.”
That cut Bruce short. He tightened his grip on the wheel, and for the rest of the drive neither said another word.
The Batmobile screeched to a halt on the platform of the Cave. Alfred and the four children were already waiting—Dick bouncing on the balls of his feet, Jason leaning against a pillar, Cass standing quietly with her hands folded, and Tim peeking nervously from behind her.
Bruce stepped out, his cape brushing the floor. His voice, usually commanding, wavered just slightly as he said,
“This is Damian. My son… with Talia al Ghul. He’ll be staying with us now.”
Damian climbed down from the passenger seat with quiet dignity. He straightened, chin high, and spoke in a voice that was startlingly mature for his age.
“Hello. I am Damian al Ghul-Wayne.”
His sharp gaze flicked over them one by one.
“Pennyworth. Grayson. Cain. Todd. Drake.”
The Cave exploded in noise.
“Wait—you’re our brother?!” Dick nearly shouted, his grin impossibly wide. “You’re staying with us? This is amazing! We’re gonna—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold on—how long’s he staying?” Jason’s voice cut in, but he was talking over Dick, not waiting for an answer. “Forever? Does he fight? He looks like he fights.”
Cass had stepped forward first, her eyes bright, her voice soft but eager. “Baby brother,” she said simply. “From green lady? The one who helped me?”
Tim’s questions tumbled out quickly, almost tripping over themselves. “Do you—do you like books? Do you play games? Are you good at chess? Are you—”
Their voices overlapped in a chaotic storm, excitement and curiosity blending until the Cave was a jumble of noise. Damian stood still in the middle of it, back rigid, eyes narrowing. His face gave nothing away, but inside, something sharp twisted. He was used to order, to silence, to blades and discipline. This whirlwind of voices, this warmth—it was foreign. Almost overwhelming.
“Enough.”
Bruce’s single word, low and firm, cut through the chatter. The kids stilled, though their excitement still bubbled visibly. He looked down at Damian—small, serious, standing stiff as a soldier—and then his gaze shifted when he noticed Tim.
Tim had stepped forward, his expression strangely sober compared to the others. His voice was quiet, but it carried.
“Now that he’s here… are you going to send the rest of us away?”
The words hit Bruce like a punch to the chest. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t breathe. Then, without hesitation, he crossed the space and scooped Tim into his arms. Tim startled, but then melted into the embrace as Bruce ruffled his hair.
“No,” Bruce said firmly, voice resonant with emotion. “Nobody is being sent away. All of you are my children. Blood or no blood.”
He pressed a kiss to Tim’s forehead, holding him close.
Damian watched. His eyes narrowed, his fists tightening at his sides. Blood or no blood. The words stung. In his chest, a seed of doubt bloomed—was he only here because his mother forced the issue? Was he… a burden?
He didn’t show it, but his small shoulders stiffened further.
Cass noticed. She always noticed. She stepped closer, her movements gentle, deliberate, until she was standing right beside him. She held out her hand. “Hello, baby brother,” she repeated softly. “Welcome to the family.”
Damian flinched when her fingers brushed his, instinctively recoiling. But Cass didn’t let go—she just squeezed lightly, her calm smile steady. Slowly, he let her hold his hand.
Dick appeared next, draping an arm around Damian’s shoulder with a grin so bright it felt like it might light the Cave.
“So you’re Damian, huh? Well, that makes me Big D, and you…” he poked Damian’s chest lightly, “are Little D.”
Damian blinked at him, unimpressed.
Jason groaned. “God, could you not? He’s gonna think we’re all idiots.”
“Too late,” Damian muttered.
Jason snorted. “I like this kid already.”
“Master Richard, Master Jason,” Pennyworth’s voice cut in, carrying its usual sharpness. “Do behave.” He turned then, inclining his head toward Damian with the same dignity he showed Bruce himself. “Welcome to Wayne Manor, Master Damian. Would you like a meal, or prefer to rest after your long journey?”
Damian didn’t answer, still absorbing everything, the warmth, the chaos, the affection that seemed to flow so freely among them. It was… disarming.
Cass tugged his hand gently. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’ll see.”
And for the first time since stepping into Gotham, Damian’s chest loosened, just a fraction.
---
Damian’s new room was at the far end of the hall, in the same wing as others. Alfred had already prepared it—soft bedding, a pajamas set from Tim, even a small shelf lined with books that once belonged to Bruce as a boy. Damian inspected it all silently, his face unreadable, until Bruce’s voice broke through.
“You should rest, Damian. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
The boy gave a small nod, sharp and curt, like a soldier acknowledging an order. He slipped into the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Bruce lingered a moment, staring at the closed door, before turning back. The other four were waiting in the hall—faces expectant, nervous, curious. He gestured for them to follow him downstairs.
In the study, the fire was still burning low. They gathered around, Dick sprawled in a chair, Jason leaning against the mantle, Cass curled on the armrest beside Bruce’s seat, and Tim perched quietly near Alfred.
Bruce exhaled, rubbing a hand across his face before he began. His voice was even, but it carried weight.
“You deserve to know the truth. Damian’s mother is Talia al Ghul. Her father—Ra’s—intends to use Damian as a vessel for his own life. She came to me because she couldn’t allow that. She asked me to protect him.”
The kids exchanged looks—Jason’s brows shot up, Dick’s smile faltered, Tim leaned in slightly, and Cass tilted her head, studying Bruce carefully.
“I didn’t know about him,” Bruce continued, voice lower now. “Not until tonight. But he is my son, and he will stay here, where he’s safe. I hope you’ll accept him… as your brother.”
There was a long pause. The fire crackled.
Then Cass spoke, her voice soft but certain. “He’s like me.”
The others looked at her, puzzled. Cass’s dark eyes didn’t waver. “Raised only to fight. To learn pain. To obey.” She looked down for a moment, then back at her brothers. “We love him more. Enough to make up for it.”
The realization hit Dick first. He sat forward, his usual grin returning with warmth behind it. “Of course we’re gonna love him. He’s our brother now. We’ll love him so much, he won’t know what hit him.”
Jason snorted, but his smirk softened. “Yeah. I’ll protect him too. Nobody’s gonna lay a hand on him. Not while I’m around.”
Tim hesitated, shifting in his seat. Finally, he said quietly, “I guess it’s nice… not being the youngest anymore.” His lips twitched into a small smile. “A little brother could be… nice.”
Bruce’s gaze swept over them, his chest tightening. He didn’t trust himself to speak for a moment. But Alfred, standing behind him, broke the silence gently.
“The children will be just fine, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. His voice was soft, but it carried a certainty that steadied the room.
For the first time in hours, Bruce allowed himself to breathe.
The room grew lighter after Alfred’s words. The tension that had lingered since the rooftop encounter seemed to ebb away, replaced by something warmer—something fragile, but real.
Dick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes bright. “Okay. Tomorrow morning, first thing—we show him the ropes. And I don’t mean sparring ropes,” he added quickly, pointing at Jason. “I mean the fun stuff. Like breakfast raids, secret tunnels in the Manor, the hidden switch behind the clock—”
Jason rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “You’re gonna scare the kid off before he even unpacks. Let him breathe, Big Bird.”
“Little D,” Dick said smugly. “That’s what I’m calling him.”
Jason groaned. “You’re impossible.”
Cass shifted, her voice calm but firm. “No fighting. We welcome him. Together.”
Tim, still sitting close to Alfred, looked thoughtful. “Maybe I can help him with homework… or at least show him the library. If he likes reading.” He hesitated, then smiled a little. “We could… make his room feel less empty. Add stuff.”
The siblings nodded in agreement, plans sparking and overlapping, their voices mingling into warm chaos.
Bruce sat back in his chair, silent, just watching. The children’s chatter filled the study, echoing off the old wood and stone. For once, it wasn’t the sound of Gotham’s mission, or the urgency of danger, but of family—messy, loud, imperfect, but family all the same.
Alfred caught Bruce’s eye across the room, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to.
Bruce only inclined his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment. Then, for the first time that night, the heaviness in his chest lifted.
Tomorrow would not be easy. But for Damian, for all of them, it could be a beginning.
---
The Wayne Estate slept beneath a blanket of winter silence. Snow had fallen steadily through the night, softening the sharp lines of hedges and statues, covering the wide lawns in white. The only sound that broke the stillness was the rhythmic hiss of a blade cutting through air.
Damian moved across the snow-dusted flagstones of the amphitheater with the precision of a soldier twice his age. His katana arced, gleaming faintly under the pale dawn light. Feet bare against the freezing stone, he pivoted sharply, every strike clean, controlled, his breath visible in short bursts of mist.
He had gone to bed at midnight, but by the crack of dawn his body had pulled him from sleep. To be still was weakness. To rest was indulgence. He had trained every morning of his life; the cold was no excuse.
The amphitheater stood silent around him, the marble columns frosted, the stage white with snow. Damian moved across it as though it were a battlefield. His small frame cut clean lines through the air, his blade whispering with every turn.
Hours passed unnoticed. The world narrowed to blade, breath, and movement.
It was Pennyworth who found him. By the time the butler’s polished shoes crunched over the snow, it was nearly eight. Alfred had come with the intention of checking on the young master’s rest—he had not expected to find the boy training as though preparing for combat at dawn.
Alfred paused at the edge of the amphitheater, hands folded neatly behind his back, and observed. Damian’s strikes were sharp, purposeful, yet there was something about the boy’s stillness between movements that unsettled him. No child of five should hold themselves with that kind of severity.
When Alfred finally stepped forward, the snow betrayed his presence.
Damian’s head snapped up. He spun on instinct, blade flashing. In one smooth motion, the katana’s edge stopped a hair’s breadth from Alfred’s throat.
Alfred did not flinch.
“Master Damian,” he said evenly, his tone carrying not the slightest hint of alarm, “if you would kindly remove the sword from my neck, we may see about breakfast.”
Damian froze, chest rising and falling quickly from exertion. His eyes flicked between the blade and Pennyworth’s calm, unbothered face. Slowly, he lowered the weapon, returning it to its sheath in one practiced motion.
For a moment, he seemed ready to offer some clipped justification. Instead, he gave only a short nod, as though accepting an order.
Pennyworth inclined his head faintly in return. “I suggest you freshen up, sir. A hot meal is waiting. Even warriors cannot fight on an empty stomach.”
For a moment, he seemed ready to offer some clipped justification. Instead, he gave only a short nod, as though accepting an order.
Alfred inclined his head faintly in return. “I suggest you freshen up, sir. A hot meal is waiting. Even warriors cannot fight on an empty stomach.”
Damian said nothing. He simply turned, small figure cutting a sharp silhouette against the snow, and began the long walk back toward the Manor.
Alfred watched him go, his expression unreadable save for the faintest tightening around his eyes. When the boy vanished into the warmth of the house, Alfred allowed himself a quiet sigh, the breath misting in the cold.
“Another soldier,” he murmured softly. “But still a child all the same.”
He followed after, footsteps deliberate, already considering how best to draw the boy into something gentler than drills and discipline.
---
By the time Damian had showered, changed, and descended the wide oak staircase, the Manor had stirred to life. The chandelier above the foyer glimmered faintly in the pale winter light, the scent of fresh coffee and baking bread drifting in from the kitchen.
But what caught Damian’s attention was not the grandness of the house. It was the fact that all four of his father’s other children were gathered below, waiting.
Dick stood at the front, hands tucked behind his back, rocking on his heels like he was holding back a grin. Jason leaned against the banister, arms crossed, eyes bright with mischief. Cass lingered close to the base of the stairs, quiet, watchful, while Tim sat perched on the edge of a side table, legs swinging as though he were trying to hide his anticipation.
As Damian stepped off the last stair, the air shifted. They were all looking at him.
Dick stepped forward first, smile easy, voice warm.
“We have a task for you, Little D.”
Damian blinked, chin lifting slightly. “A task?”
Jason pushed off the banister, smirk tugging at his mouth. “An initiation. To see if you’re worthy enough to join this family.”
Cass’s eyes flicked toward Jason, and she tilted her head, but didn’t correct him.
Damian straightened, something tightening in his chest. Of course. This was expected. Prove yourself, earn your place. He had been doing it his whole life. That his father’s other children would demand the same made perfect sense. He nodded once, sharply. “What kind of task?”
Damian’s gaze remained steady, unblinking, as Tim stepped forward, adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat.
“Damian al Ghul-Wayne,” Tim began, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “your initiation is not merely a trivial diversion. It is an intricate, multi-layered assessment designed to evaluate your cognitive acumen, observational dexterity, and deductive reasoning. You will be required to navigate a series of strategically placed enigmas, encoded clues, and labyrinthine pathways. Each challenge has been meticulously calibrated to gauge your capacity for critical analysis, rapid decision-making under duress, and your aptitude for deciphering subtle, nuanced patterns that most would overlook.”
He paused, eyes glinting with unrestrained seriousness. “Failure is… well, not catastrophic in the literal sense, but it will undoubtedly demonstrate a deficiency in preparedness to integrate seamlessly into the familial structure.”
Damian’s expression remained unreadable, chin lifted in quiet defiance.
Tim leaned in slightly, voice rising with theatrical flair. “You will encounter obstacles that test your perception, agility, and interpretive faculties. Each clue must be scrutinized for latent meaning. Each step is deliberate, calculated. Only those who exhibit both precision and sagacity shall succeed. Consider this… the quintessential measure of your readiness to assimilate into the intricate, multifaceted dynamics of this household.”
Tim handed him a folded piece of paper. “Understand this, Damian,” Tim added, lowering his voice to a near-whisper, “the completion of this task will signify not merely your acceptance, but your affirmation as a member of this familial enterprise. Proceed with utmost diligence, for the minutiae shall reveal your true capability.”
Jason snorted quietly. Dick tried not to grin. Cass raised an eyebrow at Tim’s theatrics, but Damian gave a single, curt nod, eyes scanning the paper quickly. Internally, he noted how normal this felt—the rigor, the structure, the requirement to prove oneself. It aligned perfectly with everything he had been trained for: to earn his place, to demonstrate competence, to measure up.
He stepped forward, boots crunching softly against the polished floor. His small hands unfolded the first clue: a cartoonish map of the Manor, complete with arrows, exaggerated doodles, and riddles written in the playful scrawl of his father’s other children.
“Interesting,” Damian murmured, almost to himself. “A test… designed with misdirection and whimsy. Predictable, yet… I will proceed.”
With precise, deliberate movements, he advanced toward the starting point indicated on the map: the playhouse near the greenhouse. Snow crunched underfoot as he moved past the amphitheater, the morning sun catching on the frost-laden branches of the estate. The Manor’s sprawling grounds were quiet, the chaos of the morning yet to fully awaken.
From behind, the faint laughter of Dick, Jason, Cass, and Tim could be heard, though they made no move to follow. The stage was Damian’s alone. His katana was sheathed, his mind already calculating, planning, and anticipating each “challenge.”
The first clue, pinned to the playhouse door, contained a riddle scribbled in childish handwriting:
To find the next, seek the place
Where shadows hide and sun leaves no trace.
Look under the nose of the lion so grand,
Or the next clue will slip right from your hand.
Damian’s green eyes narrowed as he studied the riddle. He scanned the exterior of the playhouse, noting the exaggerated carvings of animals the other children had added: a lion with a comically large nose, a rabbit with googly eyes.
“Very well,” he said under his breath, voice low and precise. “Observation, deduction, execution.”
And with that, Damian crouched, reaching toward the lion’s nose—and found the next clue tucked neatly beneath it.
A faint, muffled giggle echoed from behind a tree, where Dick and Jason were trying desperately to hide their amusement at Damian’s methodical approach. Damian, however, was oblivious—already moving to the next point on the map, a shadow of a small boy executing tasks with the precision of a seasoned assassin.
---
Damian moved swiftly, silently, each step measured and precise. He traced the map’s exaggerated cartoonish routes through the Manor, pausing at each “checkpoint” to examine the clues. One led him to the greenhouse, where a tiny note was tucked behind a pot of poinsettias. Another directed him to the amphitheater, where a riddle taped to the edge of a bench required him to balance on one foot and recite the alphabet backward—an exercise that, though simple, he executed with flawless poise.
He tilted his head, internally noting the absurdity. Of course this is what they would consider a test. Structured, deliberate, and predictable. But trivial. A simple manipulation of my patience and skill to gauge my response.
Damian moved on, uncovering clues hidden under cushions in the playhouse, behind exaggerated drawings of cartoon animals, and even inside the hollow of a fake stone owl near the main hall. With each find, he carefully read the riddles, calculated the most efficient route, and executed the physical tasks—jumping, balancing, crawling, and tiptoeing with the precision of a miniature warrior.
Fifteen minutes passed, each clue handled with methodical excellence. The final hint led him back to the living room, where his father’s other children had gathered. The map ended with a simple drawing of a star and the words:
You’ve made it through the maze,
You’ve mastered our great ways.
Now stand before your audience true,
Your family awaits to welcome you.
Damian froze for a moment, scanning the room. His eyes fell on Cass and Jason, each holding party poppers, their expressions masked in mock solemnity and barely restrained laughter. Dick leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with a mischievous grin.
He felt a flicker of confusion. This is it? He had expected some brutal, defining challenge—a demonstration of skill, intellect, or resilience—but this… this was mere theatrics. A test? Perhaps. But a test he could complete without effort. And yet… something in the room shifted, a warmth he hadn’t anticipated.
“Damian al Ghul-Wayne,” Tim said, his voice echoing slightly, brimming with mock ceremony, “you have completed the initiation. Your strategy, execution, and efficiency have been… exemplary. Welcome to the family.”
Before Damian could respond, Dick stepped forward, arms opening wide. “Even if you hadn’t completed it, Little D,” he said, pulling Damian into a sudden hug, “you’d still be part of this family. That never changes.”
Damian stiffened at first, caught off guard by the unexpected contact. “Unhand me, Grayson.” He muttered but then Jason ambled over, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re stuck with us for life, buddy. Can’t get rid of you.”
Cass knelt slightly, voice soft but firm. “We’re going to have so much fun together.”
Tim, still watching closely, added simply, “You’re our brother now.”
Damian’s lips trembled just slightly. For all his composure and maturity, he was still five years old. And for the first time since entering Wayne Manor, he felt… accepted.
The five children, sensing the moment, closed in for a group hug. Damian, still rigid at first, eventually relaxed, the hug enveloping him in warmth and laughter. Their joy was pure, unguarded, and completely unfamiliar.
“Alright, kids,” Alfred’s voice cut through the celebration. “Breakfast awaits. Let’s not keep it waiting.”
The group pulled apart, brushing snow from shoulders and ruffling hair. Damian followed quietly, still processing, as Alfred led them toward the informal dining room near the open kitchen.
Tim pointed to the seat at the table. “Here,” he said, gesturing with a grin. “Your spot. Don’t worry, we saved it for you.”
Damian sat carefully, placing his hands neatly in his lap. Alfred served breakfast consisting of shakshuka, rummaniyeh, spiced flatbreads, and fresh fruit. The aroma filled the room, mingling with the faint warmth of the fire.
Bruce entered quietly, eyes scanning the table, taking in the scene. “Good morning, children. I hope you had a restful night.”
The siblings erupted into a flurry of chatter—telling Bruce about their dreams, the initiation, and the tasks they had devised. Damian sat slightly apart, his posture immaculate, internal monologue running at full speed, They speak with such ease… with such familiarity… And I… I do not know where to begin. To be a part of this… to belong… How does one integrate into something so fluid when all I know is discipline, structure, and hierarchy?
Cass noticed immediately. She leaned toward him, brushing a strand of snow from his hair. “Dami, what gifts would you like for Christmas?” she asked gently.
Damian blinked, processing. “Practical items. Clothing suitable for training. Equipment.” His tone was precise, measured, almost military-like, yet beneath it, a small curiosity flickered.
Dick’s grin widened. “We’ll decorate the Christmas tree together after breakfast. And Ice skating on the frozen lake tonight. You’ll like that.”
Jason added, “Alfred will make his signature cookies for you. You’ll have to try them, Little D.”
Tim chimed in, “We should get stuff for your room. Clothes, accessories, trinkets. Make it feel… yours.”
Damian nodded subtly, still careful with his words, but the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly. So this… is family. Structured, yes. Chaotic, yes. But… they are trying. They want me here.
Bruce watched quietly from the side, a mixture of relief and introspection crossing his features. He realized that, despite his inability to communicate directly with Damian yet, his other children were already bridging the gap. They were ensuring Damian felt welcomed, that he wouldn’t be lonely.
Alfred observed as well, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The children will be fine, he thought. They always manage, in their own way.
Damian’s green eyes shifted toward the table, toward his siblings father’s other children, toward the warmth that filled the room. And for the first time in many years, a genuine sense of belonging crept quietly into the edges of his disciplined, solitary heart.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 25: To Be Ashamed
Notes:
I just noticed that a part of the previous chapter somehow got cut while posting. I have already reuploaded the chapter. So I would suggest to go back and read it before starting this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The dining room was quiet now, the last crumbs cleared away by Alfred’s meticulous hands. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the Manor, catching in the crystal chandelier above the main hall. Dick stretched, cracking his fingers with an exaggerated flourish.
“All right, people,” he announced, voice ringing with playful authority. “Breakfast is done, bellies are full, and it’s time for the main event.”
Damian tilted his head, observing the eldest placeholder. The warmth of the room, the lingering scent of spiced bread and shakshuka, contrasted sharply with the chill of the snow still clinging to the gardens outside. He adjusted his sleeves, hands neat at his sides.
“What event?” Damian asked, voice precise, controlled, betraying only the slightest curiosity.
Dick grinned, stepping closer. “Decorating the tree, Little D. Follow me.”
He led them out of the dining room, Jason lingering at the back, muttering about how “tree decorating is beneath us,” and Tim trailed slightly behind, still clutching the folded paper from the scavenger hunt. Cass walked beside Damian, the assassin background made her presence reassuring.
The main hall was already set up for the tree—tall, sturdy, and undecorated, its branches stretching toward the ceiling. Tiny lights were strung loosely, waiting to be woven into the green expanse. The decorations—glass baubles, handcrafted ornaments, strings of popcorn and cranberries—were laid out carefully in boxes at the base.
“Okay, rules,” Dick announced, kneeling beside the first box. “Tim gets the star. That’s sacred. Everyone else, you can decorate however you like, but stay out of Damian’s way. This is his masterpiece.”
Damian’s green eyes narrowed just slightly, noting the phrasing. “Mine?” he repeated, voice quiet but firm. “I will place them according to balance, proportion, and symmetry. Efficiency and aesthetics matter.”
Jason snorted from the side. “He’s going full-on military with the ornaments. I like this already.”
Cass smiled, gently touching Damian’s shoulder. “It’ll be fun, Dami,” she said softly. “I’ll help if you want.”
Damian barely nodded, already crouching to lift the first ornament—a hand-painted globe that reflected the sunlight—and hanging it carefully on a branch near the center. Each movement was deliberate, exact, as though the tree were an extension of his training grounds.
Dick lingered close, hovering with subtle touches—hand on the back, gentle guidance, offering encouragement with a warmth that Damian couldn’t yet name. “Nice, Little D. That one’s perfect. A little higher with that one, though.”
Damian’s small fingers adjusted the globe without a word, eyes scanning the surrounding branches. He was meticulous, precise, almost surgical in his placement of each ornament.
“See? This is why you’re the best at this,” Dick whispered under his breath, smirking. “Already making the tree look incredible.”
Tim approached the ladder, nodding at Damian. “Once you’re done with most of the ornaments, I’ll take the star. Make sure the it looks pretty.”
