Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

0.

Bruce was not having a midlife crisis.

He was merely... thinking about the future of Wayne Manor. At forty years old, with his children grown or growing rapidly, he found himself with more quiet moments than he'd experienced since adopting Dick nearly two decades ago.

"More coffee, Master Bruce?" Alfred appeared at his elbow, the perfect butler as always, though his hair had grown considerably whiter over the years.

"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce accepted the steaming mug, staring out the window of his study toward the sprawling grounds of Wayne Manor. Spring had arrived, bringing with it vibrant greenery and flowers that seemed to mock the hollow feeling that had been growing in his chest.

Alfred lingered, which Bruce knew meant the older man had something on his mind.

"Is there something else, Alfred?"

"I couldn't help but notice you've been reviewing the manor's blueprints. Planning renovations?"

Bruce glanced down at the architectural drawings spread across his desk. He hadn't even realized he'd pulled them out this morning.

"Just... considering some updates." Bruce ran a finger along the east wing. "Many of these rooms haven't been used in decades."

"Indeed." Alfred's expression remained neutral, but Bruce could detect the hint of amusement in his voice. "Master Dick's old room has been vacant since he moved to Blüdhaven, despite his frequent visits. Miss Cassandra maintains her space but spends much time with Ms. Gordon. Master Jason has his own safe houses but keeps his room here pristine. Master Timothy splits his time between here and his apartment. Master Duke spends most of his time with his Uncle, but stops by twice weekly. Master Damian, of course, remains in residence though he grows more independent by the day."

Bruce made a noncommittal sound, taking a sip of his coffee.

"I suppose one wonders what the future holds for such a large home," Alfred continued. "Perhaps someday, the pitter-patter of smaller feet might once again echo through these halls."

Bruce nearly choked on his coffee. "Alfred—"

"Merely an observation, sir." The butler's expression remained impassive. "Though I will say, I have always thought you made a fine father, despite your... unconventional approach to child-rearing. I imagine you would make an equally fine grandfather, when the time comes."

"Grandfather," Bruce repeated, testing the word on his tongue. It felt foreign, almost absurd. Batman, a grandfather?

"Master Dick is twenty-eight, sir. Miss Cassandra, twenty-four. Master Jason, twenty-three. Many people their age have already started families."

"They're not 'many people,'" Bruce pointed out. "Their lives are complicated."

"As was yours," Alfred countered gently. "Yet here we are, with five remarkable young people who call you 'father' in various tones ranging from affectionate to exasperated."

Bruce couldn't argue with that. He looked back at the manor plans, suddenly seeing them in a different light. Would there ever be grandchildren running through these halls? Would any of his children want that kind of life, given their nightly activities and the dangers that came with the cowl?

"I would never pressure them," Bruce said firmly. "Their lives are their own to shape."

"Of course not, sir." Alfred's lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile. "Though I believe a few more young ones would certainly liven up the place. And I do have several recipes I've been saving for when we might have little ones at the table again."

After Alfred departed, Bruce remained at his desk, the manor plans forgotten as he considered the possibility. Dick, with his natural charm and easy way with children, would make an excellent father someday—if he could ever settle down. Cassandra had never expressed interest in traditional family structures, but she had such capacity for love. Jason... well, Jason's relationship with Bruce remained complicated, but he had a fierce protective instinct beneath his rough exterior. Tim was brilliant but wedded to his work, both at Wayne Enterprises and as Red Robin. And Damian was still so young himself, though he'd matured considerably.

None of them had shown any indication that they were interested in starting families of their own. Perhaps they never would, and that would be fine too. Bruce had never imagined himself as a father, and now he couldn't imagine his life without them.

Still, as he closed the blueprints and tucked them away, Bruce couldn't help but wonder what kind of grandfather he might be, if the opportunity ever arose.

Little did he know, the opportunity would come much sooner—and much differently—than he ever expected.

1.

The call came three days later, just as Bruce was settling into his evening patrol preparations.

“Bruce?” Dick’s voice carried an unusual tension through the line. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Bruce paused, immediately alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, exactly. It’s just…” Dick sighed. “There was an incident at the Children’s Museum today. Killer Moth decided to take some hostages, including my beginner’s gymnastic class.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Are you injured? The children?”

“Everyone’s fine. We got them all out safely. But Bruce, there’s this little girl—Mira. She’s eight, been in my class for about two months. Her foster family…” Dick’s voice hardened. “They didn’t even show up to pick her up. Social worker says they’ve been looking for an excuse to get rid of her.

Something cold settled in Bruce’s stomach. “Where is she now?”

“With me. Temporarily.” Dick’s voice carried a note of defiance that rang familiar. “Her caseworker agreed to let me take her for the night while they figure out next steps. But, Bruce, I can't just let her go back into the system. Not after what I saw today."

"What did you see?"

"She protected the other kids. All the younger ones were crying and scared, but she kept herself between them and Killer Moth's goons. She's eight years old, and she was ready to fight grown men to keep other children safe." Dick's voice cracked slightly. "Doesn’t that remind you of anyone?"

Bruce closed his eyes, seeing his own reflection in that description. "What do you need?"

"I'm going to apply to foster her. Maybe adopt her, if things work out. But right now, my apartment isn't exactly child-friendly, and she's never been around a stable family environment. I was hoping..." Dick paused. "Could we come stay at the manor for a while? Just until I figure out the logistics?"

Bruce was already moving toward his computer, fingers flying over the keyboard to pull up everything he could find on Mira Elena Jones. "Of course. When can you be here?"

"Tomorrow morning? I've already taken leave from the center, and I canceled my classes for the week."

"We'll be ready." Bruce paused his typing. "Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"You're doing the right thing."

"I hope so," Dick said quietly. "She's been through enough."

After hanging up, Bruce sat at his desk, staring absently at the Wayne Enterprises reports that now seemed trivial compared to this new development. A grandchild. Of sorts.

He pressed the intercom. "Alfred, do you have a moment?"

Alfred appeared at the study door so quickly that Bruce suspected he'd been hovering nearby. "Yes, Master Bruce?"

"Dick's bringing a child to stay with us this weekend. A seven-year-old girl named Mira. He's fostering her temporarily after an incident at the Children's Museum."

Alfred's expression didn't change, but his eyes softened. "I see. And what preparations shall we make for our young guest?"

"She'll need a room." Bruce frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps the one adjacent to Dick's old room? And she apparently likes cinnamon."

"Consider it done, sir." Alfred nodded. "And shall I inform Master Damian about our impending visitor?"

Bruce winced slightly. "Yes. Tell him... tell him she's interested in animals. That might help smooth things over."

As Alfred departed to make preparations, Bruce found himself reflecting on the irony of the situation. He'd never expected grandchildren so soon, especially not from Dick, who was perpetually caught between his commitments to heroism and his somewhat chaotic personal life. But then again, wasn't this exactly what he should have expected? Dick had always possessed an enormous heart and an instinct to protect.

By Saturday morning, Bruce had cycled through preparation, anxiety, and a strange sort of anticipation. He found himself standing in the foyer far earlier than necessary, reviewing mental checklists.

"Master Bruce, pacing will not make them arrive any sooner," Alfred observed, straightening a vase of fresh flowers for the third time.

"I'm not pacing," Bruce lied, immediately stopping his movement.

Alfred merely raised an eyebrow.

"Is everything ready?" Bruce asked, deflecting.

"Indeed. The guest room adjoining Master Dick's old room has been prepared with appropriate bedding, several stuffed animals procured from the attic—all thoroughly cleaned, of course—and I have taken the liberty of acquiring several children's books. Miss Mira's dietary preferences have been accommodated, including cinnamon rolls for breakfast and apple slices with cinnamon sugar for snacks."

Bruce nodded. "And Damian?"

"Master Damian has been briefed and has promised to be on his best behavior. He has even agreed to introduce Miss Mira to his menagerie, provided she follows his strict handling protocols."

A car engine sounded in the driveway, and Bruce straightened his already-straight tie. "They're here."

"Indeed, sir. How remarkable that your detective skills remain so sharp," Alfred deadpanned.

The front door burst open before Bruce could formulate a suitable retort, and Dick bounded in with his usual acrobatic energy. Half-hidden behind his legs was a small girl with dark hair and solemn eyes, clutching what appeared to be a giant stuffed elephant.

"Hey, we made it!" Dick grinned, setting down a duffel bag. "Traffic was terrible coming out of the city. Bruce, Alfred, I'd like you to meet Mira. Mira, this is my dad, Bruce, and this is Alfred, who's basically my grandfather."

Bruce knelt down to the child's eye level, offering what he hoped was a gentle, non-intimidating smile. "Hello, Mira. Welcome to Wayne Manor."

The girl stared at him with huge brown eyes, clutching the back of Dick's jeans. After a moment, she whispered, "Your house is bigger than the museum."

Bruce chuckled, thinking of the small Gotham Children's Museum where the Killer Moth incident had occurred. "It is rather large. But don't worry, you won't get lost. Dick knows all the best hiding spots from when he was your age."

"You lived here when you were little too?" she asked, looking up at Dick with renewed interest.

"I sure did," Dick replied with a smile. "Bruce took me in when I was just a bit older than you."

Bruce watched as Mira seemed to process this information, her eyes returning to him with slightly more confidence. "Dick says you have a cow named Batcow."

"Ah, that would be Master Damian's cow," Alfred interjected smoothly. "Perhaps after you've settled in, we could arrange a visit to the barn?"

Mira nodded solemnly, then tugged on Dick's shirt. When he bent down, she whispered something in his ear that made him laugh.

"She wants to know if there's really a barn," Dick explained. "I may have mentioned some things during gymnastics class storytimes."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, fighting to keep his expression stern. "Did you now?"

"Just the public-friendly version!" Dick protested with a grin that reminded Bruce powerfully of the nine-year-old who had first brought light back into the manor.

"Perhaps we should start with a tour of the manor," Alfred suggested diplomatically. "I believe I detect someone in need of refreshments after their journey."

As if summoned by the mention of visitors, Damian appeared at the top of the grand staircase, looking down with his typical imperial demeanor. "Richard, you're late. I've been waiting to introduce her to the animals for forty-seven minutes."

Bruce watched Mira's eyes widen at the sight of his scowling fifteen-year-old son. Her grip on the elephant tightened.

"That's my youngest brother, Damian," Dick explained to her. "He looks grumpy, but he's actually pretty cool. He takes really good care of all his animals."

"How many animals do you have?" Mira asked, her voice barely audible.

Damian descended the stairs with his usual cat-like grace. "Currently, the menagerie consists of Batcow, Titus the Great Dane, Alfred the Cat, Jerry the turkey, and three rescued squirrels who are nearly ready for release back into the wild."

"Wow," Mira breathed, seemingly forgetting her shyness in the face of this information. "Can I see them?"

"That was the plan," Damian stated matter-of-factly. "But first you must wash your hands and learn the proper handling protocols. Animals deserve our respect."

