Chapter Text
Damian was lonely.
It wasn't something he’d willingly say out loud, or admit even with himself on most days, but he was too self-aware not to notice how sometimes a sliver of emptiness would bite him from the inside, making his stomach clench and his heart drop.
When he had first arrived in Gotham, finding his father surrounded by people — what Damian had considered fake sons, pretenders, usurpers of his birthright — had been… unpleasant. Unfair, even.
Years had passed from that day, though, and with time he had grown accustomed to having so many people around; Richard’s warm smiles, Timothy’s sharp mind, Jason’s protective fire. Cassandra’s comforting presence even when silent, Duke’s gentleness, and even Stephanie’s humor and Barbara’s calm remarks, although the two had never lived with them.
Of course, Damian knew what was happening was quite normal. Boringly so, even.
People grew up. Kids, birds, left the nest.
And now that Damian was eighteen, and all his siblings were older than him, his father and Alfred were the only ones still at the Manor with him. It was normal.
Boringly so, yeah.
Still.
The Manor was silent and empty and Damian, even if he didn't like to admit it, was feeling a little lonely.
He still saw them all, of course. Sunday brunch was a must and nobody skipped more than one or two in a row. Patrol still took place every night, although the routes differed a lot and they didn't always meet up.
But even when they met… they’d still leave come daylight. And Damian would go back home, write his report, say goodnight to his father and Alfred and just go back to his room.
No chatter, no mocking, no relentless banter.
Titus would follow him, at least. He’d rest on the floor near his bed with his head toward the door, checking for intruders in a way Damian didn’t want to admit made him feel better — and sometimes Ace, bones weak and fur whitened by age, would come as well, although it looked like he was moving less and less every day. An older gentleman, Bruce had called him a few days before, fond and a little sad, and Damian’s stomach had clenched at the prospect of losing another one of his friends.
They were his friends, yes, and even a year after losing Alfred the Cat the echo of his absence was painfully clear in every room — at least for Damian. Damian, who had hugged him and kept him in his arms all the way to the clinic, under his father’s watchful gaze.
Damian, who had said goodbye and stroked his fur and thanked him for being there for him all those times he desperately needed someone to hold onto, and who had then nodded to the vet and watched as his friend was put to sleep.
Damian, who had dug the grave himself.
He loved Titus, of course, and Ace and Batcow and Jerry the Turkey. And he loved his father and his brothers and sister and the two women who were constantly around as well, and the butler who was more than a butler and always would be — and he was getting old too, Damian could see it in the way he’d walk down the stairs, or struggle to raise something too heavy, or in how sometimes his hands would tremble a little.
The truth was that Damian was growing up, and the rest of his family was growing old, or apart.
So yeah, he felt lonely, sometimes.
Cold in a way he couldn’t fix by covering up.
He looked around, checking the stability of the opposite roof before jumping on it with the utmost grace. It was a quiet night, especially in his area; now that he was eighteen he would often patrol alone at least half of the night, although with the imperative that he’d call for backup for anything bigger than the usual robbery or attempted assault, and that he kept away from rogues. He would have been perfectly able to deal with them, of course, considering his training and his superior skills, but he really didn’t want to argue with his father about it, so he followed the rules.
He patrolled up and down the entire neighborhood, before he offered to walk an elderly woman home just for the sake of actually doing something, and maybe feel a little better in the process. She tried to get him his granddaughter’s phone number, as she was “such a great girl, so pretty! And I could help with the kids while you go out!”, and he blushed so much he was sure it was visible even through the dark street, his skin tone and the mask covering part of his face.
He grappled away as soon as she walked inside her building, like moving fast could get him to forget the embarrassment of hearing a grandma tell him she was hard of hearing, so he didn’t need to worry about keeping her up with her grandkid; he just wanted to forget about the whole encounter.
He was still reeling from that talk, when he heard a soft cry.
He frowned, before taking silent steps toward the center of a roof, where a small wooden shack was locked with a big chain. There was a hole in the door, however, big enough to warrant a check.
After all, what was a lock for someone like Damian Wayne?
It was open in less than ten seconds.
He lightly kicked the door open, a hand on his katana just in case he needed to react quickly, and he looked around. The shack had been clearly abandoned for a while, with nothing inside if not the remains of old bird cages and a few pieces of fabric thrown around, and Damian was about to turn around and leave when he heard a shuffling noise — coming from something tiny, half-hidden by broken metal and a dirty cloth.
Not big enough to be a kid, not even a small dog unless it was a puppy of a tiny breed. Probably a rat.
And then, he heard another soft cry… and this time, Damian recognized the sound.
He moved past the metal and crouched in front of the bundle of clothing, raising a gloved hand with a kind “tt” coming out of his mouth in a way he hoped was comforting, instead of scaring. When he raised a corner of the fabric, he immediately smiled.
Because underneath it, peaking out with green eyes wide in fear and a pink nose in the midst of black fur, there was a kitten. Two months old, if Damian was correct, not more. Dirty, shaking.