Damian barely looked at him, already selecting the next bauble. “I understand. Execution and preparation must go hand in hand. Star placement is predictable; focus remains on the body of the tree.”
Jason wandered over, grinning. “And what if I throw some glitter in there?”
Damian’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips—the first trace of mischief since arriving at Wayne Manor. “Unnecessary. Decoration is functional as well as aesthetic. Precision is paramount.”
Cass laughed softly, leaning closer to Damian as she handed him a string of cranberries. “Well, we’ll follow your lead, Dami. Just… have fun with it.”
Damian’s hands paused over the string. Fun. A concept he had long set aside in favor of discipline and duty. For a moment, he considered it, then allowed the string to hang loosely over a branch, carefully spacing each berry.
Dick crouched slightly, letting his hand brush briefly against Damian’s shoulder again. “You’re doing great, Little D. Really.”
Damian’s gaze met his, steady and precise, but beneath it, something new flickered—a warmth, faint and unfamiliar. He adjusted the next ornament with care, glancing occasionally at Dick’s approving smile.
Time passed, ornaments finding their places with exacting order, garlands woven neatly around the branches. Even Jason occasionally chipped in, trying to sneak in a bauble out of sequence, only to be corrected by Damian with a single, sharp nod.
Finally, Dick stepped aside, gesturing to the ladder. “All right, Tim. Star time. Make it count.”
Tim climbed carefully, Damian observing each step with calculated attention. When the star was finally perched atop the tree, Damian took a step back, assessing the entire display. The tree was balanced, symmetrical, precise—but under it all, a touch of the children’s chaotic charm shone through.
Damian’s lips lifted very slightly, almost imperceptibly. The tree was perfect. And for the first time, he allowed himself a sliver of pride—not only in the placement of ornaments but in the warmth of his father’s other children's ’ laughter around him.
Dick’s hand brushed again, this time over Damian’s shoulder and down his back, lingering just enough to reassure. “See? We’re a good team, Little D. You, me… us.”
Damian’s green eyes met his, sharp and assessing, yet something in that moment—something ineffable—shifted.
---
The aroma of roasted meats, spiced vegetables, and freshly baked bread drifted through the Manor as they made their way toward the dining room. Damian followed, posture straight, hands clasped neatly behind his back, still processing the morning’s tree-decorating exercise. He had noticed, of course, how Dick had stayed close—his physical presence, the subtle touches, the warmth behind his teasing words. It had been… unexpected, but not unpleasant.
“Make sure you sit near me, Little D,” Dick whispered as they entered the room, sliding a chair out for him. “I’ve got your back, okay?”
Damian inclined his head, expression unreadable, but internally he acknowledged the gesture. He seated himself with precision, eyes briefly scanning the table for any disruption in symmetry before lowering his gaze to the meal Alfred had prepared.
Lunch was a more informal affair than breakfast, but the spread was equally impressive: roasted chicken, mashed root vegetables, a fresh salad, and bread still warm from the oven. Damian cut his food carefully, measuring each bite with meticulous attention, while the others chattered freely about the morning’s events.
“You think he’ll actually do all the decorations himself next year?” Jason asked, leaning back in his chair, smirk tugging at his lips.
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Cass replied, glancing at Damian. “He’s… disciplined.”
Dick’s elbow nudged Damian gently. “Careful, Little D. Don’t let them scare you off before dessert.”
Damian’s green eyes flicked toward him. He didn’t respond, but the faintest corner of his mouth lifted. There was a certain reassurance in Dick’s presence—constant, tactile, grounding. Even Jason’s teasing felt less antagonistic when Dick was nearby.
By the time plates were cleared, the children had scattered through the Manor. Cass led Damian to the playhouse, her hand brushing his lightly along the way. This time Damian took in the place without the shadow of completing the hunt.
The Playhouse loomed just beyond the greenhouse, its bright, whimsical colors standing in stark contrast to the stark winter landscape. Snowflakes clung to the roof and the surrounding branches, creating a delicate lacework of white against the deep greens and reds of the Manor grounds. The children rushed toward it eagerly, boots crunching against the fresh snow, cheeks flushed with excitement.
Damian stepped carefully, surveying the structure with cool, analytical eyes. The painted walls, the miniature balconies, the slides, swings, and obstacle corners—it was all… unnecessary. Yet fascinating. He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket and followed Dick, Tim trailing a step behind, with Jason on his side.
Dick immediately made a beeline for the swings. “Come on, Little D! You’ve got to try this!” he called, bouncing lightly on his heels.
Damian’s gaze swept across his siblings. Cass was already kneeling over a puzzle, pieces scattered in a chaotic pattern. Tim had quietly pulled a chessboard onto a small table in the corner, adjusting the pieces with a methodical, almost surgical precision. Jason lingered near the climbing wall, smirking.
Damian’s chest tightened, and his thoughts sharpened. Of course. This is a competition, a test of skill and wit. These children—my father’s other children—will not challenge me? Preposterous. I must demonstrate superiority. They must understand that I am… better.
Cass looked up as Damian approached the puzzle table. “Want to help?” she asked, smiling.
Damian inclined his head once. “Assistance is unnecessary. I will complete this faster.”
Cass’s brow arched, and the two set to work. Damian moved with surgical precision, assembling edge pieces and colors with exacting speed. Cass worked carefully, slower but deliberate, but Damian’s movements were faster, his mind calculating every piece before it was placed. Yet, for the first time, a flicker of frustration touched him: Cass anticipated some of his moves, forcing Damian to adjust mid-strategy. He winced inwardly but pressed harder. By the time the puzzle was completed, Damian’s chest heaved with exertion. He looked at Cass with a slight flicker of respect—and satisfaction. Victory. Expected, inevitable.
From across the room, Tim’s soft voice broke his concentration. “Care for a game of chess, Damian?”
Damian’s lips curved faintly. Chess was a battlefield in miniature, and Tim was known for his intellect. He moved across to the table with calculated steps, observing the board. The game began, Damian executing bold moves with the confidence of a seasoned tactician. Tim, however, responded with quiet cunning, placing Damian in traps that were subtle but effective.
For the first time that day, Damian felt something unfamiliar: resistance. His strategies, flawless on paper, were met with counterattacks that tested his patience. After a tense few minutes, Tim declared a checkmate. Damian’s eyes widened imperceptibly. Impossible. Yet… undeniable.
Tim gave a small, almost shy smile. “Good game, Damian.”
Damian’s jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly. “Acknowledged.” Internally, he reflected, Even masters I have faced would find this challenge… stimulating.
Before he could dwell further, Jason bounded toward the indoor obstacle course and the small rock climbing wall. “Bet you can’t beat me up there, Little D,” he teased.
Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. Of course. Physical superiority must also be demonstrated. He moved with fluid precision, scaling the obstacles and rock wall with meticulous speed. Jason struggled to match him, but Damian’s mind and body worked in tandem, pushing for efficiency and speed. He reached the top first, chest heaving with exertion, and glanced down at Jason, expecting the familiar jest of mockery.
Instead, Jason grinned, clapped lightly, and called up, “Nice work, Dami! Come on, slide down with me!”
Damian hesitated. A slide? A trivial amusement? He was trained to command, to fight, to strategize. Yet Dick appeared at the base of the slide, eyes bright and encouraging. “Come on, Little D. Don’t just stand there!”
Damian’s pride bristled for a moment, but then—carefully, deliberately—he slid down beside Dick, the wind biting at his face. A spark of exhilaration traveled up his spine.
Soon, all the children were on the swings, pushing gently, laughing, snowflakes clinging to hair and coats. Damian hesitated at first, observing the motion, the carefree play. Then he swung his legs forward, feeling the icy wind on his face, letting the moment settle into him. This… is… fun.
The realization came slowly. Despite the structured life of a League-trained heir, despite commanding respect and deference his entire young life, there was… joy here. Pure, untethered, and unlike anything he had known. He glanced at Dick, who grinned widely, the motion of swinging forward and back exaggerated to tease him gently. Damian’s small hand reached out and instinctively touched Dick’s arm—then hesitated, then tried again. A warmth surged through him he had not anticipated.
Even without prior displays of physical affection in his life, even without childhood freedoms granted to most children, Damian felt… included. He was treated with attention, respect, yes, but also affection. Not because he demanded it, not because he commanded it—but because they wanted him there.
His green eyes sparkled as he leaned into the swings, testing distance, daring his siblings, occasionally nudging Dick playfully, and even laughing at Jason’s exaggerated complaints about snowflakes in his hair.
Perhaps, Damian thought, heart quietly expanding, this… is what being a child can be.
---
After a short while, they moved to one of the Manor’s tea rooms. Damian observed the arrangement of tiny cups and pastries, but when Tim offered him a scone, Damian took it with quiet grace, his fingers brushing Tim’s ever-so-slightly. The gesture was small, but noticeable.
Cass poured tea for everyone, her movements careful and attentive. “You like it?” she asked, smiling at Damian.
“Acceptable,” Damian replied, voice clipped but thoughtful. He sipped carefully, noting the balance of flavors. Cass chuckled softly, and for a brief moment, Damian allowed himself a tiny laugh, catching her eye.
Later, they ventured to the library. The walls of books stretched high, ladders leaning against shelves, the air rich with the scent of parchment and old leather. Damian’s eyes lit up at the collection, and he moved with careful curiosity, pulling a few volumes down and scanning their contents with rapid comprehension.
“Look at him go,” Jason muttered from the doorway, arms crossed. “Little D’s like a walking encyclopedia.”
Dick crouched beside Damian, pointing to a shelf. “Found anything interesting?”
Damian handed him a slim volume on martial strategy. “Tactics applicable to small units, and psychological manipulation of opponents. Useful for… family conflicts.”
Dick laughed softly. “Fair enough. Let’s put it on the top shelf for now, huh?”
Cass leaned close, brushing a strand of hair from Damian’s forehead. “You don’t always have to be serious, Dami. We can have fun, too.”
Damian’s fingers lingered on the book for a second, then he placed it aside, nodding faintly. Perhaps… he could allow himself some small measure of playfulness.
By late afternoon, the Manor had grown quiet as they returned to their rooms to rest briefly before dinner. Damian lingered by his door for a moment, glancing down the hall toward Dick’s room. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He was learning, in the quietest of ways, that family could be both structured and kind, both demanding and protective.
The long dining table gleamed under the soft chandelier light as the children returned from their brief respite. Alfred had laid out a warm, festive dinner: roasted winter vegetables, spiced lamb, honey-glazed carrots, and a steaming pot of hearty stew. The faint aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg from the dessert pastries mingled with the savory smells, making the room cozy and welcoming.
Damian noticed Bruce sitting quietly at the head of the table, observing, silent but ever-present. Damian’s movements became more subdued in Bruce’s presence.
He took his seat carefully, his posture immaculate, hands folded neatly in front of him. Tim slid into the chair beside him, nudging him gently. “Hope you’re hungry, Little D,” he said with a teasing grin.
Damian inclined his head once, his green eyes scanning the spread before him. “Sufficient,” he replied, tone clipped but precise.
Dick, ever the instigator of warmth and mischief, reached across the table, giving Damian’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Come on, eat properly. You need your energy for later.”
Damian glanced at him, expression unreadable, but there was something in the way Dick’s hand lingered—a reassurance he hadn’t expected. For the first time that day, he allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible relaxation of his shoulders.
Damian observed, quietly cataloging each personality, each mannerism, and internally noting strengths and weaknesses. Yet, beneath the adult-like precision of his thoughts, he felt the faintest stirrings of amusement. He caught Cass smirking at a minor mishap Jason caused and suppressed a tiny smile.
By the time plates were cleared and snow freshly brushed from coats, Dick led the group to the frozen lake behind the Manor. The sky was streaked with the pale colors of winter twilight, and the ice shimmered faintly, reflecting the last light of day. Alfred and Bruce stood at the edges of the lake, ensuring the children’s safety, while the group eagerly laced up skates.
Damian stepped onto the ice with caution at first. The cold bit at his cheeks, and the friction beneath his blades made his muscles tense. He glanced at Dick, whose movements were fluid and confident. He moves as I do—control, balance, precision, Damian thought, a faint thrill sparking within him.
Cass and Dick glided across the ice, expertly matching stride for stride, laughter breaking through the ice-cold silence as they twirled and practiced small spins. Jason, predictably, wobbled, arms flailing. Tim moved as though dragging a weighted anchor, his progress slow but steady. Damian, however, felt a surge of competitive fervor.
Damian’s lips quirked in a faint smirk. Of course they’re slower. Predictable. He began with subtle, controlled maneuvers, gliding with ease. Then, wanting to impress—or perhaps to challenge himself—he started attempting a series of spins, leaps, and agile footwork, eyes flicking to Jason and Tim. A perfect pirouette, executed flawlessly. A jump, clean and precise.
Damian’s chest swelled with pride.
Dick clapped softly, a wide grin stretching across his face. “Nice, Little D! Keep it up!”
Cass raised her hands in mock awe. “Impressive!”
Emboldened, he launched into a more daring sequence, weaving between Dick and Cass with calculated swerves and careful landings. He attempted a final flourish: a small jump with a slight spin, aiming to impress his siblings with flawless form. But the ice, treacherous beneath the thin layer of snow, betrayed him. His right skate slid outward, momentum shifted, and suddenly Damian was sprawling across the ice.
“Damian!” Dick and Cass shouted together. They were at his side in seconds — Dick sliding down onto his knees beside him, Cass crouching low, her hands gentle on his shoulder.
“You okay, Little D?” Dick’s voice was urgent, his eyes scanning for bruises.
Cass leaned in closer, head tilted, her dark eyes already reading more than words could say. His body was tense, rigid, but not in pain. She could see it: not injury — overwhelm.
Tim came clattering across the ice, abandoning his snail-paced glide to half-run toward them, his face pale with worry. “Damian! Where—where does it hurt?”
Jason, though flustered by his own earlier struggles, bounded after, arms outstretched, “Hey, kid, talk to us!”
Damian’s heart thumped rapidly, a swirl of embarrassment and unexpected warmth. He had expected ridicule—mockery for failure, a reminder that he was just a child. Instead, he felt… concern. Genuine concern. All he saw — all he felt — was hands reaching for him, voices filled with worry, not derision. It twisted inside him, sharp and unfamiliar. He felt ashamed at his own presume superiority, his lips quivered, and a strange heaviness pressed against his chest.
Bruce was already approaching, gliding across the ice with practiced speed. Damian stiffened. Father… Panic rose. Surely this misstep would bring censure, discipline. His chest tightened, eyes widening as Bruce reached him.
“Damian,” Bruce said, voice steady but laced with worry, “are you hurt?” He crouched slightly, scanning for injuries.
Damian’s tears came unbidden, his composure shattering. The wailing erupted from him before he could control it. A raw, child’s cry, torn from somewhere deep. The sound made all four men stiffen with alarm..
“He’s hurt!” Dick’s arms instinctively tightened around him.
“No—he hit his head—” Jason started, panicked.
Tim dropped onto the ice beside him, already babbling, “We need to get him inside—Alfred—”
But Cass stayed calm. She stayed very still, her hand smoothing lightly over Damian’s back. Her eyes softened as she read his trembling shoulders, the tiny flickers of his mouth. She knew. This wasn’t pain. This was release.
And then, even as the tears streamed down his cheeks, a bubbling sound escaped Damian’s chest. A hiccup. A snort. And then — laughter.
The others froze.
“Wait—what—” Jason blinked.
“Is he—laughing?” Tim asked, baffled.
Dick looked down, startled, as the little boy in his arms giggled through his tears, clutching at his shirt.
Cass only gave the faintest nod, her hand steady on Damian’s back. “He’s okay,” she murmured.
Damian laughed harder, the sound wild and unrestrained, the ice ringing with it. It was ridiculous, it was messy, it was real. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t the assassin’s heir, or the soldier, or the prince. He was simply a boy, cradled in the warmth of a family who cared more about him than his perfection.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter Text
The pale light of dawn stretched over Wayne Manor, brushing the frost-covered grounds in silver. Damian was already in the amphitheater, his movements precise, fluid, and silent. Each strike, each kick, each roll across the cold stone was executed with meticulous control. He worked alone, his breaths measured, every motion a study in discipline. The wind bit at his cheeks, but he hardly noticed. For Damian, the morning was another battlefield, another lesson in perfection.
Pennyworth’s footsteps echoed softly from the corridor as he approached, carrying a tray. Damian paused mid-kick, head tilting ever so slightly. “Master Damian, breakfast awaits. You should refresh yourself before the others descend upon the table,” Pennyworth said, voice calm but firm.
Damian lowered his stance, expression unreadable. “Acknowledged,” he replied crisply, allowing the butler to collect his training equipment.
---
By the time Damian joined the rest of the household for breakfast, the Manor was fully awake. Bruce was at the head of the table, overseeing the meal with his usual quiet intensity. Pennyworth had laid out a generous spread: eggs, smoked salmon, fresh fruits, and golden toast, along with steaming mugs of tea and hot cocoa for the younger ones.
Bruce cleared his throat, drawing Damian’s attention. “Damian, when school reopens in January, you’ll begin attending Gotham Academy,” he said. His voice was steady, thoughtful. Damian’s brow furrowed slightly, but he did not speak. Instead, he simply processed the information, calculating the implications.
Dick leaned over slightly, whispering, “That’s good news, right? You get to… you know… interact with people your age—though, fair warning, most kids don’t have a sword collection in their rooms.”
Jason, seated across from him, gave a playful grin. “Well, Little D, looks like you’re joining the ranks of Gotham’s finest scholars, then. Fancy learning alongside the rest of us.”
Tim muttered something under his breath about school being “a waste of time,” while Tim quietly sipped his tea, observing Damian with a keen eye. Cassandra, ever composed, offered a small smile. Damian merely nodded in acknowledgment and began eating, each bite measured, methodical.
By the time plates were cleared, the siblings had already begun gearing up for the day outside. Snow still clung to the trees and hedges, pristine, a white carpet stretching across the estate.
The children burst outdoors with the enthusiasm only a child could possess in such weather. Snowballs flew with gleeful abandon, boots crunched over icy patches, and laughter rang across the grounds. Damian moved carefully, observing patterns, calculating trajectories, and then, for the first time in hours, allowed himself a quick flick of a snowball—precise, aimed, perfect. Jason groaned theatrically. “Predictable,” he muttered, but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his lips.
Dick caught sight of Damian near the smaller hill behind the main house. “Hey, Little D! Watch this!” he called, launching a snowball overhand. Damian’s hands went up, expertly deflecting it, then sending it spinning back toward Dick with surgical accuracy. For a moment, time seemed to fold in on itself, the rhythm of motion and counter-motion creating an unspoken dialogue.
At one point, Dick slid down a snowbank beside him, cheeks flushed from exertion. “You know, Little D,” he said, catching his breath, “I miss the animals from the circus I grew up around. The elephants, the lions… even the birds. It was chaos, but it had heart.”
Damian’s eyes flickered at the mention of animals, a subtle curiosity softening his gaze. “Birds… I once found an injured one during training in the League,” he admitted quietly, voice even but carrying a weight. “I wished to keep it, nurse it back to health. My grandfather… he ordered it killed. Said weakness could not survive.”
Dick’s eyes widened, but a small smile tugged at his mouth. “I get that… sometimes even the best intentions get crushed. But you—saving a bird—that’s… good.” He didn’t elaborate, but the warmth in his voice was enough. Damian inclined his head, acknowledging the connection silently.
Damian didn’t respond immediately, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly—a trace of understanding, perhaps even comfort.
---
Later, the children migrated to the playhouse. Its bright walls and whimsical interiors seemed almost alien to Damian, so structured and meticulous was his life. Cassandra knelt over a small table, pencils scattered across sheets of blank paper. “Want to draw with me, Dami?” she asked, gentle and inviting.
Damian lowered himself onto the bench beside her, pencil poised. His first strokes were careful, precise, forming shapes and lines that bore the unmistakable hallmark of someone trained for perfection. Cass’s eyes widened slightly. “You’re really… good at this,” she said softly.
Tim and Jason leaned against the doorway, watching curiously. Tim’s brow furrowed in thought. Every time a toy, a game, or a little object comes up… look at his eyes. There’s genuine wonder there. He has never played before... just like me..
Jason snorted, arms crossed. “He has zero concept of plushies. Stuffed toys? Doesn’t even compute.”
Damian, unaware of their scrutiny, continued drawing, entirely absorbed. Occasionally, he glanced at Cass for confirmation, seeking no approval—only alignment with his own exacting standards.
---
By mid-afternoon, after a quiet lunch, Damian retreated to the library. Books towered on every wall, ladders leaning precariously, dust motes drifting in golden sunlight. He moved with careful curiosity, scanning pages of strategy, botany, history, and martial theory with rapid comprehension. Hours passed almost imperceptibly.
When he finally emerged, Tim intercepted him near the grand staircase. “Hey, Damian. Come on. I want to show you something,” he said, gesturing toward the greenhouse. Damian followed silently, hands clasped behind his back.
Inside the greenhouse, warm air carried the scent of soil and foliage. Plants of all shapes and colors stretched toward the glass roof. Tim began explaining—slowly, deliberately—the various species, their needs, and their uses. Damian listened carefully, then began adding his own knowledge: which plants were poisonous, which could be used medicinally, and which might be employed in more tactical applications.
Tim blinked, impressed. “You… really know your stuff. Most people just look at a rose and see a flower. You see… potential.”
Damian inclined his head, expression neutral, though a faint flicker of satisfaction touched his eyes.
---
The evening descended quietly, the sky a deep indigo over the snow-covered estate. Bruce and Dick began suiting up for their patrol, the dark silhouettes of Batman and Robin preparing to move through Gotham. Damian, watching intently, asked, “May I accompany you?”
Dick glanced at him, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “Not until you are twelve, Little D. You’re not ready yet.”
To everyone’s surprise, Damian simply inclined his head once. “Acknowledged. Preparation and training must precede deployment.” There was no anger, no protest—only silent, disciplined comprehension.
Instead, Damian joined Cass, Jason, and Tim in the Batcave, where sparring commenced under the warm glow of overhead lights. Each movement, each strike, was measured, precise, an extension of the day’s lessons.
As Dick returned, brushing snow from his cape, he paused at the edge of the room. “Alright, everyone… get ready. Tomorrow, presents.”
Damian’s eyes widened. “Presents?”
Jason smirked knowingly. “Of course. It's Christmas.”
Tim added, voice soft, “You have never celebrated before?”
Damian stuttered to answer, “I…no, never…”
“The League does not participate in any kind of religious or cultural festivals.” Cassandra answers on Damian's behalf.
“Tomorrow you will.” Dick promises, eyes full of determination, “And you will love it.”
Damian’s expression shifted to quiet contemplation, mind already racing through possibilities. He nodded once, shoulders straight, chest lifting slightly.
---
The first light of Christmas morning spilled over Wayne Manor, pale gold brushing against frost-lined windows. In the amphitheater, Damian was already in motion, moving with precise, measured steps across the polished floor. Each strike, each block, each kick was executed with the focus of a soldier, the discipline of the League ingrained into his every movement. The chill of the morning air was barely noticed as his body flowed from one technique to the next, muscle memory and training guiding him flawlessly.
A soft, deliberate voice echoed through the stone archways.
“Master Damian,” Pennyworth called, calm and steady as always. “Would you be so kind as to pause and freshen up? Please make your way to the powder room adjacent to the main drawing room before breakfast. Meet me at the base of the grand staircase once you are done.”
Damian paused mid-spin, brow furrowing at the interruption. “Powder room?” His voice carried precise curiosity, edged with mild suspicion. “At this hour?”