Instead of being intimidated, Mira nodded seriously. "I always wash my hands. And I'm very gentle with animals."

Bruce watched with interest as Damian gave her an appraising look. His youngest son was not easily impressed.

"We shall see. Come along." Damian turned to leave, clearly expecting her to follow.

Mira looked up at Dick uncertainly.

"Go ahead," Dick encouraged. "I'll bring your bags up to your room, and then I'll come find you."

After a moment's hesitation, Mira scurried after Damian, already asking questions about the proper way to pet a cow.

"Well," Bruce said once they were out of earshot. "That went better than expected."

Dick grinned. "What, did you think she'd take one look at you and run screaming?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Bruce admitted dryly. "I'm not exactly known for my way with children."

"You did alright with me," Dick countered, picking up the duffel bag. "And hey, five kids later, you must be doing something right."

"Master Dick has a point," Alfred agreed. "Though I believe much of your success stems from allowing each child to be themselves while providing boundaries and support."

Bruce felt uncharacteristically warm at the compliment. "She seems... comfortable with you, Dick."

"We've built up trust over the past couple months in gymnastics class," Dick explained as they headed upstairs. "And honestly, I think she was just so relieved not to go back into the system that she would have attached herself to anyone who offered safety."

Bruce thought about his own experiences with traumatized children—five of them, to be exact—and how desperate they had all been for stability beneath their various veneers of toughness. "Have you considered," he asked carefully, "what happens if they don't find her aunt? Or if the aunt isn't a suitable guardian?"

Dick sighed, setting the duffel bag down in the guest room that was now prepared for Mira. "I've thought about nothing else for the past week. The foster system failed her, Bruce. Three different homes in a year, and from what I can piece together, at least one of them was neglectful."

Bruce felt a familiar darkness settle over him. "I can have someone look into that."

"Already on it. Barbara's helping me build a case." Dick sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. "The thing is... I really like having her around. She's smart and resilient and has this dry little sense of humor that comes out when she feels safe. Yesterday, she made this comment about Killer Moth's costume that had me laughing so hard I nearly fell over."

Bruce studied his eldest son, seeing in him the same protective instinct he himself had felt twenty-one years ago in that circus tent. "You're considering more than temporary fostering," he observed quietly.

Dick looked up, his expression a mixture of determination and vulnerability that reminded Bruce powerfully of the boy he'd once been. "Is that crazy? I mean, I'm single, I have a dangerous night job, my apartment is tiny..."

"So was my life before you," Bruce pointed out gently. "And as I recall, it didn't stop you from turning everything upside down in the best possible way."

Dick's eyes widened slightly. "So you think I should...?"

"I think," Bruce said carefully, "that you should follow your heart, but also be practical. If this is something you're serious about, we'll make it work. Wayne Manor has plenty of space. You could move back here if the apartment becomes an issue. Security wouldn't be a concern. And night activities can be adjusted."

"Are you offering to babysit while I'm on patrol?" Dick asked with a grin.

"I'm offering whatever support you need," Bruce replied seriously. "As is the rest of the family, I'm sure."

Dick stood up and, in typical Dick Grayson fashion, threw his arms around Bruce in a tight hug. "Thanks, Bruce."

Bruce returned the embrace, marveling at how far they'd come from the days when he'd been too emotionally closed off to accept such gestures. "Of course. That's what family is for."

A startled shriek from outside, followed by peals of laughter, drew their attention to the window. In the garden below, Bruce could see Mira sitting atop Batcow while Damian led the docile animal in a slow circle, lecturing intently about proper bovine care.

"Would you look at that," Dick said with a soft smile. "Damian's making a friend."

"Hmm," Bruce agreed, watching the scene with a warmth in his chest that took him by surprise. "You know, I never considered that my first grandchild would arrive fully formed at age seven."

Dick glanced at him, surprised. "Grandchild?"

Bruce shrugged, a slight smile playing at his lips. "If the shoe fits..."

"Well, Grandpa," Dick teased, "shall we go make sure Damian isn't teaching her how to throw batarangs yet?"

As they headed downstairs to join the children in the garden, Bruce found himself contemplating this unexpected turn of events. He'd become Batman to prevent other children from suffering as he had. He'd become a father to give orphaned children the stability he'd once craved. And now, it seemed, he was becoming a grandfather to extend that safety net to another generation.

Looking at Mira's beaming face as she sat proudly atop Batcow, Bruce decided that while he might not have planned for this particular development, he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

Chapter Text

2.

Bruce knew that his children had a tendency to bring home strays.

Dick had done it with injured birds and lost kittens. Jason had smuggled in street kids for hot meals. Tim collected displaced vigilantes like some people collected stamps. Damian's menagerie was self-explanatory. Even Cass, the most cautious of his children, had once appeared with an elderly woman who had been displaced by a fire, simply stating "she needs help" before installing her in one of the manor's guest rooms for a week.

So when Cassie disappeared for two weeks on what she'd described as a "personal mission" in Hong Kong, Bruce had been concerned but not overly alarmed. She was twenty-four, supremely capable, and had promised to check in every forty-eight hours, which she had done with her typical brevity: "Safe," "Working," "Progress," "Coming home soon."

What he hadn't expected was for her to return with a three-year-old.

The call came from Barbara at three in the morning, which was never a good sign.

"Bruce, don't freak out," were her first words, which guaranteed that Bruce was, indeed, about to freak out.

"What's happened?" he demanded, already reaching for the suit.

"Everyone's safe," Barbara assured him quickly. "But Cass just showed up at my apartment with a little... surprise. We need to talk."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"No," Barbara said firmly. "Not tonight. Cass is exhausted, and the child just fell asleep. Come by in the morning."

Bruce froze in the act of opening the grandfather clock. "The what?"

"The child," Barbara repeated, and he could hear the mixture of exasperation and amusement in her voice. "A little girl, about three years old. Extremely cute, but that's beside the point. Cass rescued her during that mission in Hong Kong and, uh, decided to keep her."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "She can't just—"

"I'm handling the paperwork," Barbara interrupted. "My dad is helping smooth things with international authorities. The kid was caught in some crossfire between factions Cass was investigating. Mother deceased, father unknown. Oracle has already created a plausible paper trail."

"Barbara—"

"Bruce, Cass made her decision. She's been planning this for weeks, apparently. She's already set up an apartment in Gotham Heights and put down a security deposit."

"She's moving out?" Bruce couldn't keep the hurt from his voice.

Barbara's tone softened. "She thinks it's better for the girl to have a stable home base. The manor is great, but it's also a target, and there are a lot of sharp weapons lying around."

Bruce sank into his desk chair, feeling like the floor had dropped out from under him. Cass was the one who had always seemed most at home at the manor, despite her late addition to the family. The thought of her leaving...

"She's not disappearing, Bruce," Barbara said gently, reading his silence correctly. "She's growing up. Becoming independent. And now she's got a kid."

"She's twenty-four," Bruce protested weakly.

"And you were how old when you took in Dick?" Barbara countered. "Besides, Cass is more mature than any of us were at her age. She knows what she's doing."

Bruce sighed. "Can I at least come over now and talk to her?"

"She said she knew you'd ask that," Barbara replied with a chuckle. "She said to tell you, and I quote: 'Sleep. Meet tomorrow. Bring coffee. No lecture.'"

Despite himself, Bruce smiled. "That sounds like Cass."

"Nine AM tomorrow. And Bruce? Try to be happy for her. She is."

After hanging up, Bruce sat in the dark study for a long time, processing. Cass, his quietest child, his shadow warrior, was now a mother. And she had done it all without asking for his help or even his opinion.

Part of him—the controlling part that Dick had labeled his "Bat-Dad mode"—was hurt and frustrated. But another part, the part that had watched each of his children grow into remarkable adults, felt a strange sort of pride.

Cass had always done things her own way, on her own terms. Apparently, parenthood would be no different.

At precisely nine AM the next morning, Bruce knocked on Barbara's apartment door, a tray of coffee in one hand and a large gift bag in the other. Barbara opened the door, looking tired but amused. 

"You brought presents. Of course you did." 

"Is that a problem?" Bruce asked, stepping inside. 

"Not at all. Just very on-brand," Barbara replied, taking the coffee tray. "Thanks for this. I've been up since five with them." 

Bruce followed her into the living room, where he stopped short at the sight before him. 

Cassandra, dressed in black leggings and an oversized Gotham Knights sweatshirt, sat cross-legged on the floor. In front of her, a small girl with shiny black hair pulled into pigtails was carefully arranging colored blocks into what appeared to be a miniature cityscape, all while chattering rapidly in Cantonese.

"The tall building goes here," the little girl was saying. "Bad guys hide on top. Need to climb up and get them!"

Cass looked up and smiled. "Hello." The girl, hearing a new voice, turned to stare at Bruce with intelligent, dark eyes. 

"Who is that big man?" Lin asked, turning to Cass with curiosity.

Bruce found himself smiling at the child's directness.

"Hello," Bruce replied in English, then switched to Cantonese. "I'm Bruce. I'm Cassandra's father."

Lin's eyes widened in surprise and delight. "You speak like me!" she exclaimed, beaming.

Cass smiled knowingly at the exchange. "Your Cantonese is better," she remarked to Bruce, a hint of humor in her voice.

"I've been practicing," Bruce replied with a slight nod. "Those conference calls with Hong Kong investors finally paid off for something important."

"This is Lin," Cass said, gesturing to the little girl. "It means 'forest.'"

"A beautiful name," Bruce said, kneeling down to Lin's level. "What are you building here?"

Lin stood up, brushing off her leggings before approaching Bruce with confident steps. “I’m making Gotham !” she declared proudly. “Look! This is where the bad guys hide, and this is where the heroes catch them!” She pointed to different sections of her block city.

“Are you Batman?” she asked suddenly, looking up at Bruce with wide, curious eyes.

Bruce shot an alarmed look at Cass, who quickly shook her head.

“No, he’s my father, Bruce,” she connected gently. “Your grandfather, if you want.”

“Oh,” Lin nodded seriously, studying him with an intensity that reminded Bruce especially of Cassie. “Grandfather.”  She tested the word carefully before switching to English. “Hello, Grandfather!”

She turned back to her block, speaking animatedly. “Come see my city! It needs people to protect it. The bad guys want to kick it down.”

Bruce knelt down on the floor, keeping a respectful distance. “How did you find her?” he asked Cass quietly.

“League of Shadows,” Cass said grimly. “They had an operation in Hong Kong. The explosion caused a building collapse.” He hands clenched into fists. “Her mom didn’t make it. Was trapped for hours.”

He watched as Lin returned to her block city, arranging the pieces with surprising dexterity for what you’d expect from a three-year-old.

“This is the tall building where the bat flied,” Lin explained seriously, placing a black block on top of a tower. “And this is where the bad men were. They had big boom sticks.” She made an explosive gesture with her hands.

“She talks a lot,” Bruce observed.

Cass nodded. “All the time. Been trying to teach her English, but…” she shrugged. “She prefers Cantonese.”

