Work Text:
Bruce Wayne slept like a man defeated.
Not by businessmen, not by Gotham crime, not by a collapsing building or a rogue with explosives—
but by fatherhood, and by the fact that he had spent the whole night patrolling as Batman.
It was almost noon, yet the curtains of the master bedroom remained shut tight, swallowing the room in a blue-gray dimness. Bruce lay sprawled across the mattress, one arm dangling off the side, blankets tangled around his waist. He still wore the band of faint bruises on his ribs from last night’s fight, but exhaustion kept him blissfully unaware.
Then came the soft thumping.
Tiny feet. Determined. Almost military.
And a small voice, bright as sunrise:
“Dada?”
A round head in blue pajamas peeked over the edge of the bed. The pajamas were baby-sized but emblazoned with Dick Grayson’s Nightwing symbol, a gift Damian adored. The little boy blinked his green eyes—Talia’s eyes—and pushed himself up, fingers curling on the duvet.
“Dadaaa…” he tried again, louder this time, a plea wrapped in impatience.
Bruce didn’t budge.
Damian frowned, the tiny Wayne-scowl forming perfectly. He pulled his plush toy—Fatman—closer to his chest. Stephanie had given him the stuffed superhero as a joke (It’s going viral, I promise) and Damian loved it with fierce devotion. The toy was round, chubby, and very much not what Batman looked like.
The first time he saw it, Bruce had sighed, “I do not look like that,” but Damian had already kissed its soft head.
Now the chubby toy bounced against his belly as Damian tried to climb onto the mattress.
He pushed, wiggled, grunted.
He failed.
“Up… Dada up!” he demanded at last, as if Bruce were simply being stubborn.
Still nothing.
Damian huffed, stepped back, lifted his arms dramatically, and announced:
“Dada! Don’ eepy!”
The baby Nightwing attempted his bravest move yet—he toddled backward, got a running start, and jumped.
Well… he tried to jump.
In reality, he flopped belly-first onto the bed, feet kicking in the air before he slid back down in slow motion like a disgruntled seal.
“Dada—!” he squeaked as he slipped.
Just before he hit the floor, a large hand shot out from the bed and caught him by the leg.
Damian gasped, then giggled as Bruce dragged him gently onto the mattress like a captured kitten.
Bruce rubbed his eyes, voice hoarse with sleep.
“Damian…”
The baby sat proudly on his father’s stomach, patting Bruce’s cheek with both hands.
“Dada wake!” Damian declared. “Up, up!”
Bruce exhaled—part sigh, part helpless adoration. “I’m awake, little bat. I’m awake.”
The door cracked open.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said softly, stepping in with a tray. “It is time for you to—oh.”
His eyes landed on Damian, who now climbed Bruce’s chest like a mountain.
“I see Young Master Damian has conducted his own wake-up protocol.”
Bruce groaned. Damian smacked his chest with Fatman. Twice.
“Again! Again!” Damian giggled, bouncing happily.
Bruce lifted one eyebrow. “Again? Damian, I didn’t even do anything yet.”
Damian responded by shoving Fatman into Bruce’s face.
“Wuf yu,” he whispered.
Bruce froze.
It didn’t matter that he’d spent the night fighting crime, leaping from rooftops, and putting his life on the line for Gotham.
It didn’t matter that he was sore, sleep-deprived, and running purely on instinct.
Nothing—absolutely nothing—could have defeated him faster than those two tiny words spoken in that soft, sleepy baby voice.
He swallowed, cleared his throat, and brushed a hand over Damian’s unruly dark hair.
“…Love you too,” he murmured.
Damian squealed in triumph, as if he’d won some grand negotiation. He patted Bruce’s cheek again and flopped across his father’s torso, hugging him like a warm, clingy koala.
Alfred simply smiled, setting the tray on the bedside table.
“There is breakfast here when you are ready. For both of you. I took the liberty of warming the milk, as Young Master Damian prefers.”
“Tank you,” Damian said automatically, even though he was busy chewing Fatman’s ear.
Alfred’s chest warmed. “Quite welcome, sir.”
He left quietly, closing the door behind him.
Bruce let himself fall back into the pillows, Damien sprawled across his chest like a soft, heavy blanket. The baby’s tiny fingers tapped against the Nightwing logo on his pajamas.
Dick’s idea of a gift. Of course.
Bruce smirked tiredly. “Your brother is trying to convert you.”
Damian blinked up at him.
“Dada?”
“Yes?”
He pointed dramatically at Bruce’s messy hair. “Fix.”
Bruce actually laughed—a low, warm sound no one but Alfred and his children ever heard. “Yeah… I probably should.”
Damian then tapped Fatman’s belly. “Dada fat!” he declared proudly.
Bruce glared at the stuffed toy.
“I do not look like that.”
Damian nodded very seriously as if confirming Bruce’s suspicion. Then he giggled.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.
Of course.
He adjusted the blankets, sitting up slowly. Damian, unwilling to be parted from him, clung to his shirt.
“Dada up!” he repeated.
“I am up,” Bruce grunted, swinging his legs off the bed.
“No eepy!” Damian insisted.
“I’m done sleeping.”
“’Kay!”
Bruce lifted him with one arm—effortless, secure, natural. Damian curled into his shoulder, little fingers gripping Bruce’s collar. Fatman dangled from his other hand like a floppy hostage.
Bruce could feel the warmth of his son’s small body against his chest, the weight of him soft but grounding. He pressed a kiss to Damian’s temple—something he only ever did when the boy was too sleepy to remember.
Damian hummed happily.
“Dada wuf me?”
Bruce held him a little tighter.
“Always.”
Damian rested his head under Bruce’s chin, whispering drowsily as if he had achieved his morning mission:
“Dada mine.”
Bruce huffed a quiet laugh as they walked out of the bedroom.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose I am.”
Behind them, Fatman’s round felt eyes stared blankly—proof that even Gotham’s Dark Knight couldn’t escape the chaos of fatherhood… or chubby Batman merchandise.
— END.