“Yes, sir,” Pennyworth replied smoothly, his tone unshakably polite. “There is something I wish to show you before you join the others.”
Damian inclined his head once, expression unreadable, and allowed himself a single, deliberate bow before moving toward the main drawing room. The Manor’s halls were quiet, the only sound the soft padding of his boots across the polished floor. In the powder room, the familiar scent of soap and polish greeted him. He washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face, adjusting his hair and gloves with meticulous care. Even in this mundane task, Damian maintained exacting precision, eyes narrowing slightly as he inspected himself in the mirror.
When he emerged, Pennyworth waited in the drawing room, his posture composed, hands clasped behind his back. “Shall we proceed, Master Damian?” he asked.
Damian gave a slight nod, following Alfred as he led him through the decorated halls toward the tapestry room. Each step was silent, measured, and yet, for the first time in many mornings, Damian’s mind buzzed with a quiet anticipation.
They entered the tapestry room, a space Damian had never fully explored. The room was vast and warm, lit with morning sunlight filtering through stained glass. Walls were adorned past portraits of Wayne ancestors. One wall had an intricate tapestry, stitched a name, each panel a story of the Wayne lineage. Damian’s eyes flicked over the golden threads that wove the histories of them all through centuries.
Pennyworth stopped before a corner of the room. “This section,” he began, voice quiet, “contains the names of your father and his children.” He gestured to the neat golden threads that spelled: Bruce Thomas Wayne, Richard John Grayson-Wayne, Cassandra Martha Wayne, Jason Peter Wayne, and Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne.
Damian’s gaze followed the threads, scanning each name, absorbing the legacy embedded in the fabric. Then, his eyes caught something else—a name beside Tim’s, stitched with the same golden thread: Damian Thomas al Ghul-Wayne.
For a moment, he was stunned. It was his birthright, yes, yet the sudden presence of his name—stitched while he had barely spent a day in the Manor—was unexpected. A flurry of thoughts crossed his mind: recognition, inheritance, belonging.
Pennyworth, reading the confusion and subtle wonder in Damian’s eyes, continued. “The other names were embroidered professionally. Your arrival was sudden, and I took the liberty of adding yours myself, to be ready for Christmas morning.”
Damian’s green eyes widened slightly, and for the first time, he thought of the butler not as Pennyworth, the ever-present caretaker, but as Alfred—a guide, a protector, and, perhaps, a fatherly figure in his own right.
“You are part of the Wayne family now, Master Damian,” Alfred said softly, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “By blood or by bond, it is a blessing either way.”
Something inside Damian, tightly wound for so long by discipline, doubt, and a need to excel, unraveled. His eyes glistened, red tipping the edges, tears forming before he could stop them.
“Oh… you sweet boy,” Alfred murmured, drawing him into a gentle embrace. Damian stiffened briefly, unused to such comfort, and then allowed himself to lean into the warmth. The quiet, steady presence of Alfred’s arms and the soft scent of the Manor enveloped him.
In his mind, Damian reflected on his own insecurities—how he had felt like an unexpected addition, uncertain of his place among children who excelled in ways he had not yet mastered: Dick’s ease, Tim’s intellect, Cass’s mastery, Jason’s irreverent wit. Damian felt fully acknowledged, not for what he could do, but for who he was.
---
When breakfast was announced, Alfred led Damian to the dining room, where Bruce and the other children were already seated. Dick, Cass, Jason, and Tim glanced up, surprised to see Damian’s red-rimmed eyes again. But before they could ask, Alfred interceded smoothly.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said gently. “Master Damian and I just had a small talk.”
Damian’s composure returned quickly, posture immaculate as always, though a quiet warmth lingered beneath the surface. He took his seat, hands folded neatly, eyes scanning the impressive breakfast spread Alfred had prepared.
Dick leaned forward, playful grin tugging at his lips. “Come on, everyone, finish up fast! Presents await!”
The children ate quickly, conversation bubbling with anticipation. Even Damian allowed himself a measured taste of the pastries, the faintest flicker of a smile brushing his lips.
---
Once the table was cleared, the children hurried toward the main hall, where the Christmas tree gleamed with its ornaments, lights twinkling softly in the morning light. Alfred motioned for order: Dick first, then Cass, Jason, Tim, and finally Damian.
Dick opened his first present—a handmade muffler, cap, and gloves from Alfred. His eyes softened as he hugged the gift close. Bruce’s gift, a note about Zitka the elephant’s relocation from Haley’s Circus to the Gotham Zoo, made his eyes glisten. Gifts from his siblings followed: Cass gave him a new helmet for his Robin bike, Jason a new gaming console, and Tim a rare Pokémon plushie. Each gift carried thoughtfulness and warmth, laughter and appreciation ringing out with every unwrapping.
Cass’s turn revealed a similar pattern: Alfred’s muffler set, Bruce’s ballet shoes, Dick’s opera tickets, Jason’s Diary of a Wimpy Kid collection, and Tim’s toxin-free calligraphy set. Jason’s gifts included muffler set, watch repair tools from Bruce that he had asked for, a skateboard from Cass, and Beyblades and yo-yos from Dick. Tim’s gifts followed the same pattern of thoughtfulness: telescope from Bruce, gloves set from Alfred, Robin hoodie from Dick, twelve pairs of glasses (with fake lens) from Cass, and various games from Jason.
Finally, all eyes turned toward Damian. He froze momentarily, unsure how to respond.
“Now it’s your turn, Damian,” Dick announced cheerfully. “Gifts are waiting for you too.”
Damian’s brow furrowed slightly. “You… have gifts for me?”
Jason grinned. “Of course. But not here. Yours are in your room.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed, a mix of curiosity and anticipation flickering across his features. “Gifts… in my room?”
Tim leaned forward, voice gentle but teasing. “We placed them while you were training and after you went to see the tapestry. They’re all ready for you.”
Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, a small, controlled flicker of excitement sparking in his eyes. The rest of the household followed him toward his room, and the sense of inclusion—the recognition, the bond—hung warmly in the Manor air, soft as the snow that still clung to the grounds outside.
When they reached the door to his quarters, Alfred paused, hand on the knob. He glanced toward Bruce, who gave the faintest nod. Alfred pushed open the door.
Damian stepped inside—and froze.
The seating area of his room, which had always been austere and sparsely furnished, had been transformed. Between the couches were neatly arranged toys: several unopened Lego sets, small die-cast cars, two remote-control planes with their controllers stacked beside them, a glossy red train set winding in a circle on the rug, and a collection of puzzles stacked like a challenge waiting for him. Off to one side sat a towering dollhouse, complete with balconies and tiny plastic furniture. Barbie dolls with various clothes surrounding it. Near the window, pots of flowers caught the light: a white peace lily, a spray of golden chrysanthemums, and a jasmine vine that trailed up its wooden support, faintly fragrant. A soft, woven blanket was draped over the arm of the couch, looking impossibly warm.
Damian’s eyes darted across the scene, uncertain. His throat tightened.
Tim couldn’t hold back. “I decorated this part,” he said quickly, his voice eager, almost too eager. “The toys, the puzzles—those are from me.”
Damian blinked at him, caught between suspicion and a hesitant flicker of awe.
No one has ever thought about what I might like to play with. Grandfather would sneer at these things… toys are distractions. But… I’ve always wanted to try them. I’ve always wanted to just… be allowed to. Tim thought of this. For me.
Before he could respond, Cassandra tugged at his sleeve. “Now my turn,” she pulled him toward the steps that led to the elevated part of the room where his bed was. Damian followed reluctantly, but when they reached the top, he stopped again.
On one side, the bookshelves Alfred had stocked earlier had two desks placed against one another. It used to be empty but now—
Neat rows of pens and pencils, markers arranged in cups, notebooks in different sizes and colors, rolls of washi tape with stars and animals, bottles of glue, pads of sticky notes shaped like arrows and animals, stacks of specialty papers. A large sketchbook sat at the center, heavy and thick. Beside it lay a tin of colored pencils with every shade imaginable, and boxes of watercolor and acrylic paints. A slim fabric pouch rested near the corner.
Damian unzipped it and found an assortment of charcoal pencils, their black tips ready for work. He traced one carefully with his thumb, not sure if this was real.
Mother used to tell me artists see the world with sharper eyes than warriors. But I was never allowed to try. Cassandra… she saw me. She gave me tools, not just for battle, but for… expression. She believes I can create, not only destroy. Do they really see me this way?
Then his gaze shifted, inevitably, to the other desk. On it stood a sleek, new computer.
He turned to Cass. She gave a single shake, “That’s from Dad,” pointing towards the PC.
Father… gave this to me?… a gift? For me to learn, explore, live? Does that mean he likes me?
Damian’s chest tightened. He looked across the room, straight at Bruce. His father met his gaze with steady eyes and gave a single nod.
Jason’s voice cut in before Damian could think too much. “Check the bed, kid.”
Damian turned—and nearly stumbled.
His bed was piled high with plush animals: tigers, wolves, lions, foxes, even a little bat with oversized wings. They sprawled across the blankets in an overwhelming riot of fur and fabric.
Plushies. Silly, soft things I’ve only ever seen in shop windows when passing by on missions. His teachers would have mocked them. Grandfather would’ve burned them. But they’re here. In my bed. They’re saying this is my place now, where I can rest and not be a soldier. Jason… gave me comfort. Safety. He wants me to know I belong here too.
Jason smirked. “That’s me. Figured you could use some backup troops at night.”
“And the room’s new design?” Alfred interjected, his eyes twinkling. “The carpets, the curtains, the vases—all my suggestion, Master Damian. A touch of Persian, a hint of Arabia, and one or two pieces in honor of your mother’s heritage. I thought you might feel… at home.”
They remembered my mother. They remembered where I come from. No one has ever acknowledged that side of me without twisting it into a weapon. But here… it’s beauty, family, pride. Alfred… you gave me a piece of my mother I can keep. A home that feels mine, not borrowed. I… I don’t know how to thank you.
Damian’s gaze swept over the heavy curtains with their intricate patterns, the thick woven carpet, the porcelain vases etched with Azure Dragon, Vermilion Bird, White Tiger and Black Tortoise holding plum blossoms. His fingers brushed the fringe of the rug, and his throat constricted.
“Sorry, little D,” Dick said suddenly, spreading his hands. “My gift’s running late. You’ll get it after dinner, promise.”
The silence that followed was thick. Damian’s lips parted. He forced out words that trembled despite himself.
“…Thank you.” It cracked, breaking like glass.
The silence grew heavier.
Jason, never one to let things sit, leaned back and drawled, “Well, that got awkward fast. Somebody break out a deck of cards.”
Tim jumped in immediately. “Come on! Let’s try the Legos. Or the RC plane. I’ll show you how to work the controls!”
Cassandra gave a small tug on Damian’s sleeve again, urging him toward the desk. For once, Damian didn’t resist.
---
Later, the sound of the manor doors swinging open echoed down the hall. Kate Kane strode in, coat still dusted with snow, red hair peeking from beneath her winter cap.
She shook Alfred’s hand warmly, ruffled Tim’s hair despite his squawk of protest, clasped Cass’s shoulder with a nod, and even bumped fists with Jason before finally turning toward Bruce.
“Four more, Bruce?” Her eyebrows lifted. “What is this, cousin—a boarding house?”
Bruce’s lips twitched. “Something like that.”
Kate smirked. “Mhm. Admit it, you’re running out of square footage.”
“Kate!” Dick darted forward. “Did you bring it?”
Kate rolled her eyes. “Yes, I brought it. Alfred has it.”
Damian narrowed his eyes. “Is it my gift?”
Dick wagged a finger. “Not yet, little D. After dinner.”
---
The dining hall glowed with warm light, the table set for family. Conversation rose and fell, but Damian barely spoke. He was too busy devouring his food as quickly as possible, shoveling forkful after forkful into his mouth.
Jason laughed so hard he nearly dropped his glass. “Look at him! Trying to speed-run Christmas dinner.”
Tim leaned sideways, smirking. “What’s the matter, Damian? Worried dessert will run away?”
“Careful, Dami, you’ll choke.” Even Cassandra’s lips twitched in amusement.
Damian ignored them all, his eyes occasionally flicking toward Dick, who only smirked knowingly.
---
After dinner, the family gathered in the living room. Damian planted himself in front of Dick, arms folded.
“My gift. Now.” His tone was petulant, imperious, and far too childish.
Dick chuckled. “Bossy tonight, huh?” He reached under the couch and pulled out a square black box, placing it carefully in Damian’s hands.
Damian tore it open. Inside lay a red collar, stitched leather, with two tiny golden bells attached.
He stared at it, baffled.
And then the realization struck. His eyes widened. “You didn’t—”
“Oh, I did,” Dick said cheerfully. He turned his head. “Alfred! Bring him in!”
Alfred entered, carrying a small black bundle in his arms. The bundle wriggled, let out a faint yip, and revealed itself to be a puppy, all black fur and glossy black eyes.
For a moment, Damian forgot how to breathe.
Dick took the pup from Alfred and held it out. “He’s a Great Dane. Two weeks old.” He gently set the puppy into Damian’s frozen arms.
Damian looked at the creature, then at Dick, then back at the creature. His chest burned with something unbearable. And then, without thinking, he hurled himself forward, the puppy squished safely between them, and collided with Dick.
“Oof!” Dick staggered, then steadied himself.
“Thank you, Richard,” Damian whispered fiercely. “Thank you so much.”
The room stilled. It was the first time Damian had ever called him anything other than “Grayson.”
When Dick finally released him, Damian turned next to Cassandra. He hugged her tightly. “Thank you, Cassandra.”
Then to Jason: “Thank you, Jason.”
And Tim, last of all. “Thank you, Timothy.”
When he stepped back, standing straight, he said clearly, “Thank you—all of you—for accepting me. For being my siblings.”
The silence that followed was full, heavy, but warm.
Jason broke it, smirking. “Alright, this is way too Hallmark. Name the mutt before I cry.”
Damian blinked at the puppy, then nodded once. “Titus.”
---
Later, as the house quieted, Damian hovered awkwardly near Dick’s doorway. His face was set in its usual scowl, but his cheeks were darkened, betraying him.
“Richard,” he said stiffly, “I… would like to sleep here. With you. Tonight.” His voice dropped to a hesitant whisper, the dusky blush spreading across his cheeks as he clutched Titus closer to his chest.
Dick’s expression softened. “Of course, little D.”
Jason, who had followed to the door, leaned in with a grin. “Guess we know who the favorite sibling is now.”
Damian’s blush deepened until it looked like he’d been scorched by the sun. He stomped past Jason without a word, clutching Titus.
By the time the night wore on, Damian had curled up in Dick’s bed, Titus nestled beside him. Cass had drifted asleep against the headboard, sketchbook forgotten in her lap. Tim was sprawled in the armchair, a book across his chest. Jason had claimed a patch of rug, snoring faintly.
Bruce stood quietly in the threshold, watching. His children, all together. Damian, accepted, finally.
And though they had done it with ease, Bruce still found himself standing apart, wondering when—if ever—he would be able to bridge the same gap.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 27: Happy New Year
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The manor was quieter now, the roaring chaos of Christmas mellowed into a softer hum. Wrapping paper no longer littered the halls, though stray ribbons still peeked out from under couches and chair legs like forgotten decorations. Snow clung stubbornly to the grounds, coating the frozen lake in a glassy sheen. It was December 27th, the last days of the year, and the Wayne household was settling into the strange in-between—Christmas joy lingering, New Year anticipation waiting just beyond.
At the crack of dawn, Damian was already in the amphitheater. His breath misted in the cold air as he struck, pivoted, and kicked with soldier-like rhythm. His movements were sharp and deliberate, each landing echoing against the stone. Hours stretched, and though his small body grew sore, his will never faltered.
Until a voice interrupted.
“Enough.”
Damian froze mid-strike. His father’s silhouette loomed at the edge of the amphitheater, framed against the pale winter sunrise. Batman without the cowl—Bruce Wayne in his robe and boots, broad shoulders stiff with the weight of command even at home.
Damian straightened. “I am not finished.”
“You’ve been at it since four in the morning,” Bruce replied evenly, stepping closer. “One hour is enough. Pushing beyond will only weaken your form.”
Damian’s jaw clenched. His instincts screamed to continue, to prove himself, to never relent. If I stop, I lose ground. If I stop, I become less.
But then Bruce added, softer this time, “I want you strong, Damian. Not broken.”
The boy’s chest tightened. He didn’t lower his fists at first—but then he exhaled sharply and let his arms fall.
That was when Dick appeared, bounding down the steps with his usual grin, scarf flapping around his neck. “See? What did I tell you? Even Batman says pacing yourself is important.”
Damian scowled. “I don’t need pacing. I need mastery.”
Dick crouched beside him, leaning on his knees so his face was level with Damian’s. “Or maybe you need… storytime.”
Damian blinked. “…Storytime?”
“Yeah,” Dick grinned wider, shooting Bruce a sidelong glance. “Why don’t you ask Dad to read you one? Something fun. Trust me, you’ll like it.”
Bruce raised a brow. “Dick—”
But Damian turned, small voice uncertain. “You would… read to me?”
A flicker of hesitation crossed Bruce’s face. “If you want me to.”
Damian studied him for a long beat. He doesn’t order me. He asks. He… offers. The boy gave a single sharp nod. “Very well.”
---
The kitchen smelled of pancakes and cinnamon. Alfred moved gracefully between counters, delivering plates like a conductor leading a quiet orchestra. Damian sat between Dick and Bruce at the long table, something that Dick insisted on with a subtle nudge and a pointed look at his father.
Tim was already half-buried in a book propped against the orange juice jug, Jason was stealing extra bacon when Alfred’s back was turned, and Cassandra sat silently, observing everything with her calm, hawk-like focus.
Damian tried not to fidget. Being between Bruce and Dick felt like being pulled in two directions—one heavy and stern, the other light and teasing.
“Careful,” Dick teased, eyeing Damian’s fork, “or that pancake’s gonna escape.”
Damian glared. “Food does not escape.”
Jason smirked. “Not with you around, Gremlin.”
A faint chuckle slipped from Bruce. Just one—but it startled Damian enough to glance up. His father’s expression remained composed, but his eyes were softer.
He laughed. At me? Or… with me?
---
Later, in the drawing room, Bruce sat with a children’s book in his hands. Not a tactical manual. Not a code. A book with a bright, painted cover.
“Roald Dahl,” Dick explained as he flopped onto the couch. “Classic. Trust me, D, you’ll like it.”
Bruce cleared his throat and began to read. His voice was deep, deliberate—trained for command, not whimsy—but as the story unfolded, it softened. The words weren’t orders; they were colors, worlds, flights of fancy.
Damian leaned closer, eyes wide despite himself. So this is what stories are… not lessons, not instructions. Just… wonder.
When the chapter ended, he whispered, “Another.”
Bruce glanced at him, a shadow of surprise crossing his face, then nodded and continued.
---
After lunch, Dick had taken it upon himself to guide Damian in caring for Titus.
“Rule one,” Dick said firmly one night, standing in Damian’s doorway as Titus wagged happily at their feet. “Puppies need routine. You take him out after meals, after play, and before bed. Always.”
Damian wrinkled his nose. “That is… inconvenient.”
“Yeah,” Dick said with a grin, handing him the leash. “Welcome to responsibility.”
They padded through the hallways and out into the snowy garden. Damian shivered in his coat, Titus bounding clumsily ahead.
“Now what?” Damian asked, exasperated as Titus sniffed endlessly at a tree.
“You wait,” Dick said simply. “Patience, Little D.”
Damian glared. But when Titus finally did his business and Dick ruffled his hair with a proud, “See? He’ll learn,” Damian felt an odd warmth spread through him.
Later, when Titus curled on his blanket at the foot of Damian’s bed, Damian whispered into the dark, “You’re mine. And I’ll protect you.”
The puppy gave a soft snore in reply
---
That evening, Dick declared a family movie night. The Manor’s movie theater lights dimmed to a soft glow, the heavy curtains drawn shut to keep out the winter night. Plush, deep-red velvet couches lined the room, stacked in tiers so everyone had a perfect view. Alfred had procured warm blankets for everyone, Bruce had even oredered bowls of popcorn and cocoa. The fire roared, shadows flickered across the tall windows, and the Wayne manor didn’t feel cavernous, but warm.
Tim and Jason were scattered in the rows behind, each wrapped in blankets and munching popcorn. Cassandra had claimed an entire couch for herself and was curled up in a blanket with only her eyes peeking out.
“Disney marathon,” Dick announced.
Jason groaned. “What are we, five?”
“You act five,” Tim muttered without looking up.
“Shut it, Timbo.”
“Children,” Alfred warned, though his lips twitched at the corners.
Dick plopped down in the middle row, a blanket draped across his knees, and gestured to the empty seat beside him. “C’mon, Little D. Sit here. You can’t watch The Lion King from the back row.”
Damian eyed the offered space warily, then, after a deliberate pause, climbed up and sat down between Dick and Bruce. Titus, now fully accustomed to his new home, padded quietly onto the floor, curling at Damian’s feet. Damian’s small hand brushed over the puppy’s black fur, eyes still fixed on the screen as the opening notes of the movie began.
At first, Damian sat stiff as ever, analyzing every frame like a battlefield. But when Simba curled between his parents, his gaze softened. Without realizing, he inched closer to Bruce.
Bruce, silent, let him.
Halfway through, Jason muttered, “Bet you five bucks Damian cries when Mufasa—”
“Jason,” Bruce cut sharply, and Jason slumped back, grinning.
By the time the movie ended, Damian sat curled in a blanket on the couch. The sound from the screen had blurred, but the warmth remained—Bruce’s presence beside him, Dick’s laughter hovering like sunlight.
Perhaps… this is what it means to have a father. Not commands. Not fear. Just… staying.
Damian’s head tilted, resting briefly against Bruce’s arm. Bruce stilled, then allowed the weight, his gaze softening in the firelight.
From the corner of his eyes, Dick caught the moment and smiled, quiet and proud.
For the first time, Bruce and Damian weren’t two strangers bound by blood. They were—just for a heartbeat—father and son
---
Over the next few days, the rhythm of life at Wayne Manor shifted in ways Damian hadn’t expected.
The air was sharp and cold in the early hours, the grass crunching underfoot as Cassandra stepped outside with Damian. She wore no coat, only her training gear, and moved through her stretches in silence.
Damian fell into stance beside her, copying the motions without hesitation. They did not speak, but they did not need to. Each strike, each block, each measured breath was its own language.
After a long sequence, Damian finally broke the quiet. “You do not correct me.”
Cassandra glanced at him, her dark eyes steady. “You don’t need correction. You need… rhythm.”
Damian frowned. “Rhythm is not combat.”
She tilted her head, the faintest ghost of a smile appearing. “Everything is rhythm.”
They launched into sparring, their bodies moving in a blur of motion. Damian felt no pressure to prove dominance—only the flow of exchanging movement with someone who understood without words.
When they paused, breath frosting in the air, Cassandra crouched down so her eyes were level with his. “You’re fast. But you don’t listen… here.” She tapped her chest.
Damian stiffened. Listen with my chest? It made no sense. And yet, watching her calm stillness, he thought perhaps she was right.
“…Again,” he muttered, resetting his stance.
Her smile widened just a fraction. “Again.”
---
The playhouse had become Jason’s kingdom. By mid-afternoon, he’d already dragged half the costumes out of the trunks, draping capes and plastic helmets across the floor.
Damian stood in the doorway, unimpressed. “This is foolish.”
Jason grinned, adjusting a pirate hat. “Nope. This is art, Little D. And today, you’re the evil wizard.”
“I refuse.”