“She seems very bright,” Bruce said, watching as Lin continued to carefully balance more blocks on her towers.

“She is,” Cass agreed, pride clear in her voice. “Very smart and remembers everything. Notices the small details.” A shadow crossed her face. “She had no one left, was going to enter the system.” Her expression turned fierce. “Had to bring her home.”

The words hung in th air between them. Bruce knew that Cassie, like all his children, was better than the best parts of him. It wasn’t surprising she’d jump in to give a home to an isolated young girl. To give a family. He couldn’t be prouder, really. He trusted her judgement.

“I understand,” Bruce said quietly. And of course he did, perhaps better than most could say. 

Cass studied his expression, something insecure glossing over her face before she relaxed. “You’re not angry?”

“A little shocked,” Bruce admitted. “But not angry. I just wish you had told me sooner. I could have helped.”

Cass smiled slightly. “Wanted to do it myself. Prove I could.”

“You have nothing to prove, Cassie. Not to me, not to anyone.”

“To me,” she replied, the smile a full grin now. “And to her.” She nodded towards Lin, who had abandoned her block and was now tugging at Brue’s sleeve.

“Grandfather, your clothes are nice,” Lin chattered. “But where is your cape? Bats need capes to fly!” She spread her arms and made choosing noises.

Bruce chuckled, looking down at Lin. "My cape is at home," he replied seriously. "Do you like building cities?"

Lin nodded enthusiastically. "Gotham!" she repeated in accented English, then switched back to Cantonese. "Big city! Many tall buildings! Many bad guys!" She pantomimed punching and kicking, then looked at Cass for approval.

"Babs showed her pictures," Cass explained in English. "She loves the skyline."

"Impressive memory," Bruce commented, watching as Lin returned to her block city, adjusting it with as much critical precision a toddler could manage.

"Barbara mentioned you're getting an apartment?" Bruce asked, turning back to Cass.

Cass nodded. "Gotham Heights. Three bedroom. Security is good with a park nearby. Quiet building." She glanced at Barbara. "Barbara helped."

"It's a great place," Barbara confirmed from where she had settled on the couch with her coffee. "Good neighborhood, doorman, elevator building. Close enough to the manor that visits will be easy, far enough from Crime Alley to be safe for a kid."

Bruce nodded, ignoring the pang in his chest at the thought of Cassandra moving out. "And what about when you're... working?" He emphasized the word slightly, mindful of little ears.

"Changing my schedule," Cass replied. "Daytime only. Late nights: only emergencies. Babs, Steph, and Tim are babysitters." She paused, then added cautiously, "And you? Sometimes?"

The tightness in Bruce's chest eased slightly. "Of course. Anytime."

Lin, apparently sensing the shift in conversation, abandoned her blocks and came over to climb directly into Bruce's lap without invitation. She looked up at him and sniffed dramatically.

"You smell like cookies!" she declared. "Like the nice man on the computer. And your voice is rumbly like thunder." She placed a small hand on his chest as if to feel the vibrations.

Bruce found himself inordinately pleased by this assessment. "That's Alfred's cookies you smell," he explained. "And I like your buildings. Very good architecture."

Lin beamed at the compliment. "I will build you a special tower when I come to your house!" she declared. "A big one! Do you have real bats at your house? Cass said you have bats."

Bruce smiled. "Yes, quite a few, actually."

Lin's eyes grew round with excitement. "Can I see them? I'm not scared! Bats are just mice with wings and funny ears!" She put her fingers by her ears to demonstrate.

Bruce couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. "That's... one way to look at it."

Remembering the gift bag he'd brought, Bruce reached for it while keeping Lin balanced in his lap. "This is for you," he told Lin, then looked at Cass. "And you."

Lin eagerly reached into the bag and pulled out a soft plush bat, complete with a tiny purple cape. She immediately hugged it to her chest with a happy squeal.

"A bat with a cape!" she exclaimed. "Look, Cass! It can fly and fight bad guys!" She made the toy swoop through the air.

Cass reached deeper and pulled out a manila envelope, looking at Bruce questioningly.

“Open it,” he encouraged.

Inside were legal documents—a deed to a penthouse apartment in the same building where Cass had put down a deposit, along with financial papers establishing a trust fund for Lin and documentation for health insurance under Wayne Enterprises' family plan.

Cass stared at the papers, then at Bruce. "How? This is..."

"Too much?" Bruce asked, suddenly uncertain. "I know you want to do this independently, and I respect that. But I also want you to know that you and Lin will always have my support. In whatever way you'll accept it."

Cassandra was silent for a long moment, her face unreadable even to Bruce. Then, carefully setting aside the papers, she moved forward and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Thank you," she whispered against his shoulder. "Dad."

Bruce hugged her back, feeling a swell of emotion that threatened to overwhelm his usual composure. Lin, apparently approving of this development, wrapped her small arms around both of them as best she could.

"Group hug!" she declared happily. "We're a family! Cass, me, and Grandfather! Do you have more cookies at your house, Grandfather?"

Barbara laughed from the couch, grabbing her phone to capture the moment. "I take it she's asking about cookies? She'll fit right in with this family."

"She certainly will," Bruce replied, understanding perfectly.

Later, as they were preparing to leave for Cass's new apartment—Bruce having insisted on helping them move in—Cassandra pulled him aside while Barbara was helping Lin gather her toys.

"Bruce," she said, her expression serious. "You are... okay? With being grandfather?"

Bruce felt a strange warmth spread through his chest at the word. First Dick's Mira, now Cass's Lin. Somehow, in the span of three months, he had acquired two grandchildren in the most unexpected ways possible.

"More than okay," he assured her, squeezing her shoulder. "I'm honored."

Cass studied his face, reading the truth in his expression, and nodded, satisfied. "Good. Because Lin needs a family. All of us." She hesitated, then added with a small smile, "She already has Bat-pajamas. Alfred had them ordered."

Bruce laughed, imagining his proper butler shopping online for toddler pajamas emblazoned with the Bat-symbol. "Of course he did."

"We’ll have dinner," Cass declared. "Sunday at the Manor. To tell others." It wasn't a question.

"Absolutely," Bruce agreed. "Though at this rate, I should probably start adding high chairs to the dining room permanently."

Cass tilted her head questioningly.

"Just a feeling," Bruce explained with a wry smile. "Call it detective's intuition."

Across the room, Lin was animatedly explaining something to Barbara, mixing Cantonese with the few English words she knew.

" Grandfather speaks like me!" she was telling Barbara excitedly. "And he has bats at his house ! And cookies! And I'm going to build him a big tower!"

Bruce smiled to himself. Two surprise grandchildren in three months. This wasn't how he'd imagined his family would grow, but watching Cass gently adjust Lin’s bangs, seeing the tenderness in his daughter's expression, Bruce found he wouldn't have it any other way.

Chapter Text

3.

Bruce sat at his desk in his home office, reviewing quarterly reports from Wayne Enterprises when his phone rang. The past few weeks had been a whirlwind of adjustments—helping Cass settle into her new penthouse with Lin, watching Dick navigate the logistics of moving back to Blüdhaven now that he'd found a proper two-bedroom apartment for himself and Mira. The manor felt quieter these days, though Alfred assured him it was only temporary.

The caller ID made him sit up straighter.

Jason.

His second son never called. Texted occasionally, sometimes sent messages through the others, but never called. Bruce's mind immediately ran through a dozen worst-case scenarios.

"What's wrong?" he answered without preamble.

"Hello to you too, old man," Jason drawled, though Bruce could detect tension beneath the casual tone. "Can't a guy call his estranged adoptive father without the world ending?"

"You never call," Bruce pointed out, already pulling up his private security feeds on his tablet. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"Relax, I'm fine. Physically, anyway." Jason paused, then sighed. "Look, I need... advice."

Bruce stared at the phone, momentarily speechless. Jason asking him for advice? Voluntarily? "I'm listening," he managed, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"There's this kid," Jason began, and Bruce immediately felt a sense of déjà vu wash over him. "He's been following me around for weeks. Started in Crime Alley, then somehow figured out where I live. He's like a fucking shadow."

"A fan?" Bruce suggested cautiously.

"More like a persistent little nightmare," Jason replied, but Bruce caught something almost fond in his tone. "Anyway, long story short, I caught him getting cornered by some of Black Mask's guys last night. Kid's been interfering with their drug deals, apparently. Playing hero."

Bruce frowned, concern rising. "How old is he?"

"Twelve, maybe thirteen? Street kid, been on his own for about a year from what I can piece together. Parents were killed in a gang crossfire." Jason's voice grew quieter. "Sound familiar?"

Bruce felt an ache in his chest. "Very. Are you calling because you want to bring him to the manor?"

Jason laughed, a sharp, surprised sound. "Fuck, no. That's not my call to make. Besides, the kid's not exactly... conventional material. He's got a mouth on him that would make Deadshot blush, steals anything that isn't nailed down, and has trust issues that make mine look like a Hallmark special."

"Then what do you need from me?" Bruce asked, genuinely curious.

There was a long pause, and when Jason spoke again, his voice had lost its usual defensive edge. "I don't know what to do with him, Bruce. I can't just leave him on the streets—he'll end up dead within a month at the rate he's going. But I'm not exactly dad material."

Bruce felt a tightness in his throat at the unspoken words hanging between them. "What's his name?" he asked gently.

"Miguel. Miguel Hernandez. But he goes by Mickey."

"And where is Mickey now?"

Jason sighed. "Asleep on my couch, covered in bandages because the little shit got himself sliced up trying to stop a mugging last night. I patched him up, fed him, and told him he could crash here for one night. That was four days ago."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Bruce felt a smile tugging at his lips. "Sounds familiar."

"Yeah, well, I'm starting to understand why you were always so uptight about everything," Jason muttered. "I haven't slept more than three hours at a stretch since he showed up. Keep thinking he's gonna go out and get himself killed playing hero."

"Would he?"

"In a heartbeat," Jason confirmed grimly. "Kid's got a death wish bigger than the both of us combined. Thinks he's invincible."

"Jason," Bruce said carefully, "you realize that what you're describing sounds like parenthood."

There was a strangled noise from the other end of the line. "I am NOT parenting this gremlin. I'm just... making sure he doesn't get himself killed before social services can place him somewhere."

"And have you contacted social services?" Bruce kept his tone neutral.

Another pause. "Not... exactly."

"Jason."

"Look, you know as well as I do what happens to kids his age in the system," Jason said defensively. "Foster parents don't want teenagers, especially not ones with his kind of baggage. He'd end up in a group home at best, back on the streets at worst."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, considering. "So what are you planning to do? Keep him indefinitely?"

"I don't know!" Jason's frustration was evident. "That's why I'm calling you, Bruce. You're the one who made a habit of collecting strays. What do I do with this one?"

"In my experience," Bruce said slowly, "these situations tend to resolve themselves naturally. If Mickey has chosen to trust you—even marginally—there's a reason for that. Perhaps the best approach is to simply... be present. Set boundaries, provide security, and see where it leads."