“Everything is alright,” he heard himself muttering.
He got his hand closer to the kitten, slow and steady despite the tiny tremor running through the small creature, and waited for it — him, her? — to smell him and deem him safe enough to approach. It froze, although still trembling, and a moment passed, then two, three, until the kitten finally stepped forward into the pale moonlight coming from a broken window.
Damian had barely the time to lean and check under the tail, that she headbutted lightly against his glove. A soft purr started a second later.
A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding escaped him. Slowly, carefully, he put a hand under her bottom and one around her torso, and lifted her until she was pressed against his chest; she was lighter than she should’ve been, even with how young she was, and through the thin fur he could feel every rib. Her heartbeat was too fast against his palm — hopefully for the fear and not because she wasn’t as healthy as Damian fully believed every animal should be.
And a two-months-old kitten?
“All alone,” he murmured, the words sharp with disapproval but softer than usual. There was no mother cat around, making him think that either something bad had happened, or she had left the runt behind to take care of the rest of the litter; still, there was no way that baby could survive alone, especially in January.
He could count her ribs with a finger!
Neglected, he thought. Abandoned.
She mewled, and Damian felt something tighten in his chest.
“You are coming home with me,” he decided, holding her gently with one hand, because she was so tiny she fit in his palm. Small enough that he could hide her between the folds of his cape.
He stood up and left the shack behind him, quickly shooting his grappling hook; the kitten let out a startled noise at the first swing, claws clutching uselessly at his suit — too thick and reinforced for such weak nails to cause damage —, but she quieted quickly. She pressed her head against his chest and it made Damian feel uneasy to think she was too weak to fight or act properly out of fear, and had given up so fast.
Well, she had him, now.
He’d take care of her, get her back to health. And they’d discover her real personality together.
The bike was waiting for them in the exact place Damian had left it and he didn’t hesitate before wrapping the kitten in a cloth from a compartment of the bike and settling her under his suit, against his torso, where it was warmest. He could feel her breathing against him; small, young, fragile. A wet nose and tickling whiskers on his abs.
He tapped his comm.
“This is Robin. Patrol complete. Going back now.”
Red Robin’s voice came in a second later, teasing but with a hint of worry not completely hidden underneath. “Cutting it early, uh?”
“Nothing worth reporting,” Damian replied, already starting the engine.
The ride back to the Cave was a blur of dark tunnels and quiet engines, of soft breaths on his skin and his mind going back again and again to the kitten hidden in his suit. She didn’t make a sound, just trembled, and Damian drove a little faster than he’d usually risk, even with his trained reflexes, and a part of him felt guilty for not finding her sooner.
He slowed down only when he saw the other parked bikes in the distance; he was pretty sure everyone was still out or wouldn’t come back to the Cave that night, and those bikes were the spare ones, but he didn’t want to chance it. Both his father and Alfred had made it clear after Jerry the Turkey that he wasn’t to bring any more animals home and not to even try to plead his case, so he really didn’t want to be seen.
If it hadn’t been for the rule about suits in the Manor, to be honest, he would have run directly upstairs, instead of wasting time and risking getting caught.
He parked and killed the lights, looking around to make sure he was alone.
Good.
He took off his gloves first, then the sword, the belt, the boots — moving quickly, methodically. When he took off the rest of the suit, a tiny yawn met him.
“You survived the ride,” he said, a hint of pride in his tone that surprised even him. He raised the kitten to his face, green eyes meeting green eyes, and she blinked slowly in the way cats did when they were comfortable and trusted who they were with.
Damian felt his breath hitch. She wasn’t shaking anymore, warmed up by his own body temperature.
He had already changed the path life was taking her on, hadn’t he?
He let himself show a hint of a smile, soft and proud. “You are stronger than you look.”
She meowed and he looked around, thinking that she was right: they had to move. He wore a change of clothing as fast as he could, but when he heard an engine echoing in the Cave he took off his sweater again and wrapped the kitten in it instead, covering her up enough that no one would imagine there was a pet in the bundle of clothes in his arms, while still allowing her to breathe. At the last second he also hid in his pocket a small carton box of the milk Alfred always stored near the coffee maker.
At that point, satisfied, he walked quickly toward the staircase and he had almost reached it, almost found his way to freedom, when Batman himself arrived. A man with a cowl in his hands, an eighteen-year-old with a hidden kitten in his.
Damian couldn’t help it: he froze.
Only a second — but enough for his father to raise an eyebrow and look him up and down.
The kitten squirmed, and Damian’s eyes widened before he schooled his features and hid her movements with one of his own.
“Patrol over?” Bruce asked tentatively.
Damian nodded. “Quiet night,” he said quickly. “I was just heading upstairs.”
A faint sound, a nearly inaudible meow, broke the silence.
Damian coughed. Loudly.
Bruce’s brow furrowed, but before he could say anything else, Damian was already moving toward the stairs.
“Goodnight, Father.”