Jason tossed him a crooked staff. “Come on. Every good story needs a villain. You’re practically perfect for the role.”
Damian caught the staff midair, glaring. “You’re mocking me.”
“Yup,” Jason said cheerfully. “Now, say your evil line.”
Damian crossed his arms. “No.”
Jason leaned in, voice exaggeratedly deep. “Nooooo! You must obey me, pit demon, or I shall banish you to—”
“Enough!” Damian snapped, then blurted without thinking, “Bow before my power or be destroyed!”
Jason burst out laughing, nearly dropping his plastic sword. “There we go! That’s it!”
Color rose to Damian’s cheeks. “That was not serious.”
“Didn’t have to be. You’re playing, kid.” Jason ruffled his hair roughly, ignoring Damian’s indignant scowl. “You gotta loosen up sometimes.”
He makes it ridiculous. He makes it light. And… I don’t hate it.
---
After the laughter and chaos of the playhouse, Damian sought a quieter corner, drawn to where his brother Tim worked undisturbed. Tim was always there, perched with his notebook and a dozen open volumes, the faint scratch of pen keeping him company.
Damian hovered at the edge one evening before stepping inside. “What are you studying?”
Tim didn’t look up. “Strategies. Historical campaigns, battle formations, probability trees. Want to see?”
“Yes.” Damian slid into the chair opposite him, eyes narrowing on the pages. “This pincer movement is flawed.”
Tim finally glanced at him, smirking. “Only if you assume the enemy responds predictably.”
Damian considered this, leaning closer. “…Explain.”
And so Tim did, laying out diagrams, counter-diagrams, adjustments to probability. His voice was sharp, methodical, but there was patience in the way he walked Damian through each layer.
At one point, Damian shook his head. “Too complex. Too many variables. You cannot control them all.”
“You don’t control them,” Tim said simply. “You anticipate them. And you prepare for when your anticipation fails.”
Damian blinked, struck by the simplicity. Prepare… for failure? Not to avoid it, but to survive it.
Hours slipped by unnoticed. When Alfred eventually came to call them for supper, both boys looked up in unison, surprised at how dark the windows had become.
As they packed the books away, Damian spoke quietly. “You are… intelligent.”
Tim raised an eyebrow, amused. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”
Damian sniffed. “…It was not.”
But in truth, it was.
---
It was two nights before New Year’s when the whole house seemed to breathe warmth. Snow fell thick outside, the windows rattling softly against the wind, but inside the manor, the family gathered in the great room.
Jason had dragged beanbags from the playhouse and tossed them around the fireplace. Tim had staked out one corner with a chessboard open, though he wasn’t paying much attention. Cassandra sprawled across the rug, silently flipping through a sketchbook.
Dick entered with a bowl of popcorn balanced on one hip and tossed a piece at Jason, who caught it in his mouth. Titus bounded after the stray kernels that hit the floor, tail wagging furiously.
Damian stood in the doorway, hovering. He wasn’t sure if he was meant to join or simply observe.
“Hey, Little D,” Jason called. “Grab a seat before Titus claims ‘em all.”
Titus, as if on cue, launched himself onto one of the beanbags with a triumphant whuff.
The others laughed. Damian hesitated, then crossed the room, nudging the puppy aside just enough to sit down. Titus flopped against his leg without hesitation.
Cassandra tilted her head at him. “He likes you best,” she said simply.
Damian looked down at the warm weight pressing into his side. “…He should. I’m his master.”
“Mm,” Cassandra hummed, unconvinced, her smile small but real.
Tim set aside his chess piece and leaned forward. “So, Damian. You still think playhouses are beneath you?”
Jason barked a laugh. “Careful, Timbo. He’s starting to enjoy ‘em.”
“I do not enjoy—” Damian started hotly. But then Titus barked, tail thumping, as if announcing the truth for him. Jason howled with laughter, nearly spilling popcorn.
Dick clapped a hand on Damian’s shoulder, steadying him. “You don’t have to say it, kiddo. We can see it.”
The fire crackled. Jason teased. Tim smirked. Cassandra’s quiet hum filled the space. Titus snored against Damian’s leg.
And for the first time since stepping into this house, Damian didn’t feel like an outsider trying to carve out space. He was in it—woven into the noise, the mess, the warmth.
Just another voice in the room. Just another brother.
---
The night air was sharp, biting with the kind of cold that made every breath puff into clouds. Blankets were draped around shoulders, steaming mugs clutched between gloved hands. The rooftop of Wayne Manor had been transformed: lanterns strung across railings, a wide flatscreen television set up against the chimney to broadcast the countdown from Times Square, and—at Bruce’s discreet instruction—small launchers set along the far edge, primed for his own private fireworks display.
All five children sat gathered together—the younger three were awake only through sheer willpower; Tim was fighting yawns, Jason leaning back on his elbows, pretending he wasn’t excited but giving himself away with the restless tapping of his foot; Cassandra bundled under Dick’s arm, her eyes never leaving the glow of the TV; and Damian, perched on a blanket with Titus lying across his lap, as though the puppy alone kept him from trembling with anticipation.
Bruce stood near the window with Alfred at his side, both men sharing the kind of quiet that needed no words.
Then, in a chorus—television anchors announcing, children and cities across the world joining in—came the countdown.
“Ten… nine… eight…”
Jason roused himself, his grin coming alive again as he elbowed Tim.
Cassandra’s lips moved soundlessly with the numbers, her eyes wide with anticipation.
Damian sat straighter, fingers curling in Titus’s fur as if bracing for battle, though he didn’t know what for.
“Three… two… one—!”
The world outside exploded.
Brilliant blooms of color erupted in the sky—scarlet, gold, sapphire, emerald—painting the black canvas above Gotham with impossible light. The thunder of fireworks rolled through the walls, making Titus bark once before settling, tilting his head in puzzlement. Bruce’s ordered display joined the city’s, streaks of blue and white spiraling upward before bursting in shimmering crowns. The world became a theater of color, each flare painting astonishment on young faces.
Jason shot to his feet. “Holy—! Look at that!” His voice was swallowed by the boom overhead. His laughter rose, wild and free, as bursts of silver cascaded down like stars raining to earth.
Cassandra pressed both palms to the glass, her face tilted up, eyes shining in the reflection of violet sparks. Her lips parted, a soundless oh escaping her. She looked younger than she ever had, wonder softening every line of her guarded expression.
And Damian—he could only stare. For all his training, all his discipline, nothing had prepared him for this: the sky itself splitting open to reveal beauty with no purpose but joy. The reflection flickered in his wide green eyes, each explosion mirrored like a secret fire inside him.
So this… this is what they were waiting for.
“Happy New Year!” Dick’s voice rang out as he pulled Cassandra close, clapped Jason on the back, and tugged Damian firmly against his side. Jason slung an arm around Tim, who leaned into the warmth of his brother’s hold, the thunder above a rhythm that felt almost like a heartbeat.
Bruce stood a little back from the group, the fireworks painting him in staccato flashes of light and shadow. Alfred was at his side, silent but smiling faintly, his hands folded neatly behind his back.
The children’s faces told the whole story. Cassandra’s wonder was unguarded, her eyes alive with a joy she so rarely expressed in words. Jason’s grin was broad and mischievous, but his laughter rang out pure. Tim, ever composed, still allowed himself to be swept up by the brilliance above, head tilted toward the sky in genuine admiration. Dick had his arms full of siblings, anchoring the moment with the same warmth he always brought. And Damian—his youngest—sat enraptured, his small form trembling with awe, Titus curled in his lap, eyes wide to the wonder of a world he was only beginning to discover.
Bruce let the sight etch itself into memory. He had spent so long chasing shadows, holding his children at arm’s length out of fear—fear of failing them, fear of not being enough. But tonight, in the thunder of fireworks and the glow of their laughter, he saw not his failures, but his family.
He stepped forward at last, his voice low but steady, carrying across the rooftop.
“Happy New Year.”
Five young heads turned toward him, and for once, he didn’t see distance or doubt staring back. He saw trust. He saw belonging.
And many more to come, Bruce thought, almost like a vow—quiet, unshakable, and his alone.
Above, the sky blazed with promise. Below, a family began the year together—whole, fragile, but stronger than they had ever been.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 28: The New Year Starts With A Revelation
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The battlefield was quiet now—at least, as quiet as a city block could be after an alien invasion. Rubble smoked, cars lay flipped on their sides, and a few stubborn sparks snapped from broken power lines. The Justice League stood in the ruins, bruised, battered, and covered in grime. But alive. Victorious.
Flash was the first to break the silence. He leaned on his knees, breathing hard. “Okay, so—no one tell me that wasn’t the weirdest invasion yet. I mean—slug aliens? With jetpacks? Really?”
Aquaman grunted, dragging his trident along the pavement. “I’ve fought weirder.”
“Yeah,” Green Arrow muttered, brushing ash off his shoulder. “But those things drooled. On me. Twice.”
Hawkgirl snorted, but her chuckle died when she glanced toward a still figure on the ground. “Uh… is Batman supposed to be lying that still?”
Heads whipped around.
Sure enough, Gotham’s Dark Knight was sprawled near the wreckage of a shuttle, cape tangled in the debris. He wasn’t moving.
For a moment, nobody breathed. Then—chaos.
“Holy crap, he’s down!” Flash zipped over, circling him like a panicked mosquito. “What do we do? What do we do? He’s not moving!”
“Check his pulse,” Wonder Woman snapped, already kneeling beside Batman. She pressed her fingers to his neck, brow furrowing. “…Alive. Heartbeat’s there. Breathing shallow. But—something’s wrong.”
“…What do you mean ‘wrong’?” Green Arrow edged closer, frowning.
“Well,” Wonder Woman said slowly, “he’s not healing.”
There was a long pause.
“…Healing?” Canary echoed.
“Yes,” Wonder Woman said, almost defensively. “I assumed he—he always recovers so quickly, even after the worst wounds—”
Aquaman jabbed a thumb toward Batman. “I always figured he was some sort of shadow demon. Feeding on fear.”
“What? No,” Hawkgirl said. “I thought he was a vampire.”
“Oh, thank you,” Arrow said, throwing his hands up. “I said the same thing last year and everyone laughed at me!”
Flash zipped back, pointing frantically at Batman’s very human, very bruised side. “Guys—guys, GUYS. Look at this! That’s a rib injury. He’s bleeding. Actual red blood. Like—like a normal person’s blood!”
A stunned silence.
“…Wait,” Green Lantern said slowly. “You’re telling me Batman’s just—what—a guy in a suit?”
Flash was still pacing. “He’s not healing! What kind of vampire doesn’t heal?! What kind of immortal shadow thing gets a busted rib?!”
“Maybe he’s… like… a different species of vampire?” Green Arrow offered weakly.
Superman sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He’s human.”
The rest of the League spun to stare at him.
“…Excuse me?” Arrow said. “Did you just say ‘human’? Like capital H, goes-to-the-grocery-store human?”
“Yes,” Superman said flatly. “He’s mortal. Flesh and blood. Just like you.”
There was a long pause. Then Canary arched a brow at Green Arrow.
“Why are you so shocked, Ollie? You’re human too.”
Arrow shot her a look, waving toward Batman’s crumpled form.
“Yeah, but I don’t go charging headfirst into alien death squads like a one-man cavalry! And I definitely don’t get up from punctured lungs and broken ribs to keep fighting. Of course I thought he wasn’t human!”
Green Lantern crossed his arms, smirking. “Well, it’s not like Arrow’s wrong. Every one of us thought Spooky over there was something else. Vampire, demon, robot ninja—take your pick.”
Flash jabbed a finger at Batman’s limp hand. “He carries candy for lost kids! Vampires don’t carry lollipops!”
Another silence—longer this time, heavier. Then the panic truly set in.
“Then we need a medic!” Green Lantern blurted, hovering in frantic circles. “We need a hospital, a doctor, something! He’s dying!”
“Can’t take him to a hospital,” Canary said sharply. “They’ll unmask him.”
“Then let’s unmask him now,” Green Arrow snapped, crouching down and reaching for the cowl.
But before his fingers could even brush the fabric, Superman’s hand clamped down on his wrist with steel force. His voice was ice.
“No. He keeps his mask on. That’s his rule. We respect it.”
Arrow yanked his hand back, grumbling. “What, we’re just supposed to sit here and let him bleed out because of a dress code?”
“We can continue this,” Wonder Woman ordered, taking charge. “But not here, let's return to the headquarters first.”
Aquaman muttered under his breath, “If he wakes.”
“Don’t say that!” Flash shrieked, nearly vibrating out of his boots. “He always wakes up! He does the scary standing thing with the cape and the glaring and the—come on, Batman, wake up already!”
But Batman didn’t stir. His breaths came shallow, ragged. For the first time in this superhero gig, the League looked down at him and realized—with creeping horror—that the Bat was breakable.
Clark didn’t wait for a vote. With a heavy sigh, he bent down and scooped Batman into his arms. Cradled. Princess-style.
“Oh, that’s just undignified,” Oliver muttered, watching the cape drape over Clark’s elbow. “He’s gonna kill you when he wakes up.”
“Would you rather I drag him by the ankles?” Clark shot back, adjusting his grip.
Barry zipped around them, hands flapping. “Oh, oh, oh my god, you’re actually carrying him like Cinderella! Guys, we need a picture. Someone get a picture. No, wait, Batman will murder us if we take a picture. Forget the picture. But still!”
Dinah pinched the bridge of her nose. “Barry. Focus. He’s hurt.”
“Yes, thank you, Dinah,” Clark said through clenched teeth. He rose into the air, cape rippling. “We’re going to the Hall of Justice. Now.”
---
By the time they touched down in the gleaming marble halls of the League’s headquarters, the mood had shifted from battle-tension to pure chaos.
“Lay him here, lay him here!” Diana barked, clearing a table with one sweep of her arm.
Clark set Batman down as gently as possible, brushing dust off his chestplate. The Dark Knight looked frighteningly fragile, pale under the cowl.
“Oh God, oh God,” Barry babbled, pacing. “This is bad, this is bad. He’s not healing, Clark, you said he’s human, he’s really human—oh man, what if he has, like, broken organs? Do humans break their organs?!”
Shayera folded her arms, wings twitching. “I told you all this would happen eventually. Mortal bodies break. Unlike my people, you can’t just bash them together and expect them to keep fighting.”
Hal hovered above the table, ring glowing as he scanned Batman. “Uh… yeah, okay, I don’t know what half of these readings mean, but it’s not good. Definitely not good. Like, his insides are waving a little white flag right now.”
“Organs don’t wave flags, Hal,” J’onn said calmly, though his brow furrowed as he read Batman with his Martian senses. “…But he is in critical pain.”
“Critical pain?!” Arthur slammed a fist onto the table. “That means he’s dying, right?!”
“No one is dying!” Diana snapped. “But we need to stabilize him—”
Oliver had already reached for the edge of the cowl. “Well, first thing’s first, let’s get this mask off—”
A firm hand stopped him. Clark’s hand. His voice was like steel. “No. He doesn’t want his identity revealed. We respect that.”
Oliver gaped. “Respect that? Respect that?! Clark, the guy is bleeding out like a pincushion, and you want to respect his wardrobe choices?!”
Dinah crossed her arms. “He’s right, though. Batman would rather keel over than have you yank his cowl off.”
Shayera rolled her eyes. “This is ridiculo—
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound was small but sharp, coming from Batman’s utility belt. A communicator, flashing.
Diana grabbed it without hesitation, pressing the button. “This is Diana. Batman is injured. He’s not—he’s not healing. We don’t know how to help him.”
The line crackled. For a moment, only static. Then a voice—small, young, fierce.
“Batman is hurt?”
Every head in the room turned.
In the background of the transmission came more noise—shuffling, whispers, an urgent chorus of voices.
“Wait—he’s injured?”
“Is he hurt bad?”
“Move, let me hear—”
“Give it back, it’s my turn—”
The voices overlapped chaotically, and Diana blinked. She had counted at least four…no, five of them.
Then, a firmer voice cut through the chaos, introducing himself in a clipped, precise tone:
“This is Agent A. We will be there.”
The communicator went dead.
Silence.
“…Was that a child’s voice?” Arthur asked slowly.
Oliver raised a brow. “Correction: that was multiple children’s voices. Don’t tell me you didn’t hear it.”
Clark frowned, thoughtful. “Batman does have a son. Robin. I met him a while ago. But… I didn’t know he had more children.”
Barry’s jaw dropped. “Wait—what?! That wasn’t just a rumor?! Robin is real? He lets an actual kid fight crime?! You’re kidding! Batman, the one who shoves candy bars at kids we rescue and growls about protecting innocence, and he has a young sidekick?!”
Hal raised his brows. “Spooky as a father? I can't fucking believe it.”
Dinah crossed her arms. “Oh, this I’ve got to see.”
And then, above the Hall, came the low hum of engines.
They rushed to the window just in time to see a bat-shaped plane descending onto the rooftop. Sleek, black, unmistakable. The hatch hissed open.
Five figures spilled out, sprinting toward the entrance with deadly precision despite their small frames. Each wore a domino mask. And behind them, calm as though he’d walked this path a thousand times, came a man in his sixties, also masked, carrying a heavy case.
For once, the Justice League could only gape.
“…Did Batman just send in the junior cavalry?” Barry whispered.
---
The roar of the Batplane faded into a low hum as it settled on the rooftop. As the children came bounding out, each moving with a purpose that seemed impossible for their ages.
The tallest of them, a black-haired boy, stepped forward first. Even though he was barely ten, he moved with the confidence of a general. The League’s eyes followed him instinctively—he carried himself like a leader, scanning the room, already judging the situation, the chaos, the injured figure they were all staring at.
Behind him, the only girl of the group moved. She was slight, almost ethereal, her movements shadow-like, quiet, precise, almost blending with the surroundings. The League couldn’t help but notice how she mirrored the figure on the floor, the way she approached with measured steps as if she were already accustomed to danger.
Then another boy with curly black hair came into view. He was loud, vocal, swearing under his breath as he stormed forward. “Who the hell let him collapse like this?!” The words echoed in the hangar, sharp and full of indignation. His small frame was all fire and impatience, impossible to ignore.
A thin boy with black hair, pale skin, and piercing gaze that even burst through the domino mask followed, carefully clutching a small med-kit as though he’d been trained for this exact moment. Every step he took was precise, careful, and purposeful.
Finally, the smallest of the group—a black-haired boy with a dusky complexion—trailed slightly behind. Despite being barely five or four?, he radiated a kind of ferocity that made the League instinctively step back. Tiny fists clenched, teeth bared, and eyes wide with determination, he seemed ready to take on the world.
And then, calm and unhurried, came a man in his mid-sixties, carrying a heavy medical case. His presence alone demanded respect. Even among gods and heroes, he moved as if the room belonged to him.
He stopped just short of the League and surveyed them with unflinching, sharp eyes. Then he spoke, calm but commanding:
“Step aside, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve done enough.”
The League froze.
Five children, barely old enough to have finished kindergarten, and a single man, were now in control of the situation. Without a word, without a glance at them, they moved to tend to the fallen figure on the floor.
And the Justice League, the most powerful beings on Earth, could only step back—astonished, bewildered, and more than a little unnerved.
---
The five masked children and the older man had moved in with astonishing speed. Batman was already being handled with precision—one child unbuckling his gauntlets, another easing his cowl back just enough to check his breathing. The League stood there, stunned into silence.
But of course, silence never lasted long.
Diana leaned slightly toward J’onn, her voice low—though not as low as she thought.
“Look at them,” she murmured. “They’re so small… yet each moves with such purpose. More disciplined than many warriors I’ve trained with.”
J’onn’s red eyes narrowed, his tone measured but curious.
“They are not afraid. There is no hesitation. Each knows their role. It is… remarkable. And troubling.”
Across the room, Shayera squinted at the tallest child. “The oldest one… looks about ten, maybe?”
Barry shuffled on his heels, crossing his arms. “Ten? That’s… uh… Bats must be what? Mid thirties at least?” He glanced at tallest boy again, whispering, though his tone carried more than he intended. “Unless—oh no… no, he’s older, right? There’s no way a ten-year-old kid can be competent enough to fight beside Batman. THE BATMAN impossible!”
Shayera folded her arms, her wings twitching. “Forties. At least. Unless he started all this when he was twelve.” She also pinched her nose, whispering back, though her tone carried farther than intended. “ And Barry, for the love of—keep it down!”
Barry blinked. “You’re saying Batman had kids before he got his learner’s permit?”
Meanwhile, Hal Jordan and Arthur Curry had their own not-so-private sidebar.
Hal tilted his head toward the group of children now pulling supplies from a heavy suitcase. “Okay, I’m just gonna say it—Spooky’s got game. Look at ‘em. Not a single one looks like the other. That girl’s got East Asian features. Three of them have similar black hair but totally different skin tones—one’s pale as a ghost, one’s rosy, one’s tan. And that little one? Black hair that shine a little chestnut and a desert complexion. My man’s been busy.”
Arthur let out a low whistle. “Different mothers, huh?”
Hal smirked. “Different continents.”
He thought he was whispering. He wasn’t.
Arthur blinked again. “You’re… whispering so loudly Hal, everyone can hear you.”
Hal waved him off, eyes still scanning the kids. “We’re whispering… ish.”
Diana and John exchanged incredulous glances, trying not to laugh, while Shayera pinched her nose. Barry muttered, “This is ridiculous…”
Before the Justice League could spiral further into speculation, Alfred’s voice cut across the rooftop like a blade through fog.
“Good gentlemen—and gentlewomen—if you could stop your speculations for a moment, it would be much appreciated.”
The children snapped to attention at his tone, moving swiftly into their respective tasks.
“Master Damian,” Alfred instructed the smallest boy, “the latch on the right side of the case. Open it. Bedding is inside.”
The smallest boy obeyed without hesitation, pulling out folded linens that looked far too large in his tiny hands.
“Master Richard, Master Jason—lift him. Carefully now. Onto the bedding.”
The tallest boy and the curly-haired one worked together, adjusting Batman’s weight with surprising strength and coordination.
“Master Timothy—first aid kit. Forceps and sutures, if you would.”
The pale boy slid the box open, already holding the requested tools out with sterile efficiency.
“And Miss Cassandra—start the IV line. Quickly, please.”
The girl moved silently, her motions so precise it seemed she’d done it a hundred times before.
The League just stared, wide-eyed, as these children—these children—set to work like a miniature medical unit.
Meanwhile, Diana whispered to J’onn again. “They’re… astonishing. Their focus, their calm—more than many adults I’ve worked with.”
J’onn nodded slowly. “I see children carrying burdens that should not be theirs. And yet… they carry them well.”
At that moment, the curly-haired boy finished adjusting the IV bag, then turned his head sharply, glaring directly at Superman. His small blue eyes burned with fury.
“Superman,” he snapped, “how the hell could you let this happen? Aren’t you supposed to be indestructible? Couldn’t you have stopped this before he got hurt?”
Clark froze, stunned. It wasn’t often someone spoke to him like that. Let alone someone who barely reached his hip.
“Master Jason,” Alfred’s voice was gentle but firm, “it is not his fault. Do not waste energy on misplaced blame.”
Jason muttered something that sounded suspiciously like damn right it’s someone’s fault, but stayed in place, hands steady.
Oliver Queen blinked, his mind catching up to what he’d been hearing this entire time. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing at the older man.
“Okay, so… that one. Definitely Spooky’s kid,” Hal whispered, glancing at Barry.
Then it happened.
Oliver’s mind caught up with a fragment of memory he hadn’t registered before—the way this Agent A had addressed the kids, the formal tones and those familiar names...
A slow click in his brain.