"That's your advice? 'Wait and see'? Real helpful, B."

"What did you expect me to say? That I have a formula for taking in traumatized children?" Bruce paused, softening his tone. "I made it up as I went along with each of you. The one thing I did right was to offer a safe place without conditions."

Jason was quiet for so long that Bruce checked to make sure the call hadn't disconnected.

"Jason?"

"He asked about you," Jason finally said, his voice oddly subdued. "Mickey. He figures I'm connected to some gang stuff. Thinks I work for Red Hood or something. Wants to know if Bruce Wayne is really as rich as people say. If your cars are as cool as they look in the papers."

Bruce felt something warm unfurl in his chest. "And what did you tell him?"

"That you're a stuck-up rich guy who would never let a kid like him anywhere near your fancy cars," Jason replied, but there was no heat in it. "He said that just means he has to meet you and judge for himself."

"I'd be happy to meet him," Bruce offered, surprising himself with how much he meant it.

Another silence.

"Maybe," Jason finally conceded. "But not yet. He's still... adjusting. To being somewhere stable. And I'm still figuring out if this is even a good idea."

"Fair enough," Bruce agreed. "The offer stands. For whatever you need—resources, advice, or just someone to listen."

"Thanks," Jason said awkwardly. "That's... yeah. Thanks."

"And Jason?"

"What?"

"For what it's worth," Bruce said softly, "I think you'd make an excellent guardian for this boy. You understand him in ways that most people couldn't."

The silence that followed was loaded with years of complicated history.

"I gotta go," Jason finally said. "I think I hear him waking up. Knowing Mickey, he's probably trying to steal my jacket to try it on again."

"Keep me updated?"

"Yeah, sure," Jason replied. "Later, Bruce."

After hanging up, Bruce sat back in his chair, processing the conversation. Jason, taking in a street kid from Crime Alley. History repeating itself in the most unexpected way. He felt a complex mixture of emotions: pride in Jason's compassion, worry about the challenges ahead, and a tentative hope that this might be another bridge between them.

And Bruce, it seemed, was about to become a grandfather for the third time in less than four months.

A few weeks later, Bruce was reviewing investment proposals in his study when Alfred informed him that Jason’s bike has just entered the property. Not an unusual occurrence in itself—his children came and went at all hours—but Jason rarely came to the manor and never without advance notice.

Bruce glanced at the security feed on his tablet, expecting to see Jason alone on his motorcycle. Instead, he saw two figures; Jason on the bike, and a smaller figure seated behind him, arms wrapped tightly around Jason’s waist.

Mickey.

Bruce was halfway to the foyer before he even realized he had moved.

He found Alfred already at the front door, somehow having anticipated their arrival despite no formal notification. (At least, that’s what Bruce assumed.)

“Master Jason called from the road,” Alfred explained in response to Bruce’s questioning look. “He and his young companion will be joining us for dinner. Apparently, the boy expressed a desire to, and I quote, ‘see if Wayne Manor really has golden toilets.’”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, amused. “And what did you tell him?”

“I informed Master Jason that while our plumbing fixtures are indeed quite luxurious, we have not yet stooped to such gauche displays of wealth,” Alfred replied. “I have, however, prepared a fresh batch of snacks, which I believe will adequately impress the young gentleman.”

The sound of the motorcycle grew louder, then cut off as Jason parked in the circular driveway. Bruce took a deep breath, reminding himself not to hover, not to overstep. This was Jason’s moment, Jason’s…. ward. He needed to follow his lead.

A moment later, the front door opened, and Jason strode in, looking uncomfortable but determined. Behind him, half-hidden in Jason’s shadow, was a boy.

Mickey was smaller than Bruce expected—thin to the point of gauntness, with olive skin, shaggy black hair that fell into his eyes, and sharp features that gave him a wary look. He wore jeans that had been softened will use, and a too-large hoodie that might have once been red but had faded to a dull maroon, and a pair of sneakers that juxtaposed the whole outfit by looking brand new.

But despite everything else, it was his eyes that drew Bruce’s focus—dark, intelligent, and filled with a wariness that came from seeing too much at such a young age.

“Hey,” Jason said awkwardly. “Hope it’s okay we dropped by. Mickey wouldn't stop pestering me about meeting you.”

“Of course,” Bruce replied, focusing on the boy. “Hello, Mickey. I’m Bruce Wayne. Welcome to Wayne Manor.”

Mickey stared at him for a long moment, assessing. Then, in a voice that carried a distinct Park Row accent, he said, “You don’t look as stuck-up as you do on TV.”

Jason made a choking sound. "Mickey, what did we talk about in the car?"

The boy shrugged. "You said be polite. I'm being polite. I could've said you look way more boring in person."

"Mickey," Jason warned, but Bruce caught the hint of amusement in his voice.

"What? It's true! On TV you're all serious and fancy. In person you just look like... a regular rich guy."

"Well," Bruce said with a smile, "I suppose that's better than looking like an irregular rich guy."

Mickey's eyes lit up slightly. "Yeah, those guys are the worst. All eccentric and stuff."

As they made their way through the manor, Mickey gawked openly at the high ceilings and artwork, but Bruce noticed how he stayed close to Jason, occasionally reaching out to touch his arm as if reassuring himself that the older boy was still there.

"This place is huge," Mickey muttered. "How do you not get lost?"

"Practice," Bruce replied. "And good security systems."

"Security systems?" Mickey perked up with interest. "Like cameras and alarms and stuff?”

Bruce caught Jason’s warning look. “Among other things.”

“Cool. I bet I could figure out how to get around them though. I’m pretty good at that stuff.”

Jason stopped walking. “Mickey.”

“What? I’m not gonna try anything! I’m just saying, hypothetically, I probably could. I mean, I figured out how to get into your work stuff, didn’t I?”

Jason’s face went pale. “You got into my—what work stuff?”

Mickey seemed to realize his mistake immediately. “Uh… nothing? Just your regular… work… things?”

‘Miguel, what did you find?”

The boy shifted uncomfortably. “Look, it’s not like I was snooping on purpose. You left your laptop open and I was just going to close it for you, but then I saw all these weird files with code names and stuff. And that box under your bed with really cool gear in it.”

Jason looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. “You went through my room?”

“Only a little! And I didn’t break anything! Well, except maybe that one thing, but I fixed it. Mostly.”

“What thing?” Jason pinched his brows, as if trying to steel himself.

“The… communication thingy? With all the buttons? It started beeping really loud so I kinda… took the batteries out. But I put them back in! Eventually!”

Bruce watched the exchange with growing fascination. This was clearly not Mickey being malicious (Jason should have known not to let a civilian tween have full, free access to his space), but he wondered how Jason would respond.

As they entered the dining room, Mickey stopped short, staring at Damian who was already seated and reading from a test-prep notebook.

“Whoa, Mr. Wayne, is that your other kid?”

Damian looked up, his expression shifting from annoyance to curiosity. “Todd. You brought in your own stray.”

“Damian,” Bruce chided.

“I’m not a stray,” Mickey said, but without any real heat. “I do have a name, you know. It’s Mickey. What’s yours, grumpy.”

"Damian Wayne," the older boy replied coolly. "And I am not ‘grumpy’."

"You look grumpy. Do you always look grumpy, or is this a special occasion?"

Despite himself, Damian's lips twitched slightly. "I am merely... observant."

"That's a fancy way of saying grumpy," Mickey decided, settling into his chair. "But that's okay. Jason's grumpy too, but he's still pretty cool."

Throughout dinner, Bruce watched the interactions with growing amusement. Mickey seemed genuinely curious about everything—asking questions about the food, the house, the family dynamics—but his questions came from a place of wonder rather than malice.

"So do you guys actually use all those rooms?" Mickey asked, stabbing at his vegetables with enthusiasm. "Like, there's gotta be rooms you've never even been in, right?"

"The manor has been in the Wayne family for generations," Bruce explained. "Each room has its purpose, though some are used more than others."

"That's wild. I've lived in places where you couldn't swing a cat without hitting three walls and a radiator." Mickey paused. "Not that I would swing a cat. That's just mean. Cats are cool."

"Do you like animals?" Bruce asked.

"Yeah! Jason won't let me get a pet though. Says his apartment's too small and that I'm not responsible enough." Mickey shot Jason an accusatory look. "Which is totally unfair, because I've been super responsible lately."

"You tried to adopt a stray pigeon last week," Jason pointed out.

"Pigeons need love too! And that one was injured!"

"It wasn't injured, Mickey. It was drunk."

"Birds can get drunk?"

"Apparently, when they eat fermented berries in the park."

Mickey considered this seriously. "Huh. Learn something new every day."

As the meal progressed, Bruce noticed Mickey testing small boundaries—seeing what he could get away with, how far he could push before someone corrected him. But it wasn't malicious testing. It was the behavior of a child who was still learning the rules of this new environment.

"Can I see the rest of the house after dinner?" Mickey asked hopefully. "Jason mentioned there's like a library and everything."

Bruce glanced at Jason, who looked conflicted. "That's up to Jason," Bruce said carefully.

Mickey turned to Jason with pleading eyes. "Come on, Jase. Just a quick tour? I promise I won't touch anything. Well, nothing important anyway."

Jason ran a hand through his hair. "Mickey, there's a lot of expensive stuff here. Artwork and antiques that cost more than most people make in a lifetime."

"I'll be super careful," Mickey insisted. "I'm not gonna break anything. I'm not that clumsy."

"You broke my communication equipment," Jason pointed out.

"That was an accident! And it still mostly works!"

"Fine," Jason sighed. "But you follow my rules, understand? Stay close, ask before touching anything, and if you start getting too hyper, we leave."

Mickey nodded eagerly, practically bouncing in his seat.

When they reached the library, Mickey's jaw dropped. "Holy— I mean, wow. That's a lot of books."

"Language," Jason said automatically, but his tone was fond.

"Sorry. It's just... there are so many books. Have you read all of these, Mr. Wayne?"

"Not all of them," Bruce replied with a smile. "But I've made a good attempt over the years."

Mickey wandered deeper into the room, running his fingers along the spines of books with something approaching reverence. "My mom used to read to me," he said quietly. "Before... you know. She always said books were like doors to other worlds."

Bruce saw Jason's expression soften. "She sounds like a smart lady."

"She was." Mickey's voice was barely audible. "She would have loved this place. All these stories just waiting to be discovered."

As they prepared to leave, with Mickey clutching a container of Alfred's cookies, Bruce noticed Jason seemed more relaxed. The boy's genuine wonder and enthusiasm had clearly eased some of Jason's earlier tension.

"Thank you for letting me visit," Mickey said to Bruce, then looked at Jason. "And thanks for bringing me. Even though I probably embarrassed you with the whole drunk pigeon story."

"You didn't embarrass me," Jason said, ruffling Mickey's hair. "You never embarrass me, kid."

