Chapter Text
Maybe none of it would have happened if Bruce hadn’t returned from patrol early.
He had only just settled into balancing the routine of sleeplessness that his nighttime excursions demanded with his daytime job. It really was fortunate no one expected much—or anything at all—from Brucie Wayne anymore.
But Arkham Asylum had had a breakout last night, and he’d overexerted himself. Hadn’t even been able to make it up in the daytime, what with it being the day of Wayne Enterprise’s annual shareholder and board of directors meeting. The expectations on Bruce were minimal, but regrettably, “minimal” happened to include showing up to the most important meetings of the year. He squeezed in a twenty minute nap in the drive to the office, before being all but locked in the boardroom until 6 pm, after which he was invited to drink with the partners to wind down. How was he supposed to say no to that? Everyone knew his favourite pastime was drinking.
Bruce made his excuses as early as possible—meaning four hours and two drinks he’d poured into a potted plant in—and immediately suited up. It was a quiet night, and he was all the worse for it. After the third loop of the city, he’d decided to call it quits. Clearly, even Gotham’s thriving underworld had finally decided they wanted a break. Bruce wasn’t particularly religious, but this was as sure a sign as any that it was time to go home and nap.
“Back so soon, master Bruce?” Alfred inquired, seeing him emerge from the cave. “Dare I hope you’ve learned better coping habits? A healthy work-life balance?”
“Don’t start,” Bruce warned. “Anything I missed?”
“Invitations to-”
“No.”
“-the Crownes’ end of year gala,” Alfred finished, and then frowned at him. “Your ribs?”
“They’re fine. What else?”
“They most certainly are not. Sit down.”
Grumpy but knowing better than to argue, Bruce sat, shrugging off the shirt he had just donned. Alfred unwinded the bandages he’d wrapped just yesterday, clicking his tongue at the bruising that was almost certainly darker than it had been.
“Perhaps Batman would be better off walking the streets instead of gliding across skylines, for a while.” he suggested.
“Vengeance doesn’t walk, Alfred,” Bruce quipped back, before hissing at the butler’s touch. Alfred raised an eyebrow, but was considerably gentler as he wrapped a new roll of bandages across Bruce’s torso. “Painkillers?”
“I’ll take something before I go to sleep. But first-”
“Dinner is in the oven."
“What would I do without you?”
“I shudder to think.” Alfred said dryly.
Bruce took his food with him to the study. Might as well get some work done, before he retreated into reclusivity for a month. He stilled at the door, sensing something off. Frowning, he doubled back a step — ah. There it was. Window open, curtains fluttering out. He had a guest. A guest who was most certainly not supposed to be here, but who wanted to announce their presence all the same. He set down his plate of food and straightened, ignoring the twinge to his ribs, before opening the door.
“Hello, Talia,” Bruce said. His eyes flicked down to the dagger that had found its way to his throat before the door had even fully opened. “How have you been?”
“Bruce,” Talia Al’Ghul greeted in return. “I have something of yours.” She took a step back, lowering the dagger.
She hadn’t changed much since Bruce had seen her last. Eyes cool as ever, posture painfully correct, three weapons that he could see and no doubt several more concealed across her body. He watched as she turned away, hips swaying as she retrieved a bundle she’d left on Bruce’s chair. She paused for a moment, then turned back to face him, smirking lightly.
She held it out to him. Wary, he stayed where he was. He knew better than to accept gifts from the League of Assassins.
Talia rolled her eyes. “It will not harm you. Not yet, at least.”
That intrigued him, if nothing else. He took just one step forward, and froze as he caught sight of what—or rather, who — lay nestled inside the bundle.
“What-?”
“He is yours,” Talia said simply. She met his eyes without flinching. “You remember the night, surely.”
As if he was likely to forget one of his biggest lapses of judgement anytime soon. But still, he’d thought—
“You were not to know.” She was looking down now, at the sleeping baby. “An heir to both the Waynes and the al Ghuls? The potential is endless. He would have been our greatest weapon against you.”