“Alfie… is that you?” Oliver’s voice rang out.
Instantly, all heads snapped toward him—Diana, J’onn, Shayera, Barry, Hal, Arthur. Even Dinah turned, their expressions of utter confusion.
The rooftop froze. Batman lay unconscious, five children meticulously managing his care, Alfred directing like a general, and the Justice League… finally realizing that these kids weren’t just capable—they were intimately connected to the man they thought they understood.
---
Oliver’s face had gone from pale to positively theatrical—as if he’d swallowed a thunderbolt and was now trying to keep it from igniting his eyebrows. He spat a string of words that would have made a drill sergeant blush.
“Wait—wait, wait, wait,” Oliver sputtered, pointing at Alfred like the man had just committed high treason. “You?! You’re— you have got to be kidding me! Holy— fuck, shit— I can’t believe this— how the hell—”
Alfred, who had been kneeling with clinical calm over the prone figure in the center of the room, straightened and turned. The butler’s expression was the single, composed English eyebrow of a man who had seen worse and had also polished it afterward. He inclined his head, cool as museum air.
“Mr. Queen,” Alfred said with unfailing politeness, “please watch your language. There are children present.”
Oliver’s mouth clamped shut mid-curse so abruptly his cheeks flushed. He opened it a fraction, then shut it again, muttering under his breath until Dinah’s sharp, incredulous whisper cut through.
“I can’t believe he fooled us completely,” Dinah said to no one in particular, eyes flicking once over the unconscious form and then to Alfred. “That… that persona.”
“Hold up—what?” a dozen voices demanded at once. Civilians and Titans and gods all pivoted, the Hall turning into a chorus of, “What did you mean?” “What did you see?” “Who is Agent A?”
Oliver folded his arms, suddenly the center of everyone's curiosity. He didn’t look like a man who wanted to be; he looked like a man who had just found a particularly sharp splinter under a fingernail.
“Nope,” he said, very deliberately. “I’m not saying anything. Let that motherfucker wake up — and then I’ll kill him.”
The words landed and ricocheted, swallowed at once by a wave of shocked reactions.
“Kill him?!” Hal barked. “We know Bats can be irritating, “Ollie, that… that’s melodramatic even for you.”
“Hey, some of us like melodrama,” Barry piped up, electric with the need to move, “but you can’t kill Batman—physically incapable for most of us here.”
Clark, who had been standing in the wings with his arms folded, wore that slow, assessing look he got when somebody mentioned improbable violence. “Oliver, tell us what you think you know.”
“Yeah, spill,” Arthur grunted from where he’d been rolling a shoulder. “If you found the secret, fine, but killing’s a lot, Ollie.”
Voices overlapped. The Hall became a living thing — a swarm of questions and rebuttals and the occasional clipped, exasperated growl as egos bumped into each other. The mood teetered between alarm and the ridiculous.
Then a small voice — startling in its maturity — exploded across the room.
“SILENCE!”
It was not spoken like a scared child. It was barked like a drill sergeant who could be ten and have command anyway. The cry — short, high, but edged with authority — cut through the din. Everyone froze.
The tallest of the small figures that had burst from the Batplane stepped forward, chest barely more than a child’s. He was walking like a little person with the habits of a leader already stitched into his bones, and his glare had the audacity to shame a room full of adults.
Around him tiny bodies were arranged at various angles: the boy with unruly curls who looked ready to swear more at the moon (and did not lack for colorful adjectives), a gaunt, pale kid with alert eyes and trim features who was already holding a scalpel like he’d been born learning which tool to use first, a lithe girl who almost moved through the air as if she were part shadow — all precise, serious, fast as command. The smallest one — with continuous scowl — stood with a ferocity that made a few throats tighten.
Even Hal and Clark — gods and lanterns and Kryptonian survivals — felt an embarrassing warmth of shame at being hushed by ten-year-old lungs.
“Enough,” the leader snapped again, and the Hall obeyed.
He turned to Alfred, who had been speaking quietly with quiet competence, and there was no pretense to his voice. “What is the condition?”
Alfred’s demeanor thawed into professional efficiency. He took a breath, then gave the report in the kind of clipped, precise cadence that had likely rescued a dozen reputations and more than one life.
“There is no need for undue alarm. He sustained a single stab wound; I have tended and sutured it. The current unconsciousness is due to extreme exhaustion — he has not slept more than three hours at a stretch for the last week. The lack of rest, combined with the injury and prophylactic shock, explains the prolonged unconscious state. He will awaken in time — but he is not, at present, in critical danger.”
For a moment the children stood like sentinels hearing the verdict. Shoulders dropped. Tension dissolved into something softer and dangerous in its warmth. A sly, shared expression spread across the small faces — the same tight, mischievous grin in five different mouths — like a code without a word.
The League, watching that expression bloom in synchronized mischief, felt a minute chill slide down their spines. They knew those faces. They knew that grin. It did not mean niceties; it meant plans, and only one thing followed a roomful of bored, capable children making plans: inevitable, immediate trouble.
The tiny, curly-haired boy — the one who had been swearing under his breath — spat, “Oh, I can’t wait till he wakes up,” Jason said sweetly — which was somehow worse than when he was angry. “I think Dad’s really gonna appreciate everything you guys have been saying about him. Especially the part where Queen thought he could kill him.”
There was a pause. A very long, uncomfortable pause.
Then Barry cleared his throat. “If he wakes and finds out what we were saying—”
“He won’t,” Diana said, voice low and steady. “Not if Agent A is in charge.”
“I am afraid not madam.” Alfred interjected calmly, “I am not capable of such great feat as holding the children back when they decide on something. It's a battle not worth fighting.”
The entire Justice League, watching them, felt a collective chill run down their spines.
Barry whispered, “Why do I feel like something really bad’s about to happen?”
Hal muttered, “Because it is.”
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 29: The Earth's Mightiest Heroes
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Hall of Justice infirmary had never been so quiet. And, knowing this group, that was saying something.
Batman still lay unconscious on the medical cot, patched up, breathing steady. The five small figures surrounding him looked much calmer than the nine adults in capes and armor who were standing around like they’d just seen God’s private diary.
The League had questions.
So many questions.
And then the oldest of the kids — black hair, no older than ten — folded his arms across his chest and said, perfectly composed, “Well, you wanted answers. We’ll tell you everything.”
Every adult in the room froze.
“Master Richard,” Alfred muttered warningly under his breath, “perhaps—”
But the boy, Richard apparently, had that calm, terrifying confidence Batman sometimes wore before making someone regret their entire life. He just glanced at the others — a tiny nod — and suddenly the rest of the kids straightened, standing like a briefing was about to begin.
Clark felt the temperature in the room drop.
---
“Okay,” Dick said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “First of all… Dad’s actually twenty-nine.”
Absolute silence.
Then Barry dropped the gauze he’d been holding. “I’m sorry, WHAT?!”
Shayera blinked. “Twenty-nine as in— two-nine? Not thirty-nine?”
“Uh-huh,” the boy said.
Clark, brow furrowed, actually started doing the math aloud. “If he’s twenty-nine and you’re ten, that means—”
“Teen father,” Shayera finished for him, half horrified, half impressed.
Hal muttered, “Man was juggling algebra homework and diapers.”
---
Jason’s curly hair bounced as he slammed his hands on his knees. “And he cheated on Dickiebird’s mother with my mother!” he announced, and then paused, waiting for the exclamations that inevitably followed.
The room went completely silent again. Barry’s jaw fell open.
Diana blinked slowly. “I… I beg your pardon?”
Before anyone could say anything else, the small girl with the silent, stealthy movements — the one who moved exactly like Batman — raised her hand and added in a calm, factual tone, “We’re half twins,” she said. “And I was born a few months earlier.”
The room froze. Then both kids blinked once and nodded at each other, establishing what would become a long-running joke.
Jason grinned proudly. “Yup. Half Twins.”
Hal Jordan blinked. “Nope. I refuse. That’s not— nope. Not processing that.”
Shayera covered her mouth with one hand. “Please tell me this is not real.”
J’onn’s calm telepathic voice echoed in everyone’s minds:
Their heart rates suggest they believe what they’re saying.
The entire League turned toward the Martian like he’d just dropped another bombshell.
Dick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah… it was a sad situation. My mother ended up fighting with their mother… and she killed her. And then… horrified, she killed herself.”
Barry made a choking sound somewhere between laughter and horror. “Oh… oh my God,” he whispered. “This is… this is…!”
Hal’s hand went up weakly. “Do— do you people not have normal family arguments?”
Before anyone could process that, the small, pale, sharp-eyed boy who’d been standing near the medkit spoke up without emotion “Well, my mother… had an extra-marital affair with Dad. And when her husband found out she was having an affair with the neighbor—me being that neighbor’s kid, actually—he shot her. Then went to prison.”
Clark’s hands twitched. “Wait… wait. WHAT?”
Barry just threw his hands in the air. “What IS this?! Is this a family tree or a true crime documentary?!”
Hal groaned. “It’s not a family tree, it’s a forest fire.”
---
And then the smallest one spoke.
Damien, the smallest, finally spoke up in his five-year-old, high-pitched, very serious voice. “Well… Father left my mother at the altar to become Batman.”
The silence that followed was holy.
Then Diana let out an audible gasp.
Shayera actually bent double laughing. “HE WHAT?!”
Clark looked personally offended. “He ditched a wedding to fight crime?!”
Barry choked on a laugh. “Bro said, ‘I do… to Gotham!’”
Even Arthur had his hand over his mouth, muttering, “That’s… that’s dedication.”
---
Meanwhile, Alfred just stood there, eyes closed, muttering what sounded suspiciously like a prayer to whatever gods tolerated billionaires and their offspring.
Jason stretched, perfectly casual. “So, yeah. That’s pretty much the rundown.”
Cass nodded solemnly. “Mostly true.”
Tim added, “Some details might vary depending on jurisdiction.”
Richard just folded his arms, proud of their performance.
The League stood frozen — half laughing, half horrified, completely unsure what dimension of madness they’d stepped into.
---
Finally, Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke with absolute, polished calm, “Ladies and gentlemen, I must kindly request that you disregard every word uttered by my young masters and mistress.”
Jason immediately smirked. “But it’s all true.”
Alfred’s tone sharpened. “It is not.”
Cass nodded innocently. “Mostly.”
“Miss Cassandra,” Alfred said, every syllable crisp and lethal, “not. another. word.”
The girl fell silent. Jason snorted. Tim quietly whispered, “Worth it.”
Across the room, the Justice League members exchanged glances — all of them silently agreeing that, somehow, Batman’s children were even scarier than Batman himself.
Clark exhaled slowly. “You know what?” he murmured. “Maybe… maybe we didn’t want to know.”
Hal groaned. “Next time, if Bats wants to keep a secret, we let him.”
And as Alfred ushered the children back toward their unconscious father, the League could only watch in stunned, uneasy silence — wondering if any of that was true…
and terrified that it probably was.
While the Justice League was still reeling from the tornado of family drama just unleashed by the five tiny masked humans, a new sound cut through the hall—calm, low, unmistakable.
“Children… please stop causing trouble.”
Every head snapped toward the voice. Batman.
The Dark Knight had woken. His voice, steady and controlled, carried across the marble floors like a silent command that somehow made the entire room freeze in place.
Before the League could even process it, the five children erupted into motion. They ran toward him in a chaotic, joyous clamor, forming a circle around their father. Arms flung around his waist, legs nearly tripping over themselves, tiny bodies pressed against his chest. They spoke at once, words tumbling over each other:
“Dad! We were so worried!”
“Why didn’t you wake up sooner?”
“You can’t just leave us like that!”
“Father!”
“Does it hurt?”
Tears glimmered in their eyes, threatening to fall as the relief of seeing him alive overcame them.
Batman’s hands moved with surprising gentleness, patting heads, cupping cheeks, brushing away tiny tears. “I’m sorry for making you worry,” he murmured softly, his voice careful, measured. “I’m not hurt.”
He lingered on each child for a moment longer than necessary, as if to reassure them that everything—even their panic—was understood. Little hands gripped him tighter, as though they feared he might vanish again.
The Justice League, meanwhile, watched in stunned silence. One by one, realization dawned. Despite the chaos of his youth, the “wild” stories, the strange life choices, the running, the sleepless nights… this man loved his children. And they loved him. Completely, unreservedly.
“Even with all that… he’s a good father,” Arthur murmured, voice low but genuine.
“Yeah,” Shayera agreed, folding her arms. “Look at them. The kids clearly adore him. He must be doing something right.”
Batman, finally lifting his gaze from the circle of children clinging to him, straightened just enough to address the hall. His eyes swept over the assembled League with that same commanding weight they had all felt in battle.
“Please tell me you do not believe all the nonsense my children have just said.”
Silence.
He allowed a beat to pass. Then, with his usual measured cadence, he added, “You are the world’s… the Earth’s mightiest heroes. And you believe in such nonsense?”
The Justice League’s collective expressions shifted. Eyes widened. Some hands flew to mouths. Barry’s knees nearly buckled. Hal’s ring flickered nervously. Slowly, realization rippled through them: they had been duped—not by aliens, not by villains, but by children.
“…We got fooled by kids,” someone muttered.
A chorus of agreement—quiet, incredulous, slightly embarrassed—rose from the hall.
Batman’s eyes swept the hall, landing on J’onn with an intensity that could have frozen molten steel. “I can expect the others to make fools of themselves,” he said slowly, deliberately. “But… how could you?”
J’onn’s shoulders stiffened, and he raised his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s not like I am just going to… look at their inner thoughts,” he replied evenly, voice careful. “I—” Before J’onn could answer further, a sharp, incredulous voice cut across the room.
“Do you have any place to scold any of them?”
Every head snapped toward the sound. Oliver Queen, standing slightly apart, arms crossed and brow furrowed, had entered the conversation like a verbal missile.
“How could you?” Oliver demanded, pointing a finger that wavered with barely restrained fury. “You couldn’t trust me? Of all the time, of all the years we’ve known each other, we’ve been friends—of all those times at boarding school—and you… bitch… didn’t tell me?”
The Justice League collectively froze. A low murmur ran through the room—soft, almost reverent whispers—as they tried to process the escalating storm of accusations. Nobody dared make a loud sound. Batman’s gaze had already turned on them, and the memory of the earlier scolding from his children hung like a shadow in the hall.
“Ollie, I—”
Oliver interjected again with fury, “Shut up!”
Batman let out a heavy, measured breath, one that seemed to draw the air out of the entire space. He leaned slightly forward, and the scowl that had been held in reserve now fully emerged—sharp, unyielding, and unmistakably Bruce Wayne.
Every member of the League froze.
It was as though the room had shrunk around them, leaving only the two truths they now had to reconcile: the billionaire playboy, the tabloid fixture, the man whose face graced gossip columns every month, was also… this. This Dark Knight. This stoic, terrifying, exacting figure who had, for years, struck fear into the hearts of villains and allies alike.
Diana’s jaw slackened. Hal’s fingers twitched nervously at his ring. Barry’s knees threatened mutiny under his own body weight. Even Clark, ever the pillar of calm, felt a prickle of disbelief.
The whispers died completely.
It wasn’t just Batman they were staring at. It was Bruce Wayne. Bruce fucking Wayne. And the gravity of that realization—the duality of the man they had all known in different lights—hit like a punch to the chest.
Somewhere in the hall, a faint shuffle could be heard, as if the League collectively reevaluated every interaction, every rumor, every casual observation they’d ever made about Gotham’s infamous playboy.
And through it all, Batman’s eyes—piercing, unwavering—remained locked on the two who had dared speak up.
He was awake. He was watching. And suddenly, all the noise, all the whispers, all the chatter of the world’s mightiest heroes seemed… irrelevant.
Because this man—the one they had thought they understood—was far beyond their comprehension.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 30: Birthdays And Babymamas
Summary:
This is a long one.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
January 26th
The morning sunlight crept softly into Wayne Manor, spilling gold across the wide windows and polished floors. For one blissful second, Cassandra slept peacefully, her head buried beneath a mountain of blankets. Then—
“WAKE UP, BIRTHDAY GIRL!”
The shout came from Jason, of course, followed by the unmistakable thud of two smaller bodies leaping onto her bed. Cassandra groaned and buried her face deeper, but it was too late—Jason and Tim had declared war.
“Operation Birthday Wake-Up is a go!” Jason yelled, tickling her mercilessly while Tim tried to hold the blanket hostage.
Dick arrived next, already grinning from ear to ear, his hair still messy from sleep. “Boys, boys—there are rules to this! You can’t attack until she opens her eyes!”
“She did!” Jason lied immediately, earning himself a sharp look from his big brother.
From the doorway came a quieter voice. “You’re all too loud,” Damian mumbled, dragging his blanket behind him like a cape. But the glint in his green eyes betrayed him—he was enjoying this more than anyone.
Cassandra tried to fight them off, half laughing, half surrendering. “No fair!” she managed between giggles.
“No such thing as fair in war,” Jason declared proudly.
“Then you’re losing,” she countered, flipping him off the bed with a surprisingly effective twist. Jason landed on the floor with a muffled oof.
Tim cheered, “Birthday victory!”
Dick chuckled, scooping Damian up before he could join the chaos. “Alright, troops. Mission accomplished. Let the birthday girl breathe.”
Jason popped up, pretending to salute. “Fine. But I’m taking credit for the wake-up.”
“Sure,” Cassandra said sweetly. “You can have credit and the bruise.”
Downstairs, the smell of pancakes, maple syrup, and Alfred’s special cocoa filled the air. The children piled into the dining room, still in their pajamas, each trying to talk over the other.
“Alfred, did you make the chocolate-chip ones?”
“I want extra whipped cream!”
“Can we go to the amusement park now?”
“Master Damian,” Alfred said with that perfect calm that could quiet even a storm of Waynes, “you will wait until Miss Cassandra begins her meal. It is her birthday, after all.”
Damian huffed but obeyed. “Fine. But I’m sitting next to her.”
Bruce appeared soon after, already dressed but clearly trying not to smile too much at the sight before him. Cassandra turned to him, eyes bright. “Morning, Dad.”
He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her hair. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
“Thank you.”
Jason, mouth full of pancakes, spoke up, “So what’s the plan, B?”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You’re calling me ‘B’ now?”
“It’s faster.”
Dick laughed. “You’re lazy even in speech.”
“I’m efficient,” Jason shot back.
Bruce’s expression softened, despite himself. “We’re going to the amusement park. But—”
All four boys straightened. Cassandra’s fork paused midair.
“—you will not turn it into a competitive disaster,” Bruce finished.
Four guilty faces blinked at him.
Tim whispered to Jason, “So… we just don’t get caught?”
“Exactly,” Jason whispered back.
“Jason.” Bruce’s voice carried that quiet warning tone.
“Right. No competitions. Totally normal family fun.”
Alfred served the last round of pancakes, suppressing a knowing smile.
---
The morning sunlight glowed over the fairgrounds, soft and golden, when the Wayne family stepped through the entrance of Gotham Amusement Park. Balloons danced in the wind, the smell of popcorn and caramel filling the air. Music spilled from the rides, and laughter echoed in every direction.
Cassandra’s eyes widened in awe. Her gloved hand tightened around Bruce’s as she took everything in—the towering Ferris wheel, the bright banners, the clinking games that promised impossible prizes.
It was her day. And for once, Gotham’s chaos had taken the day off.
“Okay,” Dick announced with mock authority, hands on his hips. “Birthday girl gets to pick what we do first.”
“Games,” Cassandra said instantly, her eyes landing on a booth lined with colorful stuffed animals.
“Games it is!” Jason grinned. “And don’t worry, Cassie. Your twin is gonna win you every prize here.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow but said nothing, only crossing his arms as his children raced toward the booth. Alfred, ever composed, followed with a faint smile and a camera in hand.
The first game was simple: knock down stacked bottles with a baseball. Jason went first. The ball missed the mark entirely, hitting the wooden sideboard with a loud thunk.
“Oi, that wasn’t regulation distance!” he protested.
“Master Jason,” Alfred said mildly, “you missed by nearly three feet.”
Next was Dick. He squinted, aimed, and… thunk—the bottles wobbled but stayed standing.
Tim, ever confident, stepped up. “I’ve got this.” He aimed carefully, released—then the ball rebounded straight back and hit him in the chest.
Damian snickered. “Pathetic.”
“Then you try, Demon,” Jason challenged.
Damian took the ball with dramatic precision, threw—and managed to hit the booth attendant’s hat clean off.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me none of you are using my training techniques for this.”
“Just warming up, B,” Dick said brightly. “We’ll get it next time.”
But the next time never came. They missed again and again, each turn more ridiculous than the last, until they’d gone through all their tickets and were begging Bruce for more.
“Absolutely not,” Bruce said flatly.
“But Cass wants that bunny!” Dick argued, pointing to a giant pink rabbit on the top shelf.
Cass tilted her head, looking between her brothers, the ball, and the bottles. Then, with quiet determination, she stepped forward.
“I'll just win,” she said.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Alright.”
She took the ball, adjusted her stance—and in one smooth, perfect throw, the bottles flew off the shelf in a clean strike.
The attendant blinked. “Uh… winner?”
The boys gaped.
Cassandra smiled, triumphant, as the pink bunny was handed to her.
Jason groaned. “That’s it. My pride is gone.”
“Destroyed,” Tim muttered.
“Utterly annihilated,” Dick added.
“Serves you right,” Damian sniffed.
But Cass, sweet as ever, just held out the bunny to share. “We can all have it,” she said.
And somehow, that made it worse for the boys.
---
Later, they moved toward a small stage where music was playing. Dick took Cassandra’s hand suddenly and spun her into a dance right in the middle of the crowd.
“Birthday waltz, little sister!” he declared.
Cass laughed, her steps unsure at first but quickly matching his rhythm. They spun and twirled to the upbeat tune, drawing cheers and claps from onlookers. Bruce stood back with Alfred, a faint smile tugging at his usually stoic face.
Jason rolled his eyes. “Show-offs.”
“Jealous,” Damian said under his breath.
“Not a chance,” Jason replied, but his grin betrayed him.
---
Then came the roller coaster. Cassandra’s eyes lit up at the towering track. Jason was immediately beside her. “We’re doing that.”
The operator, however, glanced at them both and said, “Sorry, kiddos. Too young.”
Jason stared at the You must be this tall sign like it had personally betrayed him. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Cassandra sighed, disappointed.
“Fine,” Dick said. “Plan B—merry-go-round!”
It wasn’t a roller coaster, but the carousel lights gleamed like gold, and as the music played, all five children climbed on. Cassandra sat on a white horse with painted wings, giggling as the ride began to turn. Damian sat beside her, trying to look serious but secretly enjoying himself.
“Look, Dami!” Cass called, pointing to the mirrors as they passed. “We’re flying.”
Damian allowed himself the faintest smile. “Yes. I suppose we are.”
---
Later still, they discovered the bubble stand.
Cassandra dipped the wand into the soapy liquid, blew gently—and gasped as hundreds of shimmering bubbles floated into the air.
“Woah!” Damian exclaimed, eyes wide. He tried it too, cheeks puffing as bubbles drifted around them like crystal spheres.
Bruce watched from a short distance, a rare warmth in his gaze. “I can handle mobsters,” he muttered to Alfred, “but five kids in an amusement park might actually be my breaking point.”
“Parenthood is an unpredictable battlefield, sir,” Alfred said serenely. “You’re adapting admirably.”
Bruce sighed. “Barely.”
---
By afternoon, they’d eaten their way through cotton candy, caramel apples, and at least two types of fried dough. Tim, sticky with sugar, leaned against Bruce’s leg. “I think I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying,” Bruce said, lifting him up onto his shoulder. “You’re just full of sweets.”