As Bruce watched them prepare to leave, he caught Jason's eye and nodded toward his study. "Could I speak with you for a moment?"

Jason looked hesitant, but nodded. "Mickey, wait here with Alfred for a minute, okay?"

But as they moved toward the study, Bruce could hear Mickey's voice carrying down the hallway, clearly having struck up a conversation with Alfred about the cookies. What caught Bruce's attention, however, was when Mickey's voice grew quieter, more uncertain.

"Alfred? Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, young master Mickey."

"Jason's not gonna get tired of me, is he? Like, decide I'm too much trouble and send me away?"

Bruce paused, catching Jason's arm. They both listened as Alfred's gentle voice responded.

"What makes you think such a thing?"

"I dunno. I just... I do stuff sometimes. Stupid stuff. And I can tell it worries him. What if he decides I'm not worth it?"

There was a pause, then Jason moved, quietly returning to the hallway.

"Hey, Mickey. Come here."

Bruce watched through the doorway as Jason knelt down to Mickey's level.

"Listen to me very carefully," Jason said, his voice firm but gentle. "I didn't bring you into my life because I thought it would be easy. I brought you in because you matter. Because you deserve someone who gives a damn about what happens to you."

"But what if I mess up again? What if I break something important or ask too many questions or—"

"Then we'll deal with it," Jason interrupted. "Together. That's what family does, Mickey. They stick around even when things get complicated."

"Together?" Mickey's voice was very small.

"Yeah," Jason said, and Bruce could hear the emotion in his son's voice. "Together. You're stuck with me now, whether you like it or not."

Mickey was quiet for a moment. "I like it," he finally whispered. "I like it a lot."

Bruce quietly stepped back, giving them their moment. When Jason eventually appeared in the study doorway, he looked emotionally drained but somehow lighter.

"He's going to be okay," Bruce said simply.

Jason nodded. "Yeah. I think he is. And maybe..." His voice trailed off. 

As they rode away into the night, Bruce stood on the front steps, watching the motorcycle's taillights disappear. Another grandchild, he thought with a mixture of amazement and affection. One who came with curiosity and wonder instead of walls, who tested boundaries not out of malice but out of a need to understand his place in the world.

The manor seemed very quiet after they left, but it was a good kind of quiet. Bruce smiled, heading back inside.

Chapter Text

4.

With how things were going, Bruce should've expected Tim's son coming a mile away. 

In a typical Tim-like fashion, his third Robin had managed to become a father through the most complicated, scientifically improbable, emotionally devastating method possible—involving dimensional breaches, dying alternate selves, and absolutely zero preparation time.

Bruce had been reviewing quarterly security reports when his emergency communicator erupted in a cacophony of alerts. The priority level made his blood freeze—dimensional breach, Titans Tower, immediate backup required.

He was in the Batwing and airborne within three minutes.

The flight to San Francisco took two hours that felt like twenty. Tim's communications had been sporadic and barely coherent: "Dimensional incident," "Need help," "It's complicated," and most alarmingly, "Bruce, I don't know what I'm doing."

When Bruce landed on the Tower's roof, he could see the damage through the reinforced windows. The laboratory level looked like a bomb had gone off—equipment scattered, scorch marks on the walls, and what appeared to be the remnants of some kind of portal device smoking in the corner.

He found Tim in the medical bay, and Bruce stopped short at the sight before him.

Kon sat hunched in a chair, dark circles under his eyes, cradling what was unmistakably a baby. The infant was wrapped in what looked like one of Tim's spare Robin capes, and Tim hovered nearby, alternating between protective positioning and nervous pacing.

"Bruce," Tim said, his voice cracking with exhaustion and something approaching panic. "You're here."

Bruce approached slowly, his detective's mind cataloging details: the baby appeared healthy, maybe a few days old at most. Kon's hands were steady as he adjusted his grip, though his expression was shell-shocked. Tim looked like he might throw up.

"What happened?" Bruce asked, settling into the chair across from them.

Tim and Kon exchanged a look that was equal parts traumatized and bewildered.

"You're not going to believe this," Tim said, running a hand through his hair. "Shit, I lived through it and I barely believe it."

"Try me."

Kon took a shaky breath. "We were working on modifications to the dimensional scanner—you know, the one we've been using to track interdimensional criminals. Something went wrong with the calibrations. Instead of scanning, it opened a breach."

"A breach to where?"

"Another Earth," Tim continued. "Similar to ours, but... different. And someone came through."

Bruce waited, sensing there was more.

"It was me," Tim said quietly. "Or rather, another version of me. He was... he was dying, Bruce. Gunshot wounds, multiple injuries. But he was carrying..." Tim looked down at the baby in Kon's arms. "He was carrying Tommy."

"Tommy?"

"The baby's name," Tim explained. "Thomas. After... well, you know."

Bruce felt something tighten in his chest at the implication.

"The other Tim," Kon picked up the story, his voice soft, "he seemed like he was working off some sort of checklist. Whether we were alive,” He gestured between himself and Tim, “If you had other grandkids, and if…” He trailed off, looking at Tim, who had taken a particular interest in the wall.

“If?” Bruce asked.

Tim blanched. “If I had broken the rule. Or used guns.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "And when you said no?"

"He looked relieved," Tim said softly. "Then he handed me Tommy and said, 'Take care of my son.' And then he..." Tim's voice broke. "He died, Bruce. Right there on the med bay floor. Just... gone."

The three of them sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the tragedy settling over them.

"DNA tests?" Bruce asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"Confirmed," Kon said, his voice barely above a whisper. "The baby is genetically Tim's and mine. In that universe, apparently I never had the..." He gestured vaguely at his torso. "Cadmus didn’t go through with it."

Bruce processed this information, watching as Kon gently rocked the baby. "And now?"

"Now we have a kid," Tim said, looking up at Bruce with wide, terrified eyes. "A kid that we had no time to prepare for, no warning about, and absolutely no idea how to care for."

As if summoned by the conversation, Tommy began to fuss, making soft crying sounds that immediately sent Tim into a state of barely controlled panic.

"Is he hungry?" Tim asked frantically. "Or does he need changing? What's that smell?"

"I think he just needs repositioning," Kon said quietly, adjusting his hold. Tommy settled almost immediately, blinking up at them with eyes that were unmistakably Tim’s blue.

Bruce watched the exchange, realizing he had no useful advice to offer. "Have you... do you have plans where to go?"

"We're thinking about going to Smallville," Tim said quietly. "Kon's parents... well, Ma and Pa have experience with babies."

"That's... actually a good idea," Bruce said, feeling relief that someone else might have better answers than he could provide. "They'll know what to do."

"But what about after that?" Kon asked, adjusting Tommy's position as the baby made a small sound. "We can't stay in Smallville forever. And Tim, you're still needed with the Titans..."

Bruce felt completely out of his depth. He'd never handled a newborn—Dick had been nine when he came to the manor, old enough to feed himself and use the bathroom independently. His experience with babies extended to brief handshakes with visiting dignitaries' children at galas.

"You'll figure it out," Bruce said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. "The same way... well, the same way everyone does, I suppose."

"But we literally went from zero to baby in the span of five minutes," Tim protested, running his hands through his hair.

Bruce's phone buzzed with a text from Alfred: How is Master Tim? Shall I prepare the nursery?

"How does Alfred always know?" Tim asked, reading over Bruce's shoulder.

"I stopped questioning it years ago," Bruce replied, typing back a confirmation. "The nursery will be ready when you're ready to come to Gotham."

"Home?" Tim looked uncertain. "Bruce, I don't know if we should bring him to the manor. It's not exactly baby-proofed, and with all the security systems and hidden entrances..."

Bruce honestly hadn't thought about baby-proofing. The manor had housed children, yes, but they'd all arrived past the stage of putting random objects in their mouths or crawling into dangerous places.

"We'll... figure it out," he said lamely. "Alfred probably knows about baby-proofing."

Over the next few days, Bruce found himself in the unprecedented position of long-distance parenting consultant, despite having absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Tim had texted him that they'd made it to Smallville safely and that Ma and Pa Kent were helping them with the basics—feeding schedules, diaper changes, how to hold Tommy properly without dropping him. But even with the Kents' guidance, his phone still rang at all hours with increasingly frantic questions.

"Bruce, he won't stop crying, and we've tried everything Ma suggested!" Tim's voice was edged with exhaustion.

Bruce frantically googled "newborn won't stop crying causes" while trying to sound knowledgeable. "Have you fed him recently?"

"Twenty minutes ago."

"Hm?"

"Changed it twice."

"Hhn... temperature? Sometimes they get too warm or too cold." He was reading directly from a parenting website now.

There was shuffling on the other end, then Kon's voice: "Oh my god, his onesie was twisted. He's got a red mark on his back."

"Is he calming down now?" Bruce asked, still scrolling through articles he hoped would make him sound competent.

"Yeah, he's... oh, he's falling asleep. How did you know that?"

Bruce felt like a fraud. "Lucky guess?"

Another call came at three AM: "Bruce, I think something's wrong with his breathing. It sounds weird."

This time Bruce was ready with multiple browser tabs open, though he still felt like he was flying blind. "Describe 'weird.'"

"Like... snorty? Congested?"

"Is he eating normally? Any fever?"

"No fever, and he finished his whole bottle an hour ago."

"Newborns have very small nasal passages," Bruce read from WebMD, praying he wasn't giving terrible advice. "They often sound congested even when they're perfectly healthy. It's called stertor. Completely normal."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm reading it from three different medical websites," Bruce replied honestly. "Though if you're concerned, you can always call the pediatrician Ma Kent recommended."

"Right. Right, we should probably do that."

The calls continued: formula mixing ratios, sleep schedules, the difference between different types of crying, and the terrifying discovery that newborns make random weird noises that sound alarming but are completely normal—at least according to the internet, which Bruce increasingly relied on for answers he definitely didn't have.

"Bruce," Tim called one afternoon, "he made this sound like a dying whale and then just... stopped. Is he broken?"

Bruce was already pulling up baby websites. "Babies make strange noises, Tim. As long as he's breathing normally and eating well, he's probably fine. Probably."

"Probably?"

"I'm texting you links to infant care websites," Bruce said, forwarding everything he'd bookmarked. "I've been reading them too. We're all learning together here."

"Wait, you don't know what you're doing either?"

"Tim, I've never taken care of a baby in my life," Bruce admitted. "Dick was nine. Jason was twelve. You were thirteen. I have no idea what I'm doing."

There was a long pause. "That's... actually kind of reassuring?"

When Tim and Kon finally brought Tommy to Wayne Manor, Bruce was struck by how different this homecoming felt compared to the others. His other children had arrived with their own capabilities and independence. But Tommy was just... an infant. Completely dependent, unmarked by tragedy or trauma beyond the circumstances of his arrival, carrying only the love of parents who had died to ensure his safety.

The family gathered in the main living room, everyone wanting to meet the newest addition. Dick had driven up from Blüdhaven with Mira, who was fascinated by the concept of a baby cousin. Cass and Lin had taken the train from the city, with Lin chattering excitedly about "the tiny baby". Jason and Mickey had arrived on the motorcycle, Mickey immediately disappointed how babies "don't really do anything cool."