“Damian-”
“I am very tired and require sleep,” he pressed, “so I will see you in the morning!”
He left before his father could answer and didn’t stop walking until he was in the safety of his own room, door locked behind him just in time for the kitten’s head to weakly push out of her hiding spot.
“Almost betrayed us,” Damian tried to lightly scold her, but she chose that moment to yawn and it became quite hard to stay irritated.
They looked at each other again, both blinking slowly.
Meow.
Damian rolled his eyes, lips tugging involuntarily into a soft smile, and when he caught himself he decided it was fine, as long as nobody was there to see him.
Still, the kitten needed to see how serious he could be.
“Time for a warm bath, missy.”
And in the ensuite bathroom they went.
In the cabinet, behind spare hair products and a first aid kit, Damian had kept an old bottle of Alfred the Cat’s shampoo — one he hadn’t been able to throw away. Just in case, of course, if there was any need, and not for any sentimental reason; still, he had tucked the bottle away, turning the label, faded with time, so that someone snooping wouldn’t immediately see what it was.
Now it paid to be ready, so Damian let himself feel a little smug, a little vindicated, because he didn’t have to wait or sneak out to buy shampoo made for cats. Soon, of course, he’d need to buy something created for kittens instead of adults, but for the moment it would be fine and you know what? He hadn’t been sentimental. He had been prepared.
The kitten was shaking in his hands, fitting nicely with how small she was, all bones and black fur, and eyes that were too trusting for her own good — she was lucky Damian found her, she had no idea how lucky —, and he kept her still while he turned the tap of the sink until the water ran warm. Even that was far too large for her, to be honest, so there was no point in putting her in the tub.
When he eased her in, after testing the water with his wrist and finding it at the right temperature, she hissed; only once, small and desperate, as if the world had already taught her to expect cruelty, and he really couldn’t blame her.
“I was like you,” he confided in her, “but life can change in a moment. I promise I am not going to hurt you.”
He didn’t hesitate. “And I will protect you from anyone who tries.”
The kitten’s heart was beating furiously against his palm, but she stopped protesting and settled down, retracting the small claws that had been scraping with no use across his skin.
“Good,” he praised her, voice low and gentle. “You are not alone. I am not going anywhere.”
He picked up the bottle, checked with a quick look that it wasn’t expired, and poured the amount he deemed right for such a tiny creature. “You will have something better soon,” he continued, just in case she liked his voice and found it comforting, or at least less scary than silence, “something made for bab-kittens. For you.”
She blinked up at him like she understood, and that small, unbothered trust made his chest tighten.
When the dirt was gone, shockingly with no trace of fleas left behind, he rinsed the soap from her black fur and carefully patted her down with a towel, finding once more her ribs to be too visible, too close to the surface for comfort. She hadn’t lost any fur, which was surprising too, and a quick check revealed decently healthy baby teeth — not sick, then, although malnourished.
Damian dried her while holding her to his chest, feeling through the towel how fragile she was, and he wondered, jaw clenched, if anyone had ever taken care of her before.
She deserved better than being abandoned like that.
“I am not going anywhere,” Damian promised her again, voice small in the quiet bathroom, and only when she shivered he realized he still had the carton of milk in the pocket of his sweats. He set her on the towel by the tub, unwilling to force her to stand on the cold tiles, and quickly poured the milk on a little plate, which he cleaned carefully because Alfred would usually use it to hold the soap.
He kneeled down, then, and watched the kitten's pink tongue sneak out over and over again to lap at the liquid, making a mess of her recently cleaned muzzle.
“Easy,” he whispered, but didn’t stop her. He could imagine how empty her little belly was.
In the end, it didn’t take her long to slow down and eventually stop, and apart from sitting back she didn’t move, simply looking at Damian; it was a little odd, the fact that she wasn’t trying to clean herself, but maybe she hadn’t learned yet?
He grabbed her towel, wetted a corner of it, and gently fixed the mess with strokes he hoped resembled the ones of her mama cat.
“Tt. Disaster,” he scolded her, no real heat in his tone.
She blinked up at him, a little drowsy, and when he stroked her chin with a finger she dropped her head on it, falling asleep in the way kittens usually did: all at once, like a rock, trusting and surrendering to exhaustion.
For a long moment, Damian just stayed there, holding her inconsequential weight with a finger as he listened to the steady rhythm of her breaths.
She was impossibly small, impossibly sweet, and his heart clenched thinking at how alone she must have been — but she wasn’t, anymore, and… and neither was he.
She didn’t even stir when he picked her up, nor when he settled in bed with her curled against his side, and Damian stayed awake longer than he meant to, staring at her little whiskers and her black, now shining fur, and the long tail wrapped around her. He stroked her once, just once, unable to stop himself… and when she started purring in reply, he smiled and finally closed his eyes.
Just a couple of hours later, feeling something warm move in his arms, Damian opened his eyes again — and promptly jumped out of the bed when he realized there was no kitten anymore.
In her place, a little girl.