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Damian should have listened to his mother. She told him never to underestimate his opponents. He should have taken her advice—even when said opponent was a ridiculous-looking wizard, with a pointy red hat, a rainbow cape covered in white dots, and a goofy attitude.
He should have listened to his father, too. Bruce had warned him that wizards were best left to other wizards. If he ever came across a bad one, he was supposed to call Zatanna—or Constantine, if things got really out of hand.
But of course, Damian had listened to no one but himself this time. And now he was paying the price.
He’d fought the wizard alone, and one moment of inattention was all it took. The next thing he knew, a spell had hit him—and now here he was, transformed into a cat, his Robin gear nowhere in sight. It wasn’t until the shock began to wear off that he realized the clown of a wizard had already escaped.
Damian was disoriented; it took him a moment to get used to his body and his surroundings. He tried to stand, but his limbs didn’t work the way they used to. Walking on four paws was nothing like walking on two legs. He’d have to figure it out—and fast.
This was going to be so embarrassing if Todd or Drake ever found out. They’d never let him live it down.
He gave it another try, this time attempting to move like a proper cat. That’s when he felt something heavy swaying behind him. He turned his head to see a sleek black tail flicking around—his tail.
Great, he thought. Just great.
He took a few cautious steps, testing it out. Surprisingly, it was easier to manage than he’d expected. He tried copying the movements he’d seen Alfred the cat do around the manor—the graceful jumps, the silent runs. When he finally felt confident enough in his new body, he looked up and tried to figure out the way back to the manor. If he was lucky, he could get to the Batcomputer and contact Zatanna. She’d be able to fix this.
Getting back to the manor turned out to be harder than expected. For one thing, he had never gone back on foot—or on paws, in this case. Usually, he’d swing through the air, ride his motorcycle, or hitch a ride with someone else. None of those were options now.
He even saw Nightwing swing overhead and tried to call out to him—but only a pitiful meow came out. Nightwing didn’t notice a thing.
Now he was properly lost. Everything around him looked enormous, and he couldn’t read the signs from ground level—let alone ask anyone for directions. He even tried talking to a group of stray cats, thinking maybe he could somehow communicate with them. But no luck. Even if he looked and sounded like a cat now, it seemed the others couldn’t understand him—and he definitely couldn’t understand them.
As if things couldn’t get any worse, it started to rain.
Not a soft drizzle—no, of course not. A full-on, Gotham-style downpour. Cold, relentless, and miserable. Damian stood still for a moment, soaked to the bone, fur plastered to his small frame, tail drooping. The city lights blurred into the puddles at his paws, and everything suddenly felt ten times larger and a hundred times more hopeless.
He was exhausted. He was lost. And, though he hated to admit it, he was hungry. Really hungry.
He’d never been this far from home without a plan, without a backup, without anything. He felt a twinge of something unfamiliar—homesickness. He wanted the warmth of the manor, Alfred’s dry sarcasm, even Drake’s annoying humming. Right now, even Todd’s teasing would’ve been a welcome sound.
But there was no one. Just Damian and the rain.
A taxi sped too close to the curb, and a wave of dirty water splashed over him. He barely managed to dodge the tires. His tiny heart hammered in his chest. That had been close—too close.
Shivering, he decided he needed to find shelter for the night. He stumbled into an alleyway and spotted a small space under some abandoned materials—old wood, plastic sheeting, probably forgotten by some long-gone construction crew. It wasn’t perfect, but it was dry enough.
It’ll do, he thought, curling up under the boards. He tucked his paws under his body and tried to ignore the emptiness in his stomach. He could handle hunger. He could handle cold. He’d sleep it off, and tomorrow, he’d try again.
Just as his eyes were about to close, he heard it—a low, guttural growl.
He froze. The sound came from behind him.
Damian turned his head slowly and saw it: a stray dog. Big, mangy, and angry. Its eyes locked on his, and it bared its teeth.
His instincts took over. Every hair on his back puffed up, his soaked tail ballooning despite the rain. He hissed—reflexively, involuntarily—but it only made the dog snarl louder.
Run, his instincts screamed.
So he did.
He bolted from the shelter, paws skidding across wet pavement. The dog barked and gave chase, its claws scrabbling close behind. Damian turned corners, jumped trash cans, sprinted through puddles—but he was slower, smaller, and in pain.
Then—white-hot agony. The dog caught up just long enough to clamp its jaws around one of his back paws. He let out a yowl of pain as something snapped.
He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
Even with his paw throbbing and barely functional, he kept running. His breath came in short, panicked pants. His limbs felt like lead. Finally, he skidded into a dead end. No fences to climb, no gaps to slip through.
The dog came to a stop at the other end of the alley, lips curled in a snarl.
Damian backed into a corner, chest heaving, paw dragging. His heart thudded wildly.
So this is it, he thought bitterly. This is how it ends. Not in battle. Not with honor. Torn apart in an alley because I underestimated some clown-looking wizard.
He braced for the attack, eyes narrowing.
And then—a blur from above. A thump. A growl, loud and commanding.