"He's so small," Mira observed, kneeling beside Kon's chair to get a better look.

"All babies are small," Dick said with a grin. "That's kind of their thing."

"Can I hold him?" Lin asked, climbing onto the couch beside Cass. "I'll be ver-ry care-ful."

Cass looked to Tim and Kon for permission, then carefully arranged Lin's arms before helping transfer the baby. Lin's face lit up with wonder as Tommy settled against her.

"He's warm," she announced, then leaned over to whisper to Cass something that made her smile.

"She says he smells like love," Cass translated.

Mickey, meanwhile, was studying Tommy with disinterest. "He's like a really weird-looking puppy. Except puppies can at least walk and stuff. This one just lies there."

"You know babies take time to learn how to do things," Jason explained patiently. "They're basically useless for the first year or so."

"That seems like poor evolutionary design," Mickey declared with the confidence of a burgeoning teen.

Damian approached last, his expression carefully neutral. "He is... adequately formed," he announced, as if granting royal approval. "His facial structure suggests he will be intelligent. The Drake bone structure is quite distinctive."

"Thanks, Damian," Tim said dryly. "I think."

"I have prepared a list of appropriate developmental toys and educational materials," Damian continued. "It is never too early to begin intellectual stimulation."

"He's two months old," Kon pointed out.

Damian looked at him with barely concealed disdain. "And yet he is already learning. Early exposure to classical music, multiple languages, and visual stimuli will help his development."

Bruce watched the interactions, feeling something settle in his chest. This was his family, expanded once again in the most unexpected way.

"So what's the plan?" Dick asked, settling back with Mira curled against his side. "Are you guys staying in Smallville, San Francisco, or...?"

Tim and Kon exchanged a look, one of those wordless communications that couples develop.

"We've been talking about it," Tim said carefully. "The Tower is great for superhero work, but it's not exactly a family environment. And after spending time in Smallville... Tommy deserves to grow up around his extended family."

"We're thinking of moving back to Metropolis or Gotham," Kon continued. "Maybe finding a place in the city, close enough to visit regularly but with enough space for privacy."

"Or," Bruce interjected quietly, "you could move back to the manor. There's plenty of space, excellent security, and built-in babysitters."

Tim and Kon exchanged a look. "Bruce, that's incredibly generous," Tim said carefully. "But we need our own space. Somewhere we can figure out this whole thing without worrying about waking everyone up at three AM with crying."

"Or accidentally setting off security alarms during diaper changes," Kon added with a weak smile.

Bruce nodded, trying not to show his disappointment. "Of course. I understand completely. But the offer stands, whenever you need it. And we'll help you find something suitable."

"The nursery is already prepared," Alfred added from the doorway, appearing with his usual perfect timing. "Should you change your minds. I have also taken the liberty of researching family-friendly neighborhoods in Gotham, as well as reviewing comprehensive baby-proofing protocols."

"Baby-proofing protocols?" Bruce asked.

"Indeed, sir. Whether at the manor or elsewhere, infant safety requires numerous modifications that most adults do not consider."

Tim looked around the room at his family—his dad, his brothers and sisters, his nieces and nephew, his son. "We want to be close," he said finally. "Close enough that Tommy grows up knowing all of you. But we also need to learn how to be parents without feeling like we're constantly being watched or judged."

"No judgment here," Dick said gently. "We all figured it out as we went along."

"Exactly," Kon said. "And we will too. Just... maybe somewhere with thicker walls first."

That night, after everyone had either gone home or retreated to their rooms, Bruce found himself standing in the doorway of the newly prepared nursery. Tommy lay sleeping in his crib, tiny fists curled beside his head, breathing with the deep rhythm of peaceful sleep.

Tim appeared beside him, moving with the exhausted shuffle of new parenthood.

"Can't sleep?" Bruce asked quietly.

"Too wound up," Tim admitted. "Every time I close my eyes, I keep thinking about the other Tim. About what his life must have been like to bring Tommy here. About what was so wrong in that universe that dying was preferable to staying."

Bruce considered this. "Perhaps it wasn't about what was wrong there, but about what was right here."

Tim looked at him questioningly.

"He checked three specific things," Bruce continued. "That you and Kon were alive, that there were other grandchildren, and that you don't kill. He was looking for a universe where Tommy could grow up safely, surrounded by family, raised by parents who wouldn't lose themselves to violence."

Tommy stirred slightly in his sleep, making one of those random baby noises that had terrified Tim and Kon for the past two weeks. Both men immediately tensed, ready to spring into action if he woke up crying.

But Tommy just sighed softly and settled deeper into sleep.

"We're all going to figure this out as we go," Bruce said quietly. "But that's okay. We'll learn together."

Tim nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Ma said something similar. That nobody really knows what they're doing with their first baby, they just pretend they do."

"Smart woman."

They stood in comfortable silence, watching Tommy sleep. Bruce thought about how unprepared he felt, how different this was from anything he'd experienced before. But maybe that was okay. Maybe admitting uncertainty was better than pretending to have all the answers.

"Bruce?" Tim's voice was soft. "Thank you. For letting me come home. For being honest about not knowing what you're doing either. It helps, somehow."

"We'll figure it out," Bruce said, and this time he meant it. Not because he had confidence in his parenting abilities, but because he had confidence in their family's ability to adapt, to learn, to support each other through whatever came next.

As Tim headed back to the guest room where Kon was no doubt lying awake listening for any sound from the baby monitor, Bruce took one last look at Tommy. His first grandchild to arrive as an actual baby, bringing with him a whole new set of challenges none of them were prepared for.

He had a feeling they were all in for quite an education.

Chapter Text

5.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when Duke called a family meeting, and Bruce Wayne was already feeling the familiar weight of exhaustion pressing down on his shoulders. The morning had been a whirlwind of activity—helping Mickey with his science project while keeping one vigilant eye on Mira as she performed increasingly dangerous gymnastics routines for Lin in the manor's gym. And, of course, there was little Thomas, barely steady on his feet but determined to copy his cousin's every tumble and flip. Bruce had spent half the morning lunging to catch the toddler before he could crack his skull on the training mats.

So when Alfred informed him that Duke had requested everyone's presence in the main living room, Bruce had to suppress a sigh. Family meetings rarely brought good news. In his experience, they usually preceded announcements of alien invasions, interdimensional threats, or—worst of all—parent-teacher conferences.

Nevertheless, he dutifully made his way to the designated meeting spot, settling into his favorite armchair as the rest of the family filtered in. Dick arrived first, Mira perched on his shoulders, both of them still flushed from their workout. Jason sauntered in next, phone in hand, absently texting someone while he dropped onto the sofa. Cass slipped in silently and took her usual spot on the window seat, while Tim entered with Mickey, the two of them still discussing the finer points of his volcano project. Damian was the last to arrive, looking irritated at having his afternoon interrupted.

Bruce watched as Duke positioned himself at the center of the room, shifting nervously from foot to foot. It was unusual to see Duke so unsettled. Of all his kids, Duke was typically the most level-headed, the one who approached problems with calm deliberation rather than the dramatic flair that seemed to characterize the rest of the family.

"So," Duke began, his voice slightly higher than normal, "I wanted to tell you all at once because, well, it's kind of a big deal, and I didn't want anyone to hear it secondhand, and—"

"Thomas," Damian interrupted with his typical impatience, "cease your nervous rambling and deliver your news." Bruce shot Damian a warning look, but the young man merely shrugged, unrepentant.

Duke took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and said, "Izzy's pregnant. We're having a baby. In about six months."

The room erupted in chaos. Dick let out a whoop, launching himself off the couch to envelop Duke in a bear hug, nearly dislodging Mira in the process. Jason gave an appreciative wolf whistle before standing to clap Duke on the back. Tim immediately started peppering Duke with questions about due dates and preparations, while Cass simply crossed the room to give Duke a gentle hug, her smile speaking volumes.

Through it all, Bruce remained quiet, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched the scene unfold. Another grandchild. His fifth. The thought still felt strange, foreign almost. Five years ago, he'd still been adjusting to the idea of being a father to this assembled group of traumatized, exceptional, and utterly exhausting young people. Now he was on the verge of becoming a grandfather five times over.

At least there was a pregnancy announcement this time?

As the initial commotion died down, Bruce noticed Duke glancing his way, uncertainty in his eyes. He realized belatedly that everyone was looking at him now, waiting for his reaction. Bruce cleared his throat and stood, crossing the room in a few long strides to stand before Duke.

“Congratulations,” he said, pulling Duke into a firm embrace. He felt the tension drain from Duke's shoulders as the young man returned the hug. "You're going to be a great dad."

The conversation continued to flow around practical matters—Tim sharing recommendations for pediatricians who could be trusted with unusual circumstances, Alfred quietly noting which rooms would need baby-proofing beyond the standard measures. Bruce listened with half his attention while his mind wandered to larger questions of how to integrate a new generation into their carefully balanced chaos.

Duke participated with genuine interest, though it was clear he was most comfortable discussing details with Cass and Damian, who approached the topic with the same measured consideration he preferred. Dick's enthusiasm, while genuine, seemed to make him slightly uncomfortable, and Jason's awkward formality created a barrier that Bruce hoped would ease with time.

"What about names?" Mira asked suddenly, appearing at Duke's elbow with the silent movement she'd inherited from her father. "Have you picked names yet?"

"We've talked about it," Duke said, automatically shifting to make room for her on the couch. "Nothing definite yet. Izzy likes traditional names, but we're both open to family names too."

Bruce watched Duke's easy interaction with Mira and felt another surge of confidence about his parenting abilities. He always had a natural instinct for making children feel heard and important without talking down to them.

"Mom suggested we consider her father's name—Samuel," Duke continued. "And Izzy's grandmother was named Sofia. So we have some ideas."

"Samuel Thomas has a nice ring to it," Alfred observed, appearing to refresh their tea service with his usual impeccable timing.

"Or Sofia Thomas," Cass added with a small smile.

The discussion of names brought a new warmth to the conversation, and Bruce found himself thinking about the weight of family names, the way they carried history and hope forward. His own relationship with names was complicated—the legacy of the Wayne name, the symbolic weight of Batman, the careful balance between honoring the past and allowing each person to forge their own identity.

As the afternoon wore on, Bruce found himself content to listen as the conversation evolved naturally. Duke seemed more at ease now, the initial nervousness completely gone as he discussed his plans and concerns with the family. The way he sought out certain people's opinions while politely deflecting others told Bruce a lot about the kind of parent he would be—thoughtful, selective about whose advice to take, but open to support from those he trusted.

"The hardest part is not knowing what kind of world we're bringing them into," Duke admitted during a quieter moment. "Gotham's not exactly the safest place to raise a kid."