Talia glanced back up. “You will not let that happen.” It was a warning as much as it was a statement of belief.
“Why would you care?” It was instinctive, despite his reeling. For as long as he’d known Talia Al Ghul, her ruthlessness had always won out over sentiment. He found it hard to believe here was where it faltered.
She ignored him as she continued. “Raise him. Care for him. Father is not to know he is alive, not until the time is right.”
She stepped closer and Bruce held his hands out, almost instinctive. Talia slipped the child into them, rearranging him as he protested to the new grip until he fell silent once more. She stared down for just a moment, an inscrutable look on her face, before backing away again.
“I will be back,” Talia said. “Do not mistake this as me giving up my claim on him. Damian will know his al Ghul legacy.” And then she disappeared once more.
Carefully mindful of jostling the baby, Bruce leaned against the desk, mind racing. Talia could be lying— but she knew a DNA test would easily confirm his doubts, and she was not nearly stupid enough to not account for that, or to rely on Bruce’s goodwill in keeping the kid if it wasn’t his. But then what was the point? To mess with his head? To drag him back into League politics?
The child— Damian, apparently— started squirming again. As Bruce watched, he squinted open his eyes and started crying. Loudly.
It took just two minutes for Alfred to burst through the door. “Master Bruce-” he halted, taking in the scene in front of him.
“Alfred,” Bruce said. “We have a situation . ”
“So I see.” The butler got closer. “Congratulations are in order.”
“
Not the time
,” Bruce snapped. “What do I do?”
To his endless relief, Alfred took the child from him, rocking him gently. The wails began slowly dying down. Once the baby was just barely snuffling, he directed his attention back to Bruce.
“Dare I ask how you managed to acquire a child?”
Bruce sighed and scrubbed his face. “Alfred, meet Damian Wayne.” A pause to let the drama—and hysteria—sink in. “My son.”
Damian picked that exact moment to start crying again.
*
The next morning did not make the situation any less unreal. In fact, after hearing Damian howl through the night and a fair few hours of the morning, Bruce was only more convinced that the child couldn’t possibly be his. He could see Talia in him, even see Ra’s in him—he wouldn’t be surprised to learn the cries were the cries of a quarter demon, at this point, even if Ra’s claimed that particular title was metaphorical—but himself? Surely he had had more decorum as a baby.
Alfred laughed when he dared to voice that thought aloud.
Damian finally settled down for good at eleven in the morning, just as Bruce hit the point of sleep deprivation where he was convinced he could taste colours. But before he could so much as twitch towards his bedroom, Alfred waylaid him.
“Are you not forgetting something?”
Bruce blinked blearily at the butler.
“The baby’s things, Master Bruce.”
“What things?”
The disapproval on Alfred’s face resigned him to this new quest. Things. Certainly. He was the world’s greatest detective, he could figure out what “things” were necessary for a baby’s continued survival and where to find them. If he googled it, it was because as the world’s greatest detective, he knew how to utilise his resources.
He found himself in the biggest, fanciest, baby shop in uptown Gotham, convinced if he got anything less than designer for Damian, Talia would reappear and slit his throat for treating her son like a pauper. Armed with a shopping basket and a “10 essentials for your newborn!” (wait, was Damian a newborn? He looked small enough to Bruce, but what did he know about babies and sizes? He made a note to take Damian to a pediatrician at some point), Bruce slowly made his way through the maze that was the shop.
It only took two seconds of him looking lost for an attendant to appear, smiling brightly. “Can I help you?”
Bruce never wanted anyone to ever again say he didn’t know when to accept aid. “Please.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Everything.”
The attendant laughed, a little unsure. It died away in the face of his blank certainty, but she rallied admirably. “How old is your little one? And boy or girl?”
“Boy. And-” If Talia was speaking the truth, and that night in December had been when Damian was conceived, and assuming she carried to full term, the child couldn’t be older than… “-one month.”