“Feels the same,” Tim mumbled.
Then came the chaos.
One moment Damian was holding Jason’s hand. The next, he wasn’t.
“Where’s Damian?” Dick asked, scanning the crowd.
Jason looked around sharply. “He was right here!”
Panic rose quickly. The five of them split up, calling his name. Bruce’s voice was calm but firm, giving instructions like it was a mission.
Minutes later, Dick spotted him—Damian, crouched near a hotdog stand, feeding bits of bread to a stray cat.
“Damian!”
The boy blinked innocently. “It was hungry.”
Relief flooded the group, followed almost instantly by scolding.
But before they could relax—
“Where’s Tim?” Cass asked suddenly.
Everyone froze.
“...He was right next to me,” Dick said.
Cue the second round of chaos.
They searched for nearly ten minutes, until Bruce’s trained eyes caught sight of a small red hoodie near the mascot section. There, clinging tightly to the leg of a man in a bat costume, was Tim Drake.
The mascot, clearly uncomfortable, was patting him gently. “Uh, hey there, little guy, you lost?”
Bruce approached slowly. “Tim.”
The boy turned, wide-eyed, then smiled in relief. “I got scared… but then I saw the bat. So I stayed with it.”
For a moment, Bruce didn’t know whether to laugh or groan.
“Out of all the animals,” Jason muttered, “he picks a bat.”
Dick snorted. “Fate’s got jokes.”
Bruce crouched down, resting a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “You did the right thing staying put,” he said softly. “But next time, find a guard, not a guy in a costume, alright?”
Tim nodded earnestly. “But he was a bat.”
Bruce sighed, smiling despite himself. “Yeah. I know.”
---
As the sun set behind the Ferris wheel, the day ended with tired laughter and sticky fingers. Cass held her pink bunny close as they walked back toward the car, her brothers trailing behind, yawning but still bickering softly about who had the most fun.
Bruce glanced at them—five children, loud, messy, and happy.
He’d fought wars in Gotham’s shadows, but this... this was the hardest and most beautiful battle of all.
The city was hushed beneath a cold January moon. Gotham’s skyline gleamed faintly—silver light slipping over spires and rain-slick rooftops.
---
When they returned to Wayne Manor, the younger ones were half asleep before they even reached their rooms. Alfred tucked them in, one by one. Bruce stood in the doorway of Cassandra’s room for a quiet moment, watching her breathe softly beneath her blanket.
Outside, the night stretched deep and quiet across Gotham. He would patrol soon. But for now—just for a heartbeat—he allowed himself to stand there and feel it: the weight of peace, however temporary.
He whispered softly, “Happy birthday, Cass.”
And then, as he turned to leave, the faintest flicker of movement crossed the rooftop beyond her window—a shadow moving in the dark.
---
Batman moved through it like a shadow. His cape whispered in the wind as he crossed from one tower to another, silent and precise. For the first time in weeks, there were no alarms, no sirens, no chaos waiting at the next block.
But peace in Gotham was always deceptive.
He landed on a rooftop near the Narrows, and that was when he felt it—the shift in the air. The soft sound of someone breathing just outside his peripheral range.
He didn’t turn immediately. “You’ve been following me for three blocks.”
A low chuckle followed. “You’ve gotten slower, Detective. I have been trailing you since the manor.”
Batman turned. Out of the shadows stepped Lady Shiva, calm and dangerous, the moonlight glinting off the silver edge of her hairpin.
“Shiva,” he said evenly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I could say the same about you,” she replied, stepping closer until the wind fluttered her long coat. “You should be home. With our daughter.”
Batman’s jaw tightened. “She’s safe.”
Shiva’s lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite scorn. “Safe. Yes. But is she ready?”
He said nothing, his eyes unreadable behind the cowl.
“She’s strong,” Shiva continued. “I can tell even without seeing her fight. You’ve continued training her well. But she’s still... soft. She laughs too much. Smiles too easily.”
“She’s a child,” Batman said quietly. “She deserves to be one.”
Shiva’s gaze hardened. “A child in our world doesn’t get that luxury.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the city below them.
“I came to see her,” Shiva said at last. “But I won’t disturb her tonight. It’s her birthday. Let her have her joy.”
Batman’s eyes softened, just for a fraction of a second. “That’s more mercy than I expected from you.”
“Don’t mistake mercy for weakness.” Her tone was cool, but there was a faint tremor beneath it—a trace of something almost human. “You’ll keep training her, won’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “But not ten hours a day. She’s not a weapon.”
“She was born to be one.”
“No.” His voice dropped lower. “She was born to be more than that.”
Shiva studied him, her sharp eyes flicking across his masked face. “You’ve changed,” she murmured.
“And you haven’t.”
That earned him the faintest smirk. “Perhaps. But I’ll come for her. This conversation isn’t over.”
She turned to leave, her steps soundless against the gravel. But before she disappeared into the shadows, she paused, reaching into her sleeve.
“Give this to her,” she said, tossing a small wrapped box toward him. “A mother’s gift.”
Batman caught it easily, eyes narrowing. “What is it?”
“Something she’ll understand when she’s ready.”
And then she was gone—the night swallowing her whole.
---
Wayne Manor was silent when Bruce returned. He removed his cowl and gloves, the weariness of the night heavy in his bones. In the Batcave’s low light, he set the small box on the table and opened it.
Inside lay a pair of tie shan—Chinese war fans, their iron edges finely worked, painted with swirling dragons in silver and blue. They were beautiful, lethal, and unmistakably Shiva’s.
For a moment, Bruce just stared at them, conflicted. He closed the box gently and sat back, deep in thought.
Then Alfred’s voice echoed softly from behind him. “A gift from Lady Shiva, I presume.”
Bruce sighed. “She wants Cassandra to train harder. To be like her.”
“Ah.” Alfred stepped forward, his calm presence grounding as ever. “And what do you want, Master Bruce?”
Bruce hesitated. “I want her to be strong. But not like that. I want her to laugh without guilt. I want her to have... a childhood.”
Alfred smiled faintly. “Then perhaps you should let her decide what kind of strength she wishes to have.”
Bruce’s gaze shifted to the box again. After a long silence, he nodded.
---
It was nearly three in the morning when he pushed open Cassandra’s door. The soft glow of her nightlight painted the room in warm amber. She stirred slightly, then blinked awake, sensing him instantly.
“Dad?”
He froze, a little sheepish. “Sorry for waking you, sweetheart.”
Cassandra sat up, rubbing her eyes. But when she looked at him, she tilted her head slightly—the way she always did when she was reading what he didn’t say.
“You have something,” she murmured.
He smiled faintly. “You always see through me.”
Bruce walked closer and sat on the edge of her bed, placing the box in her lap. “This came from your mother.”
Her small hands touched the lid carefully, reverently, before she opened it. The fans caught the dim light, glittering like moonfire.
“They’re pretty,” she whispered.
“Yes.” His voice was low, steady. “They’re also weapons. She wanted you to have them.”
Cassandra looked up then, studying his face. She didn’t need to ask to know that he’d had to argue to keep her here.
“Did she want me to go with her?”
“Yes.” The answer came out quietly, heavy with everything he hadn’t said.
“Do you want me to?”
He hesitated. “I want what’s best for you. I just... I don’t want to lose you.”
Cassandra didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest.
“My place is with you,” she said softly. “My home is here.”
For a long moment, Bruce held her close, his hand resting against the back of her head. His voice was a murmur when he finally spoke. “You’re my world, Cass. Don’t ever forget that.”
“I won’t,” she whispered.
The fans lay between them, gleaming softly in the faint light—one born of war, the other of love.
And somewhere, in the quiet dark of the Manor, peace settled again.
February 19th
Sleep had finally claimed Bruce Wayne at four in the morning — a rare, fragile mercy after a long night of patrol and paperwork. He hadn’t even managed to change into proper sleepwear before collapsing onto his bed, half in the cowl, half out of consciousness.
That peace didn’t last.
“DAD! WAKE UP!” came the collective war cry of five children, moments before a thunderous thud landed squarely on his chest.
“—Oof.”
Bruce’s eyes snapped open just in time to see a blur of color — pajamas, laughter, and far too much energy for this hour — as his offsprings launched an organized assault. Cassandra was the first to land, giggling as she tugged at his arm, while Jason and Dick piled onto his legs. Tim climbed over his shoulder like an overly cheerful lemur, and Damian, the smallest, planted himself triumphantly on Bruce’s abdomen as if claiming conquered territory.
Alfred, ever punctual, opened the curtains with a theatrical flourish. The morning sunlight spilled across the room, slicing through the shadows and hitting Bruce squarely in the face.
“Good morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred said mildly, though his eyes twinkled. “And a very happy birthday.”
Bruce groaned, throwing an arm over his face. “Why do I feel like I’m under attack?”
“Because you are!” Dick declared. “It’s your birthday, old man!”
Jason, already grinning, leaned close. “Yeah, B — you’re thirty now! Proper ancient. Practically fossilized.”
“Ancient?” Bruce muttered, squinting at him.
“Yup,” Jason said solemnly. “One year closer to death— yay!”
There was a moment’s pause before Damian, still perched on Bruce’s stomach, frowned. “Closer to what?”
The others froze.
Jason blinked. “Uh—”
Damian’s eyes widened in sudden realization. “You mean Father is going to die?”
“NO!” everyone chorused at once.
Bruce exhaled, pressing his fingers to his temples. “It’s too early for existential crises.”
Cassandra, sitting cross-legged on the bed, leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday, Daddy.”
The tension melted instantly. Bruce turned his head, a faint, tired smile touching his lips. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Within seconds, he was smothered in affection — kisses from Cass and Damian, high-fives from Dick, a bear hug from Jason, and Tim trying to balance a paper crown on his head. It was chaotic, messy, and utterly perfect.
“Couldn’t we have done this later?” Bruce managed. “You know, after I actually woke up?”
“Can’t!” Tim said brightly. “We have school!”
“Yeah,” Jason added, already halfway off the bed. “We wanted to wish you properly before Alfred drags us out.”
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, straight-faced, “I should warn you — the children have prepared breakfast for you themselves.”
Bruce’s expression shifted from mild amusement to deep concern. “And you… let them?”
“I tried to intervene,” Alfred sighed. “They refused all assistance, insisting, and I quote, ‘It has to be a surprise.’ I would advise against entering the kitchen without protective gear.”
Bruce sat up slowly, suspicion sharpening in his eyes. “I have an ominous feeling about this.”
“As you should, sir,” Alfred murmured, “as you should.”
---
By the time Bruce entered the dining room — freshly dressed and still half in disbelief — the “surprise” awaited him.
On the table sat what might generously be called pancakes. In reality, they were misshapen, charred lumps vaguely resembling letters. Together, they spelled:
HAPY BRTHDAY DAD.
Several letters appeared to have lost their structural integrity in the cooking process. The “A” looked like it had melted in protest.
Jason, covered in flour, puffed up with pride. “We made it ourselves! No help from Alfred!”
“Clearly,” Alfred said dryly from the sidelines, holding a discreet fire extinguisher.
Bruce stared at the plate. Then at his children. Then back at the plate. “What happened to the other P and I?”
“Timmy threw it away,” Cassandra said. “And Little Wing ate the I.” Dick added.
“At least… A+ for creativity,” he murmured.
Tim beamed. “Try it!”
He took a cautious bite. The pancake cracked audibly.
“…and D- for execution,” Bruce said after a heroic effort to chew.
Jason burst into laughter. “See? Told you we should’ve used the toaster!”
“You burned the toaster,” Tim reminded him.
“Semantics!”
Dick leaned forward, grinning. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”
Bruce looked around the table — at Cassandra’s shy smile, Tim’s earnest face, Damian’s wide eyes watching for approval, Jason’s laughter, and Dick’s steady, affectionate grin.
He smiled. “It’s perfect.”
For a moment, the manor was full of light — warm, ordinary, human light — something rare in the life of Gotham’s Dark Knight.
---
After breakfast (and after Alfred discreetly disposed of the remaining pancakes), Bruce dropped each child off at Gotham Academy, their chatter filling the car the entire way.
“Don’t forget, Dad,” Jason called as he hopped out. “You promised cake tonight!”
“I did?”
“Yes,” all five voices chorused.
Bruce sighed. “Right. Cake.”
When the last of them disappeared through the school gates, Bruce exhaled and leaned back in his seat. For the first time since dawn, silence filled the car.
He almost missed the noise.
“Wayne Enterprises,” he told the driver.
It was time to get back to being Bruce Wayne.
But somewhere, beneath the businesslike calm, the laughter of his children lingered — bright, persistent, and grounding.
---
By noon, Bruce was seated in his office on the top floor of Wayne Tower, staring at the glossy mahogany table that stretched nearly the length of the room. On it lay open folders, quarterly reports, and too many pens that didn’t work. Across from him, Lucius Fox stood like a commander at his podium — calm, articulate, and mercifully awake — leading the boardroom meeting with his usual unflappable grace.
Half the table was occupied by executives from WayneTech, Wayne Pharmaceuticals, and Wayne Shipping, while the others flickered in through the video wall — overseas CEOs joining in from Tokyo, Mumbai, Riyadh, London, and Geneva.
Numbers rolled, projections unfolded, charts appeared. Voices blended into a corporate drone.
And Bruce Wayne, chairman of the privately held Wayne Enterprises, billionaire, and very tired father of five, had only one thought running through his mind:
Four more hours until I pick them up.
He glanced at the clock again. The second hand ticked louder than Lucius’s voice.
“—and if we adjust the R&D expenditure by the next quarter, we can expect an increase of six-point-four percent—”
Bruce leaned back, nodding absently, eyes flicking toward the clock again. Three hours and fifty-nine minutes.
Lucius continued seamlessly, “—and Mr. Wayne, your opinion on the adjusted allocation for the East Asian sector?”
There was a pause. Silence rippled across the room.
Lucius raised an eyebrow. “Bruce?”
Bruce didn’t answer. His gaze was still on the clock.
Lucius cleared his throat pointedly.
Still nothing.
Finally, the London CEO, trying to be helpful, spoke up: “Uh, Mr. Wayne, we were just wishing you a happy birthday.”
Bruce blinked. “Oh. Right. Yes. Approved.”
A collective silence followed.
Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sir, it wasn’t a proposal.”
Realization dawned, too late for dignity to be saved. Bruce sighed and adjusted his tie. “...Noted.”
The Tokyo CEO, valiantly suppressing laughter, said, “You must be very busy today, Mr. Wayne.”
“Something like that,” Bruce murmured, glancing at the clock once more. Three hours, fifty-two minutes.
Lucius gave him a look that fell somewhere between fond and exasperated. “Go, Bruce. Before you start approving birthdays as official WayneTech projects.”
That earned a few chuckles. Bruce took the out gratefully, muttered something about follow-up reports, and left the room before anyone could add “fatherhood fatigue” to the official minutes.
---
The Wayne Tower elevator ride felt unusually light — maybe because the mission ahead was far simpler than Gotham’s usual chaos: cake retrieval.
At the city’s most renowned patisserie, Bruce filled the counter with orders like a man preparing for war.
“One triple-layer chocolate fudge cake.”
“One lemon raspberry cheesecake.”
“One red velvet.”
The attendant blinked. “For… one party?”
Bruce gave a weary smile. “Five children.”
“Ah,” she said knowingly. “That explains the third cake.”
He added, almost as an afterthought, “And two boxes of assorted éclairs. And a dozen mini opera cakes.”
By the time he left, the backseat of his car looked like a confectioner’s vault — all ribbons, frosting, and dangerously stacked boxes.
And this time, he drove himself.
---
The first stop was Gotham Academy, where Tim was waiting outside with his satchel slung across his shoulder and his chessboard case tucked under one arm.
“Hey, Dad,” Tim said brightly as he slid into the passenger seat. “Practice went great today. We’re prepping for the debate finals next week—oh, and I beat three seniors in chess blitz.”
Bruce gave a small approving nod. “That’s good. You enjoy both?”
Tim grinned. “Yeah. I like the thinking part. Strategy. I get that from you, I guess.”
Bruce smirked faintly. “Or maybe Alfred.”
That earned a laugh, and the car rolled off toward their next stop—the Gotham Sports Complex.
---
The shouts and whistles of a soccer match echoed across the field. Bruce spotted Dick immediately — number 10, darting across the turf with the confidence of someone born to move. A few yards away, Jason was not on the field but at the adjacent polo grounds, wearing his riding helmet like a crown.
When Dick spotted the car, he waved energetically and jogged over, still grinning and breathless. Jason, a few moments later, came riding by on his horse — looking absolutely dreadful.
“Dad!” Jason called, poking his horse’s neck. “Why can't I bring Ancalagon! He’s perfect! And this one is just ugh.”
Bruce raised a brow. “Because Ancalagon cannot take the strain of a polo horse, Jay.”
“I hate this one.” Jason sullenly replied.
Dick laughed. “He’s just grumbling because he kept falling.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Says the guy who missed his penalty kick.”
Bruce smiled to himself as they climbed into the car, still trading jabs. Next stop — Damian’s art class.
The five-year-old exited the building with his sketchpad hugged tightly to his chest and a faint scowl of artistic brooding on his face.
“Good day, Damian?” Bruce asked.
The boy sighed. “My instructor said my perspective was ‘too grim.’”
Jason snorted. “What did you draw this time?”
“Joker,” Damian answered simply. “bleeding over Gotham.”
“See?” Jason said, “grim.”
Bruce chose silence.
---
The final stop was Cassandra’s dance studio.
Through the glass doors, Bruce saw her finishing her session, hair damp with sweat, movements precise and graceful even in cool-down. When she spotted the car outside, she waved goodbye to her instructor and hurried over, slipping into the seat beside Jason.
She was still catching her breath when Bruce asked, “So, what kind of dances did you—”
Before he could finish, Cassandra suddenly twisted around in her seat, eyes wide. “You brought cake!”
Five heads turned simultaneously.
The word spread like wildfire.
Tim gasped, “Cake?”
Jason leaned forward. “What kind?”
Damian’s eyes sharpened. “Is it chocolate?”
Dick, who had just texted from the back, was already craning his neck to look.
Bruce blinked. “How—how did you even see that? It’s behind the seats.”
Cassandra smiled triumphantly. “Secret.”
And then chaos broke loose.
Voices overlapped, hands pointed, and pleas echoed from every direction.
“Can we open one?”
“Just a slice!”
“I’ll take the smallest piece, I swear!”
“Father, as your heir, I deserve the first taste—”
“No,” Bruce said flatly.
“Please?” five voices chorused.
“No,” he repeated, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
“But Dad—”
“After dinner!”
That ended it—mostly.
“Can we at least look at them?” Tim asked, all innocence.
“No.”
Five disappointed groans echoed in unison.
They sulked for the next two traffic lights, whispering conspiracies about who might sneak a bite first.
Bruce caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips. The car was loud, chaotic, and utterly alive.
When they finally reached Wayne Manor, the chorus of chatter had softened into tired contentment.
“Go on, upstairs,” Bruce said as the car rolled to a stop. “Freshen up, all of you. Dinner in an hour.”
As they raced up the grand staircase, Alfred appeared at the door like a guardian angel of order and civility.
“Ah, the cakes,” he said approvingly, taking the boxes. “I’ll see to their safekeeping.”
“Good,” Bruce said. “I don’t trust the kids not to eat them with the parchment.”
Alfred’s mouth twitched. “A wise observation, sir.”
With that handled, Bruce headed upstairs, loosening his tie. A shower, a change of clothes, and maybe — just maybe — ten minutes of quiet before dinner.
He opened his bedroom door.
And stopped dead.
Because in the center of his bed — beneath his dark silk sheets, curled up as though she owned the world — slept Talia al Ghul.
Peaceful. Barefoot. Beautiful.
Bruce exhaled slowly. “Of course,” he muttered. “Because why wouldn’t she?”
Bruce didn’t wake her. Instead, he moved quietly to the bathroom to freshen up, the faint sound of water running in the sink echoing softly in the room. The steam swirled around him, and as he reached for the bodywash, his eyes caught a faint, green glow emanating from new bottles of bath oils and gels on the shower niche . He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, taking out the small, familiar bottle. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged, dressed in loose trousers and a simple t-shirt, and paused at the threshold of his bedroom.
Talia was no longer in bed. She stood at the veranda, silhouetted against the sprawling Gotham skyline, the city lights shimmering like distant stars. Her posture was calm, almost statuesque, as if she had been there for hours.
“Happy birthday, beloved,” she said, her voice quiet, steady, without turning to look at him.
Bruce didn’t answer. He merely stepped closer, his eyes taking in her profile, the faint glow of the city reflecting off her dark hair.
Finally, she turned, one eyebrow arched. “What are you thinking?”
“I could ask you the same,” Bruce replied evenly.
“Just dropping your gifts,” she said, her tone as casual as if she were leaving a note on his desk.
“You drop off gifts on my birthday every year,” Bruce said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “But never in person.”
“Well,” she replied, a hint of amusement in her voice, “this year I wanted to drop them off myself.”
Bruce folded his arms, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Then why can’t you change it up? Every year, the same bath oils.”
“It’s a secret,” Talia said simply, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
Bruce shook his head and stepped past her, toward the balcony railing, looking out over the city. The tension was familiar, comforting even, the unspoken dance they had repeated over years.
Talia walked past him, brushing lightly against his arm, and said, “I’m famished.”
Bruce turned, startled. “Wait. You’re staying for dinner?”
“Yes,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Bruce ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “You never visit me. And now… now that our son is here, you drop by randomly and want to have dinner?”
Talia’s lips curved into a faint, teasing smile. “It seemed like the right moment.”
Bruce leaned back slightly, regarding her with a mixture of incredulity and wariness. “Right. A moment chosen at your complete convenience.”
She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she glanced at the bath oils on the counter, then at him, and said softly, “I only wanted to make your day… pleasant.”
Bruce let the corner of his mouth twitch into the barest hint of a smile. “You have a peculiar way of showing it.”
“And you,” she countered, her voice dipping into something warmer, “have a peculiar way of tolerating it.”
He exhaled, shaking his head in quiet amusement. Gotham’s skyline stretched endlessly before them, lights flickering like fireflies in the distance. And for a brief, rare moment, the chaos of birthday mornings, business meetings, and five energetic children felt like it could wait.
---
The dining room was bright and warm, the table set meticulously by Alfred, with birthday candles flickering faintly in celebration of Bruce’s day. Bruce led the way in, Talia close behind, and the children's chatter and laughter already filling the space.
At first, the kids had been expecting their father to appear—his tall frame, the familiar dark clothing—but their mouths fell open as a woman entered instead.
Damian’s little eyes widened, and before anyone could stop him, he bolted forward. “Mother!” he exclaimed, leaping into her arms. Talia caught him effortlessly, her lips brushing his forehead in a quick kiss, “Hello, darling.” Damian’s grin was pure delight.
Cassandra followed, her gaze flickering between Damian and Talia. She hesitated a moment, then stepped forward. “Thank you… for helping me,” she said softly.
Bruce, standing to the side, frowned slightly. “What… did she help you with?”
Talia’s eyes twinkled, and she smiled faintly. “It’s just a thing between girls,” she said, and that was that.
One by one, the children settled around the table, still buzzing from the surprise visit.
“Good evening, Richard, Jason, Cassandra, Timothy,” she greeted formally, her eyes briefly settling on each child.
Dick leaned forward, grinning. “Wait… are you here to marry our dad?”
“Dick!” Bruce interjected sharply, but Talia only laughed, a soft, musical sound that seemed to fill the room. “No, Richard.” She finally answered.