The comment hung in the air for a moment, carrying weight that went beyond typical parental concerns. Their world was genuinely dangerous in ways that most people never had to consider. But it was also full of people who had chosen to fight that darkness, to make things better for the next generation.

"None of us grew up in safe places," Damian pointed out. "But we turned out okay. Mostly."

"Speak for yourself," Jason called from across the room, earning a few laughs.

The humor helped break the momentary tension, but Bruce could see that Duke's concerns were real and valid. He made another mental note to have a private conversation about security measures and contingency planning—not to overwhelm Duke with fears, but to ensure he felt prepared and supported.

"The baby will have advantages we didn't," Cass said quietly. "Two parents who love each other. A stable home. Family support."

Duke nodded, looking comforted by her words. "You're right. We can give them what a lot of us didn't have."

The simple truth settled over the room like a blessing. This baby would indeed have what so many of them had lacked—safety, stability, unconditional love. That was worth celebrating, worth protecting.

As the sun began to set, painting the room in shades of gold and amber, the gathering gradually dispersed. Dick took Mira home for dinner, their laughter echoing down the hallway. Jason and Mickey headed to the kitchen, already debating the relative merits of different pizza toppings. Tim retreated to the cave with Tommy, probably to work on something that would inevitably be both brilliant and slightly concerning.

Bruce remained in his chair, watching as the room slowly emptied, feeling the familiar satisfaction that came from these moments when his complicated family felt most like a real family. The announcement had been handled well—supportive without being overwhelming, practical without losing the joy of the moment.

Eventually, only Duke, Cass, and Damian remained, along with Bruce and Alfred. The afternoon light had faded to a warm glow, and the manor had settled into its early evening quiet.

"Thank you," Duke said to the room in general. "For being supportive. I know this family isn't exactly conventional."

"When has anything about this family ever been conventional?" Bruce replied. "You're doing this the right way, Duke. Taking your time, making thoughtful decisions."

"Just remember," Damian added, "you don't have to figure everything out right now. The baby isn't even here yet."

Duke laughed. "Yeah, Izzy keeps telling me the same thing. I think I'm more nervous than she is."

"That's normal," Cass assured him. "Shows you care."

Bruce watched the easy camaraderie between the three and felt a deep sense of satisfaction. As Duke finally prepared to leave, he lingered for a moment with Bruce, the others having moved toward the door.

"Thanks," he said simply. "For everything. This... having your support means a lot."

"You're family, Duke. That means something." Bruce paused, then added, "Give Izzy my regards. And let her know she's welcome here anytime."

Duke's smile was warm and genuine. "I'll tell her. She'll appreciate that."

As Duke left to head home to Izzy, Bruce found himself remaining in the living room, surrounded by the gentle chaos of the gathering—empty tea cups, scattered cushions, the lingering warmth of shared joy. Alfred moved quietly around the room, restoring order with practiced efficiency, but Bruce made no move to help or to leave.

He was thinking about cycles, about how his complicated, sprawling family continued to evolve and grow. Another generation was coming, and with it, new bonds and new challenges. Duke would navigate parenthood the same way he navigated everything else—thoughtfully, carefully, with determination.

It was a good way to face the future.

The manor settled into its familiar evening quiet, and Bruce allowed himself a moment of contentment. Some stories, he reflected, didn't need dramatic endings. Sometimes they just needed to continue, one careful step at a time, with love and support and the knowledge that even the most unconventional families could provide everything a child needed to thrive.

Outside, Gotham's lights were beginning to twinkle in the gathering dusk, but inside the manor, all was peaceful. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new crises to manage, new threats to face. But tonight, they had celebrated new life and new hope, and that was enough.

(And hopefully, going forward, Bruce would finally be able to predict when to expect new grandkids.)

Chapter Text

+1.

Bruce prided himself on being prepared for anything.

After over twenty years as Batman and almost as long as a father, he'd developed a sixth sense for trouble. A particular tightness between his shoulder blades that warned him when something was about to go catastrophically wrong.

For the past week, that feeling had been intensifying every time he looked at Damian.

His youngest son had been acting... suspicious. Secretive phone calls that ended abruptly when anyone entered the room. Mysterious outings with no explanation of where he'd been. A series of books that disappeared quickly whenever Bruce approached. And most telling of all, a nervousness that was completely out of character for the normally self-assured teenager.

Bruce had seen this pattern five times in the past few years.

The first time, it had been Dick, with his stammered explanation about temporarily fostering Mira. Then Cass simply appearing with Lin in tow. Jason's gruff introduction of Mikey. Tim's miracle with baby Tommy. And most recently, Duke and Izzy welcoming little Juliana into the world.

Five children. Five grand children. Five completely different situations that had all ended with Bruce becoming a grandfather yet again.

So when Damian knocked on his study door that evening, Bruce was ready.

"Father," Damian said, appearing in the doorway with uncharacteristic hesitation. "I need to speak with you about something important."

Bruce took a deep breath and gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Of course, Damian. Come in."

The boy shut the door behind him—another bad sign—and moved to the seat with the careful precision Bruce recognized as Damian controlling his nerves. At seventeen, his son had grown taller, his features maturing into a striking blend of Bruce's own and Talia's beauty. Still too young, Bruce thought with concern. Much too young.

"I've been meaning to discuss something with you," Damian began, his fingers fidgeting slightly with the hem of his jacket. "It's about my future plans."

Bruce nodded, maintaining what he hoped was a supportive expression.

"I've been researching extensively," Damian continued, "and consulting with several professionals about the requirements and—"

"Damian," Bruce interrupted, unable to bear the circuitous approach, "I know."

His son blinked. "You... know?"

"Yes." Bruce leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the desk. "And I want you to understand that while I'm concerned about the timing, I fully support your decision."

Damian's eyebrows drew together. "You're... concerned about the timing?"

"You're only seventeen," Bruce said gently. "But I understand that sometimes life doesn't follow our carefully laid plans. The good news is, you've got an entire family ready to help."

Confusion flickered across Damian's face. "I don't understand why my age would be particularly relevant to this decision."

"Because raising a child is an enormous responsibility," Bruce replied, then added with a wry smile, "as I well know."

There was a moment of absolute silence.

"A... child?" Damian repeated, his voice rising sharply.

Bruce nodded. "I've already had Alfred prepare one of the rooms in the east wing. It's far enough from your bedroom to give you some privacy, but close enough that you won't have to go far for night feedings. We can discuss whether you want to continue your education immediately or take some time—"

"FATHER!" Damian stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor. "I am not having a child!"

Bruce stared at him. "You're not?"

"No! I came to inform you that I've decided to pursue a doctorate in veterinary medicine, with a specialization in exotic animals and wildlife rehabilitation!"

Now it was Bruce's turn to be shocked into silence. His expression shifted from relief to alarm so quickly that Damian actually took a step back.

"A doctorate?" Bruce finally managed, his voice strangely tight. "You want to become... a doctor?"

Damian frowned. "Yes, that is generally what one becomes after earning a doctorate degree. Why are you looking at me like that? I thought you'd be pleased."

Bruce ran a hand over his face. "Damian, do you realize how many PhDs have become rogues in Gotham? Crane. Isley. Fries. Strange. Quinzel. It's practically a prerequisite for supervillainy in this city."

Damian's mouth fell open. "You can't be serious. You thought I was having a child, and your response was supportive concern. I tell you I want to pursue higher education, and suddenly you're worried I'll become a criminal?"

"It's a statistical pattern," Bruce said defensively.

"It's absurd," Damian countered. "You'd rather I be a teenage father than a doctor?"

"Of course not," Bruce backpedaled. "I'm just saying... maybe consider other options? Business administration? Law? Something without 'doctor' in the title?"

Damian crossed his arms. "Father, I am going to become a veterinarian. A doctor of veterinary medicine. I will heal animals, not create fear toxins or mind control plants."

"That's what they all say at the beginning," Bruce muttered.

"I cannot believe we're having this conversation." Damian threw his hands up in exasperation. "You do realize that half our allies have doctoral degrees? Dr. Mid-Nite? Dr. Palmer? Tim is planning to get a PhD in computer science, and you haven't accused him of plotting world domination."

Bruce straightened in his chair. "Tim is getting a doctorate?"

"Don't change the subject," Damian snapped. "And don't go interrogating Timothy about his academic plans because of your irrational suspicion of educated people."

"It's not irrational," Bruce protested. "Look at the evidence—"

"Correlation is not causation," Damian interrupted. "Most serial killers drink milk. That doesn't mean milk creates murderers."

"I'm just concerned—"

"You're being ridiculous."

Bruce took a deep breath, recognizing from Damian's increasingly rigid posture that he was genuinely upset. "You're right. I apologize. My reaction was... excessive."

Damian lifted his chin. "It was completely illogical."

"Not completely," Bruce argued mildly. "But mostly, yes."

His son glared at him for a moment longer, then slowly sank back into his chair. "So to clarify: you were prepared to support me if I announced I'd impregnated someone at seventeen, but you're suspicious of my intentions to pursue an advanced degree in medicine?"

When put that way, Bruce had to admit it sounded absurd. "I... may have overreacted."

"May have?"

"Did overreact," Bruce amended. "Tell me more about this doctorate program."

Damian regarded him warily, as if suspecting a trap. "I've been accepted to three universities, but I'm leaning toward Cornell. Their wildlife clinic is exceptional, and they have the best exotic animal specialists in the country."

Bruce nodded, making a conscious effort to appear supportive. "And this is something you've been interested in for a while?"

"Since I came to live with you," Damian admitted. "Working with the animals in the Batcave, helping rehabilitate injured wildlife on the grounds... I discovered I have an aptitude for veterinary care and a genuine interest in animal welfare."

"I've noticed your dedication to the animals," Bruce acknowledged. "I suppose I never connected it to potential career aspirations."

"Perhaps because you were too busy worrying about me becoming a miniature version of yourself," Damian said pointedly.

Bruce winced. "I deserved that."

A hint of smugness crossed Damian's face before he continued. "Cornell's program would allow me to work with wildlife conservation projects globally. I could make a significant difference in protecting endangered species."

Bruce could hear the passion in his son's voice—a genuine enthusiasm that made him feel ashamed of his initial reaction. "It sounds like you've found your calling."

"I believe I have," Damian agreed. "Now, can I count on your support, or will you be watching me for signs of villainous doctoral tendencies?"

"I fully support your academic goals," Bruce said seriously, then allowed a small smile. "Though perhaps we should establish a monitoring protocol, just in case. The first sign of you building a freeze ray or commanding animal minions, we intervene."

Damian rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of amusement in his expression. "Very funny, Father."

"I'm only half joking," Bruce said. "Gotham has a way of turning doctorates into disaster. But," he added quickly, seeing Damian's expression darken, "I have complete faith in your moral compass."

"As you should," Damian said firmly. "Besides, Father, if I were planning to become a rogue, I wouldn't bother with the doctorate. I already have all the training I would need."

Bruce couldn't argue with that logic. "True enough."