“Alright! Let’s start with the essentials then—right here, we have our latest bottle feeders, though you’ll want to start with the smallest one, I’d recommend a couple just in case. Do you have a preference for formula? No? Well, we’ve gotten the best reviews on our premium stuff, though of course every baby’s needs are different…”
Bruce was deftly hustled through every corner of the shop, amassing everything the attendant deemed “completely necessary, though it’s your choice!”, from feeders to carriers to developmental toys to so many clothes . By the time he was finally directed to the counter, he had two extra attendants trailing after him, holding up all of his to-be purchases.
“And that’s it!” The attendant said. She’d gotten progressively brighter the more things she’d piled onto Bruce. She was practically sparkling now. It made him wonder if he was, just maybe, being conned into spending more than he strictly needed. “Unless there’s something else you think you’re missing?”
“No,” Bruce said, a beat too quick. “This is more than enough. Where do I pay?”
At least Alfred wouldn’t be able to claim he hadn’t gotten all the baby’s things. Considering the sheer volume of things he had just gotten, they wouldn’t need more for at least a year.
The manor was still blissfully quiet when he returned. He found Alfred in the kitchen, rearranging everything. A warning sign to tread lightly if ever there was one.
Alfred flicked his eyes up to where Bruce was standing but said nothing, for which he was absurdly grateful. He sat down at the counter and valiantly battled sleep as the butler finished doing… whatever it was he was doing.
“He’s really yours?” Alfred finally said.
“Still got to run the DNA tests.”
The butler nodded, slowly. “And then?”
Bruce didn’t answer.
*
Things settled into a new normal. The DNA tests proved that Damian was, in fact, his and Talia’s biological son. Though that still left the question of why Talia chose to dump the child in his arms and walk away, it did mean it would be harder to get away with giving him up or refusing to take care of him. Not that Bruce ever really considered either of those options.
The truth was, even before all this, he’d been thinking about legacy. About so many generations of Waynes, a family line that could trace itself nearly to the beginnings of the city itself, about what it meant that it all came to a rest here, on his shoulders. No parents. No siblings. And that was just his personal identity— what about Batman? Who would choose to carry that mantle, apart from him? He could count the people who knew of it, and all the effort that went into it, on one hand. What would happen after he was gone? He was not, perhaps, the savior Gotham wanted, but he was its sole savior all the same. How far would the city slip back under once he died?
In the early days, when it had just been for the sake of an outlet, anything to quiet the voices in his head, none of that had mattered as much. He would have rejoiced at giving his everything to the city, even if it meant dying, even if it meant no living trace left of the Waynes. Bruce couldn’t pinpoint when that had changed. When it became less about vengeance and more about hope. When Batman became, almost, something he could be proud of, something he’d want someone to remember him for. When just as much, he was suddenly desperate not to let the Waynes end with him, a man who could never do justice to the standards upheld by his father before him.
It wasn’t as though he truly believed a baby was the answer to everything, the key to his legacy. He’d never thought about children before, would probably continue not thinking about them if this had never happened. But there was a certain relief he couldn’t name, that outside of his achievements, outside of just the names and the titles, maybe there could be someone to know and remember him . All of him.
So, he kept Damian. He was probably always going to keep Damian. It unnerved him, a little, to think Talia might have seen some quality in him that spoke to his keeping the baby, when he’d done his best to keep it from himself, most days.
But keeping the kid came with its own unique set of problems. Such as now.
For the most part, Bruce had figured out a balance. He was already working the bare minimum that he needed to for the company, it was easy enough to step back and take an even more hands-off approach. Batman was trickier. The city needed him, but his infant son also needed him. Neither were particularly forgiving when he forsook one for the other.
But it was a bad night tonight. He’d seen the signal go up and stay up, when usually Gordon would give up if he didn’t respond within the hour. They needed his help, and every second he didn’t answer the itch under his skin got worse.
His headache also got progressively worse, but that was because Damian was crying. Nonstop. For days, Colic, Alfred had grimly pronounced it. He tended to quiet down somewhat in Bruce’s arms, but immediately flared up again with an intensity that was discomfiting every time Bruce tried to put him down. At this point, several hours into what he was certain was just a tantrum (though the internet tried convincing him that children this young couldn’t have tantrums, he knew better), he’d fallen to the point of trying to reason with the baby.