“I go by Dick.” Dick interjected with a heavy smile.
“No thank you, Richard.” Talia replied.
Dick’s eyebrows shot up. “Richard?” he asked, bristling.
“I’m not calling you that nickname you go around by,” Talia said coolly. “I prefer proper names.”
A subtle tension simmered between them, the air almost crackling with unspoken rivalry. Dick scowled, muttering under his breath, but Talia’s eyes merely twinkled at him.
Then Cassandra began describing how Talia had helped her during her escape from the League.
Tim, leaning forward with wide eyes, finally asked, “Are you… actually a demon?”
Talia glanced at him, amused. “Not a demon, Timothy. But the League of Assassins… is not quite what you’d call ordinary.”
“What’s it like?” he pressed, leaning closer.
Her gaze softened, and she leaned back slightly, speaking in a tone both serious and captivating. She described Nanda Parbat, the ancient temples, old synagogues, churches and mosques, hidden training alcoves, the shadows that whispered secrets of a world far removed from Gotham. The kids listened with rapt attention, wide-eyed, while Bruce tried not to scowl at the over-sharing.
Jason, never one to miss a beat, asked, “How did you meet Dad?”
Talia’s lips curved into a faint, secretive smile. She set down her fork, resting her chin lightly on her hand. “It was… in the desert.”
Tim tilted his head. “The desert?”
“Yes,” Talia replied, her voice calm, almost storytelling. “I found him… fighting a group of mercenaries. Ten of them, at once. And he did not fall. Not once. Not even when they tried to overwhelm him. I watched, and I realized—this man… has potential.”
Cassandra leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “And then you… helped him?”
“I did,” Talia said simply. “I joined in. Together, we defeated the mercenaries. Afterward, I offered him a chance to join the League of Assassins. It was an opportunity for him to learn, to grow… to see if he could handle what lay ahead.”
Dick’s mouth fell open. “Wait… what was he doing there? Looking for the secret lair of assassins?”
“Yes actually,” Talia confirmed, her gaze steady. “He had heard rumors, whispers from the mercenaries and assassins he fought. He wanted answers. That’s how our paths crossed. And that’s where the training began… where he learned discipline, strategy, and endurance under the most extreme conditions.”
Damian, sitting upright with a solemn expression, looked between his father and mother. “So… you trained him?”
Talia’s smile softened, just a fraction. “Among many others. And he proved worthy.”
Bruce, who had been quietly observing the children’s fascinated expressions, let out the faintest of sighs. He knew they were absorbing every word, trying to piece together the story they had never known.
“And that’s how we met,” Talia concluded, taking a deliberate bite of her ravioli, as if to signal the end of her tale. “A simple desert encounter… turned into a lifetime of… unexpected lessons.”
Dick furrowed his brow, leaning back slightly in his chair, a mixture of curiosity and disbelief on his face. “Wait a second… if you trained Dad, you must be a master martial artist. Aren't masters supposed to be super old?”
Talia lifted her gaze slowly, eyes glinting with a mischievous, almost dangerous light. “I’m… much older than I appear,” she said, her voice soft, yet carrying the weight of time.
Tim blinked, tilting his head. “Older? Like… really, really old?”
Damian, ever serious, simply folded his arms. “Impossible. That’s nonsense.”
Alfred, ever the observer, cleared his throat gently. “Children, it’s best to take Lady Talia at her word.”
The children exchanged incredulous looks, as if Alfred had just spoken an alien language. Tim muttered, “Yeah, right… and I’m secretly a Martian.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose again, muttering, “It’s my birthday, why is this harder than facing the rogues?”
At that moment, the chatter turned chaotic as the desserts were finally brought to the table in earnest. The kids dug in, crumbs flying, chocolate smudges forming on noses and cheeks, and laughter echoing through the dining room. Cassandra tried to cut a small piece neatly, but Jason swiped most of it before she could.
Damian, ignoring decorum entirely, used a fork as a spear to collect his opera cake. “Mine!” he declared.
Tim, fascinated by a perfectly glazed éclair, leaned over toward Talia. “Is the League very scary?”
Talia took a slow bite, considering her answer. “Yes… but it’s nothing compared to what Gotham can throw at you.”
Bruce finally gave up trying to maintain control and simply sat back, observing the chaotic joy. He could see the sparkle in Cassandra’s eyes as she told Talia a story about escaping a tricky situation during her week at school, the laughter bubbling from Jason as he recounted his accidental polo mishap, and the way Damian’s little hands tore into the éclairs with such precise aggression it almost looked like training.
“Father,” Damian said suddenly, mid-bite, “these cakes… are adequate. But next year, you must arrange for proper League-approved desserts.”
Bruce groaned, glancing at Talia, who merely smiled, taking another bite of her tart in complete serenity.
“And you, Cassandra,” she said, addressing the little girl with a rare softness, “keep an eye on these young men—they clearly have no sense of discipline.”
“They’ll grow into it… hopefully,” Bruce muttered, wiping a stray crumb from Jason’s cheek.
As the meal was coming to an end, laughter mixed with the clinking of cutlery. Dick leaned across the table, frowning. “Why are you really here?” he asked.
“I’m here,” Talia said smoothly, “to celebrate with all of you, since this will be the last birthday Beloved will have peace.”
Bruce froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “What are you talking about?”
Talia only smiled mysteriously, a secretive curl of her lips. She turned her attention to Dick. “Where did your parents originally come from?” she switched the topic lightly.
Bruce leaned towards her. “We will talk about this later,” he said firmly, his voice tight.
Damian, curious as always, asked, “Mother… will you stay over?”
Alfred, ever the ever-prepared butler, cleared his throat. “Shall I prepare the guest room?”
“No need,” Bruce said quickly, “she will—”
“I’ll sleep with Damian,” Talia interjected smoothly, cutting him off.
Bruce blinked, stunned.
“What?” Talia raised an eyebrow.
“Because…” he stammered, trying to recover, “I thought… since you were staying, you’d stay with me.”
Dick’s face twisted in disgust. “Dad, eww!”
Cassandra and Jason immediately began mimicking gagging sounds, half-teasing, half-grossed out.
Tim looked between them all, utterly confused. “Wait… what?”
Damian, on the other hand, beamed with delight. “Yes!” he exclaimed.
Talia leaned toward him, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I will come… after he is asleep.”
Bruce let out a long, slow exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose. The kids erupted into giggles and chatter once more, and Talia simply sat back, a faint, knowing smile playing across her lips, as if she’d won some silent, personal victory in the midst of the birthday chaos.
---
The dinner had wound down, laughter and chatter fading into the calm of the night. Bruce had escorted each of the children to their rooms, tucking them in with quiet patience, save for Damian, who had been guided to his room by Talia herself. With the house finally settling into a rare silence, Bruce returned to his own room, the weight of the day pressing on him.
Hours later, the faint rustle of movement drew his attention. A shadow crossed the doorway—Talia. She moved with the quiet grace of someone who had always been at home in the darkness. Without a word, she slipped beneath the covers beside him.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Bruce felt the warmth of her presence, the faint scent of her lingering in the sheets. The closeness was enough—a quiet, intimate understanding passing between them without a single word. Fingers tore into the fabrics, shoulders pressed together, the heat of proximity speaking more than conversation ever could.
Talia’s fingers caressing his hair, Bruce allowed himself a slow exhale, the tension in his chest loosening. His head rested lightly against her shoulder, nuzzling the neck, and he could feel the steady rhythm of her pulse as their breath mingled. In the shared quiet, the rest of the world—the League, Gotham, even their children—slipped away. There was only this room, this night, this fragile moment of connection.
It was unspoken, yet clear: boundaries had shifted, and the intimacy they shared in that soft darkness was something both recognized, cherished, and protected.
---
Dawn crept through the windows, painting the room in soft gold. Bruce stirred, sensing movement beside him. He blinked against the morning light and saw Talia rising from the bed, methodical and graceful, already gathering her clothes which had been decorating the floor. The sight made him pause, a sheet clutched around himself, half sitting up.
“You’re leaving already?” he asked, his voice low, tinged with both incredulity and quiet longing.
Talia, her back still to him, slipping her sarwal and replied, “The war is not yet over between my father and me.”
Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Is it a war you’re returning to… or your new husband?”
The question made her pause mid-motion. Slowly, she turned toward him, her expression half-shocked, half-guarded. “How did you… find out?”
Bruce exhaled sharply, a faint edge of irritation in his voice. “I still have old contacts in the League. Not exactly hard to keep track.”
Talia’s eyes widened slightly, and Bruce’s tone hardened just a little, the miffed edge unmistakable. “What kind of a man does it make me, knowing this—and still embracing you?”
She moved closer, sitting gently on the edge of the bed. Cupping his face in her hands, she spoke softly, yet with authority, her gaze locking onto his. “I’ve been married more times than I can count on my hands,” she said, the weight of centuries hidden behind her calm composure. “Some of those marriages are older than the years you’ve been alive, beloved.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “I know. I’m not asking you to leave them—or anything. But why… why marry again right after leaving our son in my care?”
Her gaze softened, but a steely determination remained. “Precisely because of you… and our son, I had to.” She paused, letting the words settle, then continued. “Ever since Damian was born, and because you refused to follow our customs, my position within the League has been undermined. Now, as I prepare for war against my father, I need allies. To secure them, I had no choice but to enter new marriage contracts.”
Bruce’s chest tightened, a mixture of admiration, concern, and frustration tightening around him. He remained still, letting her words sink in, realizing that the woman before him—his son’s mother, the assassin, the tactician—was navigating a battle far more complex than any physical fight he could imagine.
Talia’s hands lingered on his cheeks, her eyes softening just enough to betray the connection still shared between them, even amid the chaos of her obligations.
Bruce’s hands moved to catch the open ends of her tunic. His fingers found the small brass fastenings, and he worked them with an almost careless habit.
“You’ve been married more times than you’ll ever tell me.” He didn’t mean it as accusation—he meant it as an observation—but the bluntness in his voice was impossible to mask. “Damian is the only child you ever had. So what do these marriages buy them, if not heirs? Money? Land? Titles?”
Talia’s fingers found his wrist under the hem of the tunic and squeezed, the motion small and private. Her voice came low and careful. “It is not something I am at liberty to tell you, beloved.”
He looked up at her, a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You say that a lot.”
“It is not because I will not,” she said, and there was no theater to the words—only the weight of ritual and obligation. “There are bindings. Vows. Old secrets and older law. To break them is not merely shameful; it is dangerous. I could forsake my life.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “When do you ever tell me things? You drop pieces of your life on me one by one. Maybe in a decade you’ll waltz in and tell me I have another child you forgot to mention.”
“That is flippant,” she said, but the tone was softer now. “You will have to wait for only a few days. I can explain much more then.”
“When?” he asked, the word a taut wire.
“On Richard’s birthday,” she said simply.
He barked a laugh that was half incredulous and half wary. “Why on his birthday? Are you planning some ritual sacrifice, or is this your idea of a party?”
She turned to him then, slow enough that the movement was a private reveal. Her eyes were dark with things she could not name. “You will see. Keep an open mind, Beloved. Believe me enough to listen when I choose to speak.”
He felt the old ferocity burn up inside him, half grief and half thunder. “If anything—anything at all—hurts my children because of your secrets, Talia, I will burn the league down. You hear me?”
Her laugh this time was a single, soft sound, almost disbelieving at the intensity behind it. She reached up and cupped his cheek like a benediction. “I promise you, beloved, nothing will harm them because of me.”
For a long, suspended second they simply looked at one another, two people holding half-truths and full promises. The roar of the night, the distant pulse of the city, all of it receded; there was only the quiet in the room and the rhythm of their breath.
Bruce’s anger ebbed enough that something like exhaustion took its place. She had been impossible and infuriating and maddeningly secretive for years, and yet he found himself leaning into the warmth of the moment.
They kissed—slow, measured, neither of them seeking to unmake anything nor to promise more than the present allowed. It was a quiet thing, tidy as all the restrained gestures between them, and when it broke it left them both a little steadier.
Talia rose, the movement graceful, practiced. She crossed to the veranda and paused in the doorway, the pale light catching the line of her profile. For a second she looked back over her shoulder, and there was no apology on her face, only a request.
“Be ready,” she said softly.
He did not ask how. He only nodded.
She stepped out into the morning, the terrace swallowing her silhouette. Bruce watched her go until the thin veil of shadow and sky claimed her, and then he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Inside the room, the bed smelled faintly of their shared warmth. He sank back into the sheets, wrapping the blankets over his face to breath into it, hoping the thoughts in his mind would slip away.
What a shitty entry to the thirties.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 31: The Threshold Of Magic
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning sun barely crept through the tall windows of Wayne Manor when chaos struck—precisely as Dick John Grayson-Wayne was still buried beneath the comfort of his blankets.
“WAKE UP, BIRTHDAY BOY!”
Jason and Damian didn’t even wait for the words to finish. They launched themselves onto Dick’s bed with precision and determination, turning the peaceful morning into an all-out assault of limbs, laughter, and playful shoves.
Dick groaned, trying to shield himself with the pillow, but it was hopeless. “Jason! Damian! Too early for this!”
“Nope,” Jason declared triumphantly, tickling Dick’s ribs. “It’s your birthday! You must endure!”
Damian, not to be outdone, added a swift nudge and a small, yet firm, punch to his side. “Survive, brother. It’s a test of strength.”
Meanwhile, Tim and Cassandra hovered politely at the bedside, offering calm, cheerful wishes. “Happy birthday, Dick,” Cass said softly, brushing back a strand of hair from his forehead.
“Eleven today, big guy,” Tim added with a grin. “Can’t believe you’re already eleven.”
Dick finally managed to sit up, hair sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed with a mix of sleep and excitement. “Thanks, everyone… I guess.”
The chaos didn’t end there. Gifts began to appear, one by one.
Jason handed him a neatly wrapped handkerchief. “Made it myself,” he said with a proud grin. “With Alfred’s help, obviously.” Dick unfolded it, noticing the stitched initials: R.J.G.W.
“Wow,” Dick breathed. “Jason… this is… really thoughtful.”
Cass handed him a water bottle, bright and cheerful, reading World’s Best Big Brother. Dick chuckled, warmth spreading through him.
Tim presented a collage of photos he had painstakingly compiled, capturing countless happy moments—the five of them, smiling, laughing, and sometimes mischievous. Dick’s eyes softened as he studied it, recognizing memories he never wanted to forget.
Finally, Damian stepped forward with a small canvas. “I made this,” he said quietly. It was a portrait of Dick—his expression serious, yet undeniably warm. Dick’s chest tightened.
“All this for me,” he said softly, voice thick. “You guys…” He hugged each of them in turn, his heart full.
---
Breakfast was laid out like a feast fit for royalty—or at least, for the most beloved eleven-year-old in Gotham. Alfred had outdone himself: a golden-brown roast of chicken and sausages glistened under the morning light, accompanied by buttery croissants, stacks of fluffy pancakes dripping with syrup, and scrambled eggs dotted with herbs. Platters of fresh fruit added color: glistening strawberries, juicy melon slices, and grapes like little amethysts.
A tower of Alfred’s special cinnamon buns exuded warmth, their sweet scent curling around the room. Chocolate eclairs, delicate tarts, and a bowl of Dick’s favorite jellybeans beckoned from the sideboard. The rich aroma of brewed tea and hot cocoa filled the air, and even the subtle scent of freshly baked bread seemed to whisper, Happy Birthday, Dick.
Cass guided him to the head of the table, where a place had been set with his finest cutlery and a napkin neatly folded into a swan. “Sit, Birthday Boy,” she instructed, guiding him to the chair of honor.
Tim handed him a handmade crown from craft class and gently placed it on his head. “You’re officially royalty.” While Cass draped the sash reading Birthday Boy across his chest.
Dick looked around, blinking at the spread in awe. “Alfred… this is… unbelievable,” he said, a grin splitting his face.
“You deserve nothing less, Master Richard,” Alfred said, his tone formal but warm, pride faintly ringing through.
Jason, never one for subtlety, popped a balloon right behind his ear, causing Dick to yelp and laugh, while Damian precisely served portions, ensuring the meat was sliced just so and the pastries arranged perfectly. “Meat first,” he instructed. “And pastries only after proper protein intake.”
Dick laughed, shaking his head. “Oh man… I wish it was my birthday every day.”
Just then, Bruce entered, moving quietly to Dick’s side. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Happy birthday, Chum,” he said softly, handing over a small rectangular box.
Dick unwrapped it slowly. Inside lay a pair of cufflinks—beautiful, understated, and unmistakably elegant. He remembered remarking on them once, and Bruce’s words had been clear: they belonged to his maternal grandfather.
“You… you remembered,” Dick whispered, touched beyond words.
“I did,” Bruce said, voice steady, yet warm. “Happy birthday, Dick.”
Dick glanced around at his siblings, then back at his father, the morning sunlight reflecting in their eyes. Chaos, laughter, and love—it was all here. He grinned, finally feeling the weight of being truly celebrated.
And then, finally, they all sat down, breakfast beginning in earnest, sticky fingers, playful banter, and full hearts filling the grand dining room of Wayne Manor.
The dining room buzzed with energy. Plates clinked, syrup dripped onto pancakes, and laughter spilled between bites of buttery croissants and sizzling sausages. Jason leaned back in his chair, grinning, and waved a fork in the air.
“So today, Cass, you better watch out—because I’m planning to absolutely dominate the bottle flip match during lunch!” he declared, voice carrying across the table.
Tim rolled his eyes, trying to sound stern but failing. “Jason, it’s not a competition for once. It’s Dick’s birthday. Maybe we can just… enjoy ourselves?”
“Enjoy ourselves?” Jason scoffed. “That’s boring. Birthdays are for chaos, little brother, and I’ve got a full schedule ready for you!”
Damian, sitting perfectly upright with a slice of fruit balanced on his fork, raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Chaos is inefficient. I prefer structured fun.”
Cass, sliding a plate of pancakes toward Dick, giggled. “Structured chaos, maybe? That sounds like your style, Jay.”
Dick laughed, cheeks warm from both the food and the teasing. Bruce, seated at the head of the table with a quiet smile, leaned closer. “You know how most of the Justice League members have a young hero counterpart?”
Dick’s eyes lit up instantly. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“Well,” Bruce continued, “all of us were thinking… it might be a good idea if all of you kids had an opportunity to meet one another.”
Tim, barely able to contain himself, muttered from the side of the table, “Oh gosh… that is so cool!”
Dick’s grin spread from ear to ear. “Wait… you mean, like… superheroes… my age? I could meet them?”
Bruce nodded. “Exactly. We thought you’d like the chance to… see what other young heroes are doing, maybe make some new friends along the way.”
Dick’s excitement bubbled over, nearly making him spill his orange juice. “Oh, yes! Of course I would! Superheroes my age! This is going to be amazing—I can’t wait to meet them all. I’m going to make some new friends!”
The chatter and laughter in the dining room carried on as the kids continued to dig into their breakfast, their voices overlapping with clinks of cutlery. Jason was mid-story, dramatically detailing how he had “almost” won the last dodgeball game, when suddenly—
A sharp, flapping sound cut through the room. Everyone froze.
An owl swooped through the open window, wings beating powerfully against the morning sunlight, gliding in tight circles above their heads. Cassandra shrieked, ducking under the table, while Damian’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. Even Jason blinked, momentarily silenced.
Then the owl descended and dropped a small, neatly wrapped package. It landed squarely in Dick’s lap with a soft thump.
“—What the hell just happened?” Jason muttered, still staring at the bird as it perched gracefully on the windowsill.
Dick’s eyes went wide as he held the package. “Is… is this for me?”
Bruce, who had risen instinctively, stepped forward and took the package from Dick before he could open it. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” he said, examining the wrapping carefully.
He unwrapped it, revealing a heavy, creamy parchment inside. Bruce picked up the letter and examined the crimson wax seal. He tried to break it, pressing and tugging, but the seal wouldn’t budge.
“Curious,” he muttered, fingers prying, twisting, and tapping. Alfred came over, producing a delicate brass tool shaped for breaking wax seals. Even with that, the seal wouldn’t budge.
Cass leaned forward, excitement sparkling in her eyes. “Give it to Dick.”
Dick looked at the letter, eyes wide with a mix of excitement and anticipation. “Yeah, maybe it’s meant for me!”
Bruce hesitated. His instinct was to control everything, to protect his son. But… seeing Dick’s eager expression, he relented. “Very well,” he said, sliding the envelope toward him.
Dick snatched it gently but eagerly, examining the seal. With a confident tug, the wax cracked cleanly. His eyes widened as he carefully unfolded the parchment.
The room held its breath.
Finally, Dick began to read aloud, a mix of wonder and awe creeping into his voice.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Head Office: Hogwarts Castle, Scotland
[Date: March 20th]
Mr. Richard John Grayson-Wayne,
Wayne Manor
Gotham City, United States of America
Dear Mr. Grayson-Wayne,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to begin your magical education in the coming term.
Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Head of Gryffindor
Dick’s mouth fell open. “Wait… wait… what? Hogwarts? Magic school?” His voice wavered, caught between awe and disbelief.
Jason blinked, then grinned nervously. “Uh… so… you’re telling me there’s, like… a whole school… for real magic?” His excitement was tempered by confusion. “I mean… we know superheroes exist, but this…” He waved a hand vaguely, unsure how to explain. “This is insane!”
Cassandra’s brow furrowed, leaning closer to examine the letter. “So… it’s… real?” she asked slowly, cautious but intrigued. “A school… just for… wizards?” She looked at Dick with wide eyes. “I mean, we’ve seen magic with the League… but a whole school? That’s… unexpected.”
Damian, sitting perfectly still, scowled thoughtfully. “I assumed magical communities exist… I’ve seen enough to know it’s real. But a school? A formal education? Hmph. That is… significant.”
Tim’s jaw dropped. “Wait… wait… hold on. You’re telling me there’s a place where… magic is taught? Like, systematically? But… how does it work? And… why didn’t anyone tell us?” He looked between Dick and Bruce, excitement and disbelief written all over his face.
Bruce, taking hold of the letter, frowned. Hogwarts? He knew magic existed. He had seen it in action, but a dedicated school for it? That caught him off guard. And then, Talia’s advice echoed in his mind: “Keep an open mind.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed as he reread the letter. Hogwarts. A magical school. And why Dick? Why him? Why his son? The gears in his mind started turning, faster and faster.
“Everyone,” Bruce said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the chatter at the breakfast table, “none of you are going to Gotham Academy today. Stay home.”
Jason blinked, mid-grin. “Wait—what? We were supposed to—”
“No exceptions,” Bruce interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “Rest at home. All of you.”
Dick froze, holding the letter tightly. “But… why me? I mean… what does this mean? Why would they… pick me?”
Cassandra leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Dad… Is it… real?”
“It’s real,” Bruce said, his voice tight, “but I don’t understand why Dick, of all you children, received a letter. And I intend to find out.”
Without another word, Bruce stood, the cape of authority settling over his shoulders. “Stay here. I’ll be in the Batcave.”
The kids exchanged glances—excited, confused, and a little unsure. Jason’s grin wavered into a nervous smile. “Uh… so, magic school… but Dad’s leaving… to do what?”
Damian, already suspicious, folded his arms. “To investigate. Naturally. This requires more than idle speculation.”
Tim practically vibrated in his chair, whispering to Cass, “Do you think he’s going to… figure out Hogwarts? Is that even possible?”
Bruce strode out of the breakfast hall, leaving the children in a swirl of questions and half-formed theories. Once in the Batcave, he approached the secure communication console. With a few commands, he activated the line to Talia.
He stared at the console, fingers poised, eyes narrowing as the indicator light blinked slowly, then steadily. Waiting…
Minutes stretched. The hum of the Batcave machines filled the silence. Bruce remained silent, calculating, preparing contingencies in his mind. Hogwarts. A magical school. My son has been chosen. And Talia’s advice… she said something about keeping an open mind. Great. Just what kind of new chaos is coming my way?
Back at the Dick sat back in his chair, the letter still clutched in his hands, staring at it as if it might suddenly explain itself. “I… I don’t even know where to start. Hogwarts? Magic? Why me?” His voice was small, unsure.
Jason leaned forward, grinning but with a reassuring glint in his eyes. “Hey, man, don’t worry. Dad’s on it. He’ll figure it all out. We just… wait. Yeah?”
Cassandra reached over and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Exactly, Dad will get to the bottom of it. We’re here for you.”
Tim, practically bouncing in his seat, nodded vigorously. “Yeah! Dad’s the best detective ever. If anyone can figure out why you got a letter from some magic school, it’s him!”
Damian, though his expression remained serious, gave a subtle nod. “Patience, brother. I will protect you if Father fails to do so.”
Dick let out a small laugh, feeling a little of the tension ease. “Yeah… okay. I guess we wait. And… thanks, guys. I don’t know what I’d do without all of you.”
Jason smirked. “Probably end up with a few more mysterious letters flying at your head.”
They all chuckled softly, the strange excitement of the morning lingering in the air. Outside, the Batcave hummed, and somewhere deep below, Bruce waited patiently, watching the line to Talia blink slowly as it tried to come online.
For now, all they could do was wait—and wonder.
Notes:
This fic was born as i was looking for something like the batkids go to hogwarts along with their crazy lives as bats but I couldn't find anything that was similar to what I wanted. Which got me thinking what I would like in a fic and thus started plotting. I spiraled from there.
This fics takes inspiration heavily from headcannons from Pinterest as well as the comics (which has zero timeframe comprehension) and from other batfamily fics I have read which focuses on the Wayne siblings but I cannot for the life of me find the titles since i didn't have an ao3 account then. So if any of you find similarities, do let me know the titles so I can ask their creators for permissions to use their original idea.
Chapter 32: Interlude I
Notes:
I have finally wrapped up Part One. 🎉💃 🎉 📣📣 Can't believe i have already reached 80k words and Hogwarts hasn't even started yet.
Chapter Text
The patrol ended at four in the morning. Gotham was quiet now, but the silence wasn’t peace. It was a reminder. Every shadow, every darkened alley whispered that the city never truly rested, and neither did he.
Bruce didn’t return to the Manor. Sleep was a luxury he hadn’t earned. Instead, he walked the winding paths of the estate, feet crunching against hardened earth, and eventually stopped beneath the weeping willows, its skeletal branches swaying in the bitter wind. He stood before the resting place of his parents, imagining the cold stone faces of Thomas and Martha Wayne.
He had been a different sort of child beneath a different set of moons—hardened, furious, the sort of boy who could turn a heartbreak into a crusade and call the crusade, justice. If someone had told that boy that he would be a father of five by thirty he would have spat at the idea and named it a joke that hurt. And now, somehow, that same boy had learned to tuck others into bed instead of plotting vengeance.
He stared at the cold marble until the letters blurred. He thought of the five small, impossible people sleeping in the Manor now. The thought should have brought warmth. Instead it was a mirror, showing him, his two selves at once.
“They’re miracles,” he said, the sound stung raw. “Little wild, inconvenient miracles.”
Five little lives, miracles born from chaos, from tragedy, from chance. And yet… they existed. They were real. They were his.
“They’re amazing,” he whispered, low and ragged. “All of them. Each one… a little blessing. You’d be proud… I think. You’d be proud.”
He could see them: Dick’s grin like sunlight through glass; Cass’s quiet calculation; Jason’s chaos like a detonated firework; Tim’s shining brilliance; Damian’s fierce, absurd dignity. He had built a life out of broken vows and better intentions, and now there were five reasons to keep breathing. The idea should have anchored him. It anchored him—until it didn’t.
But pride didn’t last long. The weight of failure pressed against his chest like iron. His duty to Gotham was relentless. His focus should be there, always. But it wasn’t. Not entirely. His priorities had shifted, and guilt slithered in to fill the cracks.
Duty had been the axis of his life for so long that it had warped the rest of him. Duty demanded a man who could bear the city’s rot without flinching—who could look into the maw of cruelty and not look away. He had tried to be that man: precise, implacable, relentless. But being precise required denial, and denial had a price. He could deny hunger, deny fatigue, deny mercy, deny himself softness—but not forever. Everything he denied stacked, a house of shavings leaning toward fire.
“I should be in the streets, hunting, fighting… cleaning the filth from this city,” he muttered, teeth gritted. “But I’m here. Sitting. Thinking about… them. My children. My… selfish, human distraction.”
He closed his eyes, the cold wind biting his face, and allowed himself a flicker of a secret truth: when he was with them, the anger receded. The rage that simmered beneath the surface—the rage that had fueled him for decades, that had driven him to perfection, to obsession, to madness—it softened. Just a little. Enough to let him feel warmth. Enough to feel love.
And then it returned, insistent, gnawing. The city. The criminals. The chaos he couldn’t control. The people he couldn’t save. The sense that, no matter how much good he did, it was never enough. It always came back. And with it, the cold certainty that he was broken.
“I should be out there,” he muttered, more to the soil than to the stones. “Hunting. Fixing. Erasing what needs erasing.”
The wish that rose in him—raw, honest, and animal—was simple and ugly: to make the ones who hurt the innocent feel the same slow burn they had inflicted. To hold a blade to a throat and decide. To make their horror final. The thought pleased him like a warm poison. It made him cruel and human all at once.
He had rules. He had carved them into himself with claws. No killing. No torture. Restraint as doctrine. He had taken that oath because the alternative was a cliff. Because he had watched what obsession did to other men, to himself in certain half-remembered reflections. Because he knew the shape of the monster that could be born in a man who let anger have unmitigated sway.
And yet—when the city smelled of smoke and blood, the old old voice in him whispered: justice is not nuance. It is ruin for the corrupt. It is precise, cold, final.
“Even now,” he muttered, voice low, almost bitter, “I am controlling the worst of myself. But for how long? One mistake… one lapse… and it’s over. They’d burn in my shadow. And I… I could never forgive myself.”
He imagined the boy he had been—ten, twelve, fifteen years old—a boy hollowed by grief and rage, trying desperately to fix a broken world. That boy hadn’t disappeared. He was still there, lurking beneath the mask, lurking beneath the warmth of family dinners, bedtime stories, laughter in the halls. That boy was still angry. Still angry at the world. Still angry at himself.
The paradox tore at him. He kept one hand pressed against his ribs as if he could hold all his selves in place. “If I split,” he told the wind, “one half will be a blade with no hand on the hilt. The other half will be a man shattered and unrecognizable.”
He imagined the scene with a clarity that made his stomach pitch. He killed, finally—made an exception, rationalized it, found a face and a place and a reason—and from that seed the rest grew: a man who loved too hard, who could not walk back from blood. The monster would not arrive like a foreign force. He would be him, but worn different: patient, unrepentant, a moral absolute that chewed the world to keep it safe. He would keep his children safe by burning everything outside them. He would keep them safe by making them orphans of a different fashion.
“You would burn,” he whispered, visualizing five small faces lit by a fire not of hearth but of consequences. “They will be caught in that flame.”
It was the real terror: not that he might cross the line, but that crossing would not protect them. It would drag them into a crossfire of his own making. The children would not be collateral but part of the architecture; they would inherit fear and blood and the knowledge that the man who pronounced himself protector was also the arsonist of their peace. He thought of Cass’s laugh, Dick’s stubbornness, Jason’s jokes, Tim’s cautious mind, Damian’s tiny, exquisite ferocity—and the picture split like glass in his hands.
He had tried therapy once, in a different life with a different name. The therapist had handed him words—boundaries, safety plans, breathing exercises—the polite tools of a respectable fix. They failed because the problem was not a leak. It was the foundation. Brilliance and brutality had built him. The anger that made him unbreakable also made him dangerous. He could teach himself not to break, but he could not make the urge disappear. It hunkered, patient and clever.
The night offered no absolution. It only echoed his sentences back at him, emptier, truer. He had taught himself that guilt could be reshaped into fuel; now he saw it as metal in his veins, stoking a furnace. “I am doing this for them,” he told the graves. “To keep them. To give them a life that isn’t mine. To give them something better than what I had.”
He thought of his parents’ faces, the rawness of that first loss and how it had translated into a life of purpose. Had they wanted this? Had the oath they inspired demanded this price—the quiet absence of a man who could swing between miracles and monsters? He could not ask them; he could only stand and confess.
“I will not let them burn because of me,” he promised the stone. It sounded like a vow and like a threat to himself—both directions true. He would keep his line. He would go on choosing to be less than his most honest hunger required. He would choose sleep over the sword, where possible. He would teach himself to love in ways that were visible and clumsy and kind. He would hold his children and show them better examples than his rage.
Then the smallest and sorriest of truths surfaced: this might not be enough. The city was merciless and the world generous in its cruelties. He could save a hundred tonight and lose one tomorrow. He could teach them safety and still fail. That uncertainty bruised him more than any steel.
When the first hint of dawn bled under the willow, the cold had made his hands white. He turned away from the stones and walked back to the Manor, each step a decision to continue bearing both his mask and his fatherhood. The night had not solved him. It had only clarified the fracture: he would always be two things at once. The question was how long he could keep both from destroying each other.
He moved like a man who had learned to carry weight without complaint. He had no illusions about how long the balance would hold. He only knew this: whatever the cost, he would try to keep his children from the fire. He would stand between them and the world’s worst. And if the world asked him to choose—if the city required him to snap—then the nightmare was not whether he could kill. It was whether he could survive what he would become afterward.
He pushed the thought down and steadied himself with the only small mercy he allowed: it was Dick’s eleventh birthday. By morning he would be a father before anything else, and that strange, human role steadied him enough to return home.
Chapter 33: Origins
Summary:
Magic....
Chapter Text
Act Two
The Magical Birds
The Batcave hummed with the quiet of machines idling, punctuated only by the occasional drip of condensation from the stalactites overhead. Bruce stood before the secure console, fingers hovering over the controls. He had activated the line hours ago, but Talia’s connection, like all things magical, did not respond on human schedules.
Finally, the screen flickered to life. Talia’s face appeared, framed by the shadows of her study, her expression calm and unreadable.
“You took your time,” Bruce said, voice tight.
“I did,” Talia replied evenly. “The connection only opens when it wills itself.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “So… you knew.”
She arched a single brow. “Yes. I did.”
“How?” he demanded, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. “How could you have known all along?”
Talia’s lips curved in the faintest trace of a smile, but her eyes remained sharp. “Because the world you thought you knew—the one of shadows and fear, the one you have devoted your life to—has always had another layer. A layer of magic. Bloodlines older than your cities, older than your laws. And those who possess it… they do not hide from it entirely.”
Bruce exhaled slowly, letting the words settle. “Explain.”
Talia’s gaze sharpened, as if she were seeing centuries unfold behind her eyes. “The history of the magical world is written in secrecy, survival, and adaptation. In the earliest centuries, those born with magical abilities were few and scattered, often hunted for their power. Entire villages, entire families vanished. In response, magical communities gathered in hidden enclaves, away from prying eyes, forming their own governments, schools, and laws. Some called them covens, others clans. They became self-sufficient, preserving knowledge, rituals, and—most importantly—bloodlines.”
Bruce listened, absorbing each word, trying to reconcile the world he had fought to protect with this hidden network of power.
“There emerged a hierarchy,” Talia continued. “Pure-blood families, whose magic was untouched for generations, considered the apex of society. Half-bloods, born of one magical parent and one non-magical parent, were tolerated, sometimes valued, sometimes scorned. Muggle-borns—those with no magical ancestry—were the anomaly, often mistrusted despite their abilities. Over centuries, these distinctions created rivalries, prejudices, and alliances.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “So even in hiding, they… discriminated.”
“Yes,” Talia said, her voice steady. “Even among the persecuted, humans create hierarchies. It is both a strength and a weakness. Power is preserved, but it breeds envy and danger. Every magical community has rules, but every rule has its loophole.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “So… your life, all of it, was shaped by this.”
Talia continued, eyes sharp even through the screen. “It has been two hundred and twenty seven years since I walked the halls of Al-Qamar Academy of Unseen Arts. Long enough to learn the politics, the rivalries, and the price of a magical life… the customs have not changed. And that is why I chose Wales for Damian’s birth to ensure Hogwarts would accept him without conflict. Dumbledore’s hand would prevent violent altercations—something impossible in other schools steeped in blood supremacy.”
Bruce exhaled slowly, letting the weight of centuries press into him. “And your life, Talia… all the alliances, the marriages… it was always for this? For protection? For legacy?”
“Yes… those marriages you wondered about, the ones I contracted with various allies…” Talia’s eyes flickered with something unspoken—regret, perhaps, or pride. “To the Al Ghul sacred texts, to rituals, to summoning circles. The ability to call celestial beings from other planes. It was never love. It was bargaining, protection, and legacy and now, it protects your son.”
Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose. The revelations stacked like stones against his chest, heavy and unmoving.
“And the schools,” Talia added, her tone becoming more formal, explanatory, as though she were lecturing a particularly stubborn student. “Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, Castelobruxo, Ilvermorny, Mahoutokoro, Uagadou. Each has its traditions, its history, its areas of expertise. And the rest of the world… unseen academies, scattered across continents, keep the balance and train the young who manifest their abilities.”
Bruce’s hands clenched into fists. “And you expect me to… what? Step into this world?”
Talia’s eyes softened for just a fraction of a second. “No, Beloved. You will navigate it because you must. For your children. For the first time, the veil has lifted. And now, you are part of it.”
She leaned closer to the camera, her expression serious. “You must understand, Beloved: magic is not just the spells, the summoning, the rituals you might imagine. It is blood, heritage, identity. And it is dangerous in the wrong hands. That is why our families—and your children—must be trained, guided, and protected.”
Bruce’s hands clenched. “But Dick? How… why him?”
Talia’s gaze softened, but the weight of centuries lingered in her expression. “The Graysons,” she began, her voice steady. “A Romani family with ancient magical blood, powerful but unpracticed. Over generations, the family dispersed across Northern Europe, hiding their abilities to avoid persecution. When they were invited to attend Durmstrang Institute, their culture clashed with the prevailing norms of the school. Harassment, prejudice, and rigid expectations made formal magical education unbearable.
“So the Graysons chose secrecy over practice. They maintained their heritage, but kept it dormant, untrained. For generations, magic lay latent in the family, hidden from the world.
“Eventually, as pure-blood populations dwindled, Durmstrang sought to reintegrate the Romani families, to strengthen their magical ranks despite cultural differences. Many accepted, but the Graysons refused. They remained non-practicing, yet fully pure-blood. And that is why Richard carries this latent power—untouched, untrained, but undeniable.”
Bruce absorbed each word, trying to reconcile his son’s mundane upbringing with the legacy coursing through his veins. “And how that… makes him eligible for Hogwarts?”
Talia nodded. “ Because he was born in London during Haly’s Circus’ performance, under the jurisdiction of the British magical system. His bloodline qualifies him. Hogwarts recognized the latent potential, and the letter was sent according to protocol. Timing and circumstance, as much as blood, determine these things.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “So… Dick has magic, dormant for years, and now it’s being awakened.”
Talia’s voice carried a quiet authority. “Exactly. He is one of the few who will straddle both worlds—the ordinary and the magical. But that makes him precious, and potentially vulnerable. That is why the next steps must be handled with care and because of what you now know, Beloved, all of your children will eventually receive a Hogwarts letter.”
Bruce’s eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face. “What? All of them? Why all of them?”
Talia’s expression softened, a hint of a knowing smile appearing. “Each of your children carries a lineage touched by magic in some way. Their potential must be recognized, nurtured, and protected. Hogwarts is simply the first step in preparing them for what is coming.”
Bruce’s brow furrowed, leaning closer to the screen. “Cassandra… she’s magical too?”
Talia nodded. “Yes. Though both her parents—David Cain and Sandra Wusan, known as Lady Shiva—are non-magical, there is more to her heritage than appears.”
Bruce tilted his head, intrigued. “Explain.”
“Her mother,” Talia continued, “came from the Wu clan, a family that practices an ancient set of martial arts originating from the Zhou Yun Academy of Mystical Arts. It is a discipline that blends martial prowess with subtle magic—rituals, energy manipulation, and wards. Cassandra’s father, David Cain, was also deeply connected to magical teachings. His stepfather served as a professor at the Arcanum of the North Sea, one of the oldest magical schools in the northern regions. Through their guidance, David became closely acquainted with the magical community, though he himself was not practitioner. Yet the environment was enough to leave a latent impression on Cassandra.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “So even though she was born fron non magical, her magic manifested because of her parents’ connections?”
“Partially,” Talia said. “Her father wanted her birth to be hidden, to protect her from those who might exploit her potential. She grew up in Nanda Parbat, surrounded by ancient summoning circles and powerful wards. That exposure awakened her innate magical abilities early. Cassandra’s magic is subtle, disciplined, and tied to her bloodline—but also to the environment that nurtured it. She is… exceptional.”
Bruce exhaled slowly, processing the revelation. “So all this time, she’s been training without even knowing the full scope of her heritage.”
Talia’s eyes softened. “Exactly. And now, as Hogwarts recognizes these abilities, she will be able to fully develop them, safely, under the guidance of experienced mentors.”
Bruce leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “And Jason… what about him?”
Talia let out a soft, knowing laugh. “Jason’s magic is… different. You’ve seen it firsthand, even if you didn’t realize it.”
Bruce blinked, then his mind flashed to the night he first met Jason. He could see the scene vividly: the dimly lit alley, the roar of the Batmobile’s engine, and the boy—no older than seven—working with impossible precision.
“Yes,” Bruce said, voice low. “The night I met Jason… he was unscrewing the clogs of the Batmobile’s tire—with his bare hands. He managed to remove three tires. I thought it was strength, skill… maybe a trick of some kind. But now I understand. That was magic.”
“Precisely,” Talia confirmed. “That was the manifestation of latent magic within him. Jason’s lineage is not part of the structured magical community. He is descended from a bloodline touched by a curse. When Gotham was colonized, the Native Americans who were displaced placed a powerful protective and vengeful curse on the land. That curse affects those born in Gotham, especially children who inherit it in their blood. Jason’s abilities are intertwined with that curse.”
Bruce’s face darkened. “So his… power is dangerous, uncontrolled?”
Talia shook her head slowly. “It is potent, yes, but chaotic in origin. Unlike your other children, Jason has no ties to magical families or institutions. His gift—or burden—is unique, born of circumstance and blood, not tradition. That is why it has remained hidden until now. And yes, you probably noticed other… improbable feats. That is all part of the same phenomenon.”
Bruce exhaled sharply, the weight of understanding settling in. “So he’s magic, but… untamed. And tied to Gotham.”
“Yes,” Talia said softly. “Caution is required. His path will be perilous, but he has potential. And now that the magical world recognizes him, he may learn to control it—or the curse may control him.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “If Jason’s magic is tied to the curse… then maybe that explains a lot,” he murmured.
Talia raised an eyebrow. “Explain what?”
Bruce’s voice was grim, low, and almost a whisper to himself. “Gotham… the city is a cesspit. Not just unlucky. The violence, the insanity, the endless parade of… psychos. It’s all connected. The city itself bears a mark. That curse doesn’t just twist magical energy—it warps people, breeds chaos. It’s why there’s never a moment of peace here. Every criminal, every psychopath… some part of it traces back to that same curse, that same legacy of blood and displacement.”
Talia nodded solemnly. “Correct. Jason’s abilities are a manifestation of that same energy. The curse doesn’t discriminate—it can twist magic, and it can twist human hearts. Gotham is a reflection of that imbalance.”
Bruce exhaled sharply, staring down at the floor. “And I’ve been fighting it for so long… trying to protect people, trying to hold it back. But the curse isn’t something you can simply punch away. It’s in the very soul of the city.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s why it never ends. That’s why the chaos never stops. And now… some of that chaos is in my children. They have the blood, the potential, the danger. And I… I have to make sure they survive it.”
Bruce’s voice was tight. “And Tim… he’s magical because?”
Talia nodded. “Timothy’s paternal grandfather was Marcus Black, a member of an ancient pure-blood family in London. The Blacks have been part of the magical world for centuries, but Marcus… was disowned.”
Bruce frowned. “Disowned? Why?”
“Because Marcus was a squib,” Talia explained. “Squib are children born to magical parents who show no magical ability themselves. Within pure-blood circles, that is considered a serious flaw. His family rejected him, though his bloodline remained potent.”
Bruce exhaled slowly, piecing it together. “So the magical gene was still there… latent. And Tim’s upbringing in Gotham somehow… triggered it?”
Talia’s gaze was steady. “Precisely. The environment matters as much as the blood. Growing up in the Drake House, in the heart of a cursed city like Gotham, surrounded by its latent magical energies, Tim’s dormant abilities awakened. His survival instincts were intertwined with his latent magic, allowing him to endure conditions that would have broken another child.”
Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line. “So… his uncanny reflexes, his resilience—it wasn’t just luck. It was magic.”
“Yes,” Talia said gently. “Tim’s magic is subtle, but real. It is rooted in his blood and circumstances. Hogwarts will help him understand it, just as it will for each of your children in time.”
Bruce ran a hand down his face, a mixture of awe and apprehension settling in his chest. “Every single one of them… will need this education. And I’ll have to trust the magical world to teach them what I cannot.”
“You will not be left to manage it alone,” Talia said. “A representative from Hogwarts, likely the deputy headmistress, will arrive soon. They will guide you in understanding and supporting your children, as you are a non-magical parent.”
Bruce exhaled, the weight of it pressing down. “Support them… and still keep Gotham running. As if my life wasn’t already complicated enough.”
Talia’s voice carried a faint smile, though her tone was serious. “Complication has always been your life, Bruce Wayne. This is merely… another layer.”
---
Bruce exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples as the last flicker of Talia’s image vanished from the screen. The weight of centuries, bloodlines, curses, and magical destinies pressed against his mind like Gotham’s own shadows. He should probably sit, or lie down—but even that seemed too small a gesture against the enormity of what he now carried.
Then came a scream from somewhere above.
“Daaad! There’s a lady wearing a pointy hat in the kitchen! And she’s—she’s talking to the dog! And I think she’s teaching him magic!”
Bruce froze, eyes narrowing. A flicker of exasperation mixed with something else—something almost like amusement. He rose, moving toward the stairs with the quiet, deliberate step of a predator… and a father.
As he climbed, he made a decision. All of it—the hidden histories, the curses, the bloodlines, the very real dangers of magic—would stay with him. His children didn’t need to know. Not yet. Keeping it to himself would protect them… at least, in the way Bruce Wayne knew best: by withholding information, by controlling what they could see, like all things under his watchful gaze.
He paused at the top of the stairs, listening to the chaos below: giggles, exclamations, perhaps a small explosion, and the unmistakable whap of something hitting the wall. Classic Bat-family chaos.
Bruce straightened, shoulders tense but resolved. He would carry the lineage, the magic, the curses, the burdens. And his children… they would be allowed their innocence a little longer. Let them meet the witches and wizards, the surprises, the pointy hats, in their own time.
He stepped into the fray, silently preparing for the controlled chaos of parenting—the only kind of magic he could fully understand.
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