"Now that we've established I'm neither having a child nor plotting world domination," Damian said dryly, "perhaps we could discuss the practical aspects of my education? Cornell is in Ithaca, approximately four hours from Gotham."

A faint sound from outside interrupted their conversation. Both of them froze, their trained ears picking up what sounded distinctly like... crying?

"Did you hear that?" Bruce asked quietly.

Damian nodded, already moving toward the window. "It came from the gardens."

The crying came again, higher pitched and desperate. Bruce recognized it now—not human, but animal.

Without another word, both of them were out the door, descending the main staircase and heading for the front entrance. Years of emergencies had trained the entire family to move quickly when needed, and within seconds they were outside, scanning the shadowy grounds.

The cries led them to a small rose bush near the front steps. Damian reached it first, dropping to his knees and carefully pushing aside the branches.

"Father," he called softly. "Bring the light closer."

Bruce pulled out his phone and activated the flashlight, illuminating the space beneath the bush.

There, curled in a tiny ball against the damp earth, was a kitten—no more than a few weeks old, with matted black fur and one white paw. It was painfully thin, its side rising and falling with labored breaths between pitiful mewls.

"Poor thing," Bruce murmured, crouching beside his son. "It must have gotten separated from its mother."

What happened next astonished even Bruce, who had witnessed Damian's combat skills countless times. With movements so swift and precise they seemed choreographed, Damian assessed the kitten's condition, gently examined its injured leg, removed his jacket to create a warm wrap, and lifted the tiny creature with a gentleness that belied his usual intensity.

"Laceration on the rear left leg, approximately one centimeter in length," Damian reported clinically, though his eyes revealed genuine concern. "Severe dehydration, probable malnutrition based on visible rib cage, and possible infection setting in at the wound site."

Bruce watched as Damian cradled the kitten against his chest, his voice dropping to a soothing murmur as he spoke reassurances to the frightened animal.

"We need to get it inside," Damian said, already turning toward the house. "It needs warmth, hydration, antibiotics, and proper wound cleaning. I have supplies in my room."

Bruce followed, holding the door open. "Should we call a veterinarian?"

"No time," Damian replied tersely. "The wound needs immediate attention, and moving it to a clinic would cause additional stress that could be fatal in its weakened state. I can stabilize it until morning."

Of course he could. Bruce watched as his son strode purposefully through the manor, calling out instructions to Alfred who had appeared in the hallway.

"Alfred, I need warm towels, my veterinary kit from the second shelf in my closet, and a hot water bottle filled to three-quarters capacity."

"Right away, Master Damian," Alfred replied without missing a beat, as if emergency kitten rescue was a regular occurrence in Wayne Manor—which, Bruce realized, it probably was.

"The room in the east wing," Bruce said suddenly, remembering. "The one I prepared. It has a sunroom attached—south-facing with excellent natural light. It would make a good recovery space."

Damian glanced at him, then gave a curt nod. "That would be acceptable. The temperature stability and natural light would be beneficial for recovery."

They changed direction, heading toward the east wing. Bruce pushed open the door to reveal the room he'd prepared—neutral colors, a comfortable bed, a rocking chair by the window, and a changing table that could easily be repurposed.

Damian walked straight to the sunroom, which was furnished with wicker chairs and potted plants. "This will work," he said approvingly. "The temperature is good, and the space is quiet."

Bruce watched as his son settled onto one of the chairs, the kitten still cradled against him. From a pocket in his pants, Damian produced a small bottle of what appeared to be antiseptic and a packet of sterile gauze.

"You carry medical supplies with you?" Bruce asked, impressed despite himself.

"Always," Damian replied without looking up, his focus entirely on the kitten as he began to gently clean around the wound. "For humans and animals. One never knows when they'll be needed."

Alfred appeared moments later with the requested items. "Your veterinary kit, Master Damian," he said, placing a small case on the table. "And the towels and hot water bottle as requested."

"Thank you, Alfred," Damian said with genuine gratitude. "Could you prepare a formula solution? One part kitten milk replacer to two parts warm water. There's a bottle in my emergency supplies cabinet labeled KMR."

"Of course, sir," Alfred replied, heading back out.

Bruce stood by the door, observing as Damian worked with professional efficiency. His hands—hands that Bruce had trained to disable opponents—moved with exquisite care as he cleaned the wound, applied antibiotic ointment, and wrapped the leg in the smallest bandage Bruce had ever seen.

"You're quite skilled at this," Bruce said softly.

Damian didn't look up from his work. "I've had practice."

"More than I realized," Bruce admitted. "The doctorate seems like a natural progression of skills you've already been developing."

"Yes," Damian agreed, finally glancing up. "Which is why your earlier reaction was particularly disappointing."

Bruce winced. "I apologize for that. Watching you now... it's clear this is what you're meant to do."

Something in Damian's posture relaxed slightly at the words. "Apology accepted," he said after a moment. "Though I still think your fear of doctorates is irrational."

"Probably," Bruce conceded. "Old habits."

Alfred returned with a small bottle of formula and what appeared to be a tiny syringe without a needle. "For feeding," he explained, catching Bruce's questioning look.

"Perfect, thank you," Damian said, taking the items and carefully preparing a dose. With practiced movements, he positioned the kitten and began slowly administering the formula, drop by tiny drop.

Bruce watched in fascination. This was a side of his son he rarely got to see—the nurturing, patient caregiver rather than the fierce warrior. The contrast was striking, yet somehow completely natural.

"Cornell has one of the best wildlife clinics in the country," Damian said conversationally as he continued feeding the kitten. "Six thousand cases annually, everything from common species to endangered ones. The practical experience will be invaluable."

"It sounds perfect for you," Bruce said sincerely.

"It is." Damian paused, checking the kitten's response to the feeding before continuing. "I've already calculated travel routes and contingency plans. Four hours and twenty-three minutes from Gotham with moderate traffic."

Of course he had. Bruce smiled. "Close enough for weekend visits, then."

"When my studies permit," Damian replied, but there was no rejection in his tone. "And I expect the family to accommodate my schedule if they wish to see me."

The kitten had fallen asleep after feeding, its tiny body finally relaxing in the warmth of the towel nest Damian had created. Bruce was struck by how natural his son looked, caring for the vulnerable creature—as if this had always been his purpose.

"What will you name it?" Bruce asked after a while.

Damian studied the sleeping kitten. "Shadow," he decided. "For obvious reasons."

"Shadow," Bruce repeated. "It suits him."

"How do you know it's male?" Damian asked with a hint of challenge.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Is it not?"

"Indeed it is," Damian confirmed with the barest hint of a smile. "Male calico, which is quite rare—approximately one in three thousand. They typically have chromosomal abnormalities that will need monitoring."

Bruce nodded, impressed again by his son's knowledge. "You've been preparing for this career path for some time, haven't you?"

"Since I was thirteen," Damian admitted. "Though I wasn't certain how to tell you. It's not... following the path you might have expected."

Bruce moved closer, resting a hand lightly on Damian's shoulder. "Damian, I never expected any of you to follow exactly in my footsteps. You're all your own people, with your own talents and passions." He squeezed gently. "I'm proud of the path you're choosing."

Something in Damian's expression softened. "Thank you, Father."

"Besides," Bruce added with a small smile, "a veterinarian in the family could be extremely useful for our... nocturnal activities. Bat-related injuries and all that."

Damian rolled his eyes, but there was amusement in his gaze. "Was that a joke?"

"An attempt at one," Bruce admitted.

They fell into comfortable silence as Bruce pulled up another chair, the two of them watching over the sleeping kitten. Hours passed, with Damian waking periodically to check the wound and administer more formula. Bruce stayed, fetching supplies and following instructions as needed.

As dawn approached, Bruce found himself reflecting on the events of the night. What had begun as a misunderstanding had revealed a side of his son he'd always known existed but rarely got to witness—the compassionate healer beneath the warrior's exterior.

"You know," Bruce said quietly as the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the windows, "I may have prepared for the wrong situation, but I couldn't be prouder of how this turned out."

Damian looked up from checking the kitten's bandage. "Because I'm not having a child at seventeen or because I'm not showing signs of becoming a supervillain?"

"Both," Bruce admitted with a chuckle. "But mostly because I'm seeing you pursue something you're clearly passionate about and exceptionally talented in." He paused, watching as Damian gently stroked the kitten's head with one finger. "You're going to make an extraordinary veterinarian, Damian."

His son didn't respond immediately, but the slight straightening of his shoulders told Bruce the words had landed. Finally, Damian looked up, his expression earnest in a way it rarely was.

"I want to make a difference," he said simply. "Not just through combat, but through healing. There are many ways to save lives."

"Indeed there are," Bruce agreed. "And this path suits you well."

The kitten stirred, giving a tiny mew that immediately drew Damian's attention. Bruce watched as his son prepared another feeding, his movements confident and precise.

"Well, Father," Damian said as he finished settling the kitten back into its nest, "here's your newest grandchild you were so prepared for." His tone was haughty, but there was a glint in his eye that told Bruce he wasn't truly angry anymore.

Bruce smiled, looking at the tiny black kitten nestled in its towels. "Welcome to the family, Shadow," he said softly. "It's a bit unconventional, and occasionally dangerous, but there's plenty of love to go around."

"He's not actually your grandchild," Damian pointed out. "He's my patient."

"For now," Bruce agreed. "But something tells me he might find a permanent home here."

Damian didn't deny it, which Bruce took as confirmation.

As they sat together in the growing light, watching over the smallest member of their household, Bruce felt a deep contentment settle over him. The past year had brought unexpected changes to the family—five new children through his grown children, and now a kitten through his youngest. Different journeys, different choices, but all of them moving forward into the future.

And Bruce would be there for all of it, supporting, guiding when asked, and learning to step back when needed. That, he decided as he watched the sun rise over Gotham in the distance, was the true joy of fatherhood.

"I suppose," Bruce said thoughtfully, breaking the comfortable silence, "that makes me a grandfather six times over now."

Damian looked up sharply. "Shadow is a cat, Father."

"A cat who is now part of this family," Bruce insisted with a smile. "Making him my sixth grandchild."

"That's not how it works," Damian protested.

"Isn't it?" Bruce countered. "He lives in our home, receives our care, and clearly has your devotion. Sounds like family to me."

Damian sighed in exasperation, but there was fondness in his eyes as he glanced down at the sleeping kitten. "You're impossible."

"I've been told that before," Bruce acknowledged. "Usually right before I prove I'm actually quite possible."

His son rolled his eyes, but the gesture was affectionate. "Fine. If it pleases you to consider Shadow your grandchild, I won't argue further."

"High praise indeed," Bruce said dryly.

"Don't let it go to your head," Damian warned. "You're still on probation for that ridiculous doctoral villain theory."

Bruce held up his hands in surrender. "Fair enough."

Grandfather to five children and one cat. Father to four extraordinary adults and one almost-adult who would soon be Dr. Damian Wayne, veterinarian. Bruce Wayne's life had never been conventional, but at that moment, he wouldn't have changed a single thing about it.