“Yes, yes, I know. Your life is very hard,” Bruce murmured, swaying side to side. He was by the window in his bedroom, getting more restless every time he glanced out to see the Batsignal still visible. “But do you see that out there? That is a sign that your father is needed.” He was briefly, intensely grateful no one was here to witness him refer to himself in the third person to a baby who wouldn’t stop wailing long enough to even hear him. “This city we’re living in, Damian? It’s not very good at being a city right now. I’m working with some people and trying to make it better for you . Don’t you want that? A chance to go out in the streets without worrying about your safety?” What was he saying? This was the heir to the Al Ghuls , he’d probably be the threat in the streets by the time he grew up if Talia had anything to say about it. “Damian, please ,” And he was begging with a baby now, of course he was, “ Please , you have the easiest job in the world, chum. You’ve just got to lay down and close your eyes and sleep. Anyone can do it, you expect me to believe you can’t?” As if to make a point, the crying got louder.
Fine. He’d been hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but he was left with no choice.
Adjusting his grip on Damian, he reached for his phone. A few swipes, and Justin Timberlake’s voice started blaring from the device.
“Offensive,” Bruce told the quieting down baby. “Condemnably bad music taste. This is the last time I’m putting this song on for you, you understand? When I come back tonight, we will fix this .”
The baby cooed back.
Gordon was still standing on the roof of the police headquarters when Batman finally appeared, silhouette perhaps drooping a little more than usual.
“Took you long enough.”
“Just tell me where to go,” Batman growled.
*
His days took on an exhausting pattern. Feed Damian in the mornings. Fight with him for an hour just to get him to nap. Bruce didn’t know if all one month olds were so querulous, or if his son was just an overachiever. Work on the longer cases while Damian was asleep. Hear him wake up. Feed him again. Change his diaper. Hand him to Alfred. Go out to fight crime.
It wasn’t all bad, and that was what kept him going. Those nights when Damian was in a playful mood, increasing the older he got, when his giggles would make Bruce feel like at least there was one thing he was getting right. At least his son was still too young to see him as a failure. Though that just made him all the more determined to ensure nothing went wrong—he threw himself into fighting as though every night was his last, all because he’d had the thought that he couldn’t let Damian grow up in a Gotham like this. It was one thing to fight for the city itself: it was entirely another to realise he needed to fight for his son, too.
Around the fifth time Alfred found him asleep in the cave, too exhausted to make the struggle up the stairs to the manor, he staged an intervention.
“This isn’t working.” The butler announced.
Bruce raised his head from where it had been resting on his arms, most definitely not dozing. “What isn’t working?”
Alfred stared pointedly at him until he sighed and stretched. “I’ve got a system,” Bruce grunted.
“And it’s not enough .” Despite the firmness, there was sympathy in his tone. “You cannot just keep abandoning your infant son to pursue your own imminent death every single night. Have a care for those around you.”
“I’m doing this for those around me.”
“No, you’re not. You think Damian cares that Gotham will be “fixed” by the time he grows up? You think he’s aware of anything other than the fact that his sole parental figure disappears, night after night?
It’s all very well now. He’s three months old, he’s barely developed awareness of his surroundings. What about when he’s two? Five? How do you see this continuing, Master Bruce? Tuck him into bed then glide out into the night? Come back and have him chauffeured off to school? Would you be so callous to deny your son the same warmth of childhood your parents did their best to give you?”
“ Enough ,” Bruce growled. “Your point is taken.”
Alfred sighed. “...Apologies. I was out of line. But this will not work forever, and you know it as well as I.” Bowing his head, he disappeared.
For a long moment, Bruce sat still, staring at the blank monitors. When he finally moved, it was to reach for his phone. He scrolled down his contacts, thumb pausing once he found who he was looking for. He hesitated for just a moment longer before finally typing out just four words to Kate Kane: I need a favor .
*
The months started to blur together after that. He and Kate alternated their night patrols, with her taking on longer shifts to make up for the days Bruce had to stay behind. After Alfred pointedly leaving pamphlets for a nanny service across the manor, he gave in and called one of the most private—and most expensive— agencies. He would admit it on pain of death, but the nanny helped more than he’d thought possible, even if he only called her for the rare cases where Kate couldn’t cover for him on patrol and Damian was having a fussier than usual day.
No one could help him with this particular struggle though. It was Damian’s first birthday, and after Bruce had locked himself in a room to panic about it (one year? One year ?? How had it been so long? When did the kid even grow up????) he’d decided it warranted a celebration. Damian was too young for cake, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t celebrate some other way. The circus was in town, and if nothing else it would be colorful and have animals, the latter of which the toddler particularly loved. But that led him to this current situation, right before they were supposed to leave the house.
Bruce eyed Damian grimly. Obviously delighted at inconveniencing him, the baby gurgled and kicked his feet in the air. His sockless feet. And his pantless legs. Because his kid had chosen today of all days to stage a protest against all things meant to go on his lower body.
Valiantly, he tried once more. “Come on, chum, just the shorts. We’ve got to go out today, and you may not be old enough to be arrested for public indecency, but I am certainly old enough to be called a bad father by everyone and their mothers for letting you express your free will.” He held up the pants. “It’s your first public appearance, I can’t let them hate me so quickly. So just—for me, okay?” He tried putting on the shorts again.
They were flung back in his face as Damian cackled, because of course he did. Bruce sighed and checked his watch. They were already late. Might as well give into the little tyrant’s demands and go for a full outfit change.
The circus was in full swing by the time they arrived. Bruce silently congratulated himself on not failing parenthood at the look of wonder on Damian’s face when they entered the tent. This was immediately followed by a wince as he realised the current act was a juggling/knife-throwing hybrid that was most definitely not appropriate for one year olds, least of all one year olds who came from a lineage of assassins on their mother’s side. Still, Bruce justified to himself, it wasn’t like he was old enough for recall or imitation of whatever he saw today. They’d be fine.
The acts began blurring together, acrobats and lions doing tricks and clowns on stilts (which drew more than a few shudders). An elephant was brought onto stage, at one point, which was when Damian really lost it. He stretched forward, one chubby arm reaching as though if he tried hard enough, he could grow the feet needed to pet the elephant, and was immensely disappointed when he realised that physics didn’t work that way. Thankfully, the mini temper tantrum did not grow into a full blown tantrum as the last act of the evening was announced.
“Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to be awed!” The circus master said grandly. “With moves so smooth you’d think they were meant for the skies—it’s the Flying Graysons!”
The crowd’s excitement was palpable as the couple and their young son took their places on their platforms. There wasn’t any net beneath them. Whoever these acrobats were, they were clearly confident, if not talented enough to be so renowned.
The Graysons struck mirroring poses. The man and the woman got into position, stretching the trapezes back to their furthest point… and then all at once, taking off.
Just for a moment, it was exactly as glorious as promised. They swung through the air towards each other as the audience gasped, enthralled.
And then… something went wrong.
It happened in the blink of an eye, the transition from a graceful arc to a plummeting fall. The ropes, Bruce realised distantly. They’d snapped clean in half. A complete silence had fallen across the tent. Someone screamed.
Bruce’s first instinct had been to shield Damian’s eyes. But his second, as the silence grew to whispers and then complete pandemonium, was to look at the Graysons’ son.
He was still standing up on the high platform. He wasn’t moving. It barely looked like he was breathing.
Bruce blinked, and he was back in Crime Alley. There was the cock of the pistol—or was it the rope snapping?— and there was his mother’s choked gasp, and there he saw his father and mother fall, one after the other. There he stood, in shock, over their still warm corpses. The image overlapped, the Grayson kid and his own eight year old self, the tragedy so many years apart, but wasn’t it exactly the same?
This was Gotham, after all. The story changed, but the ending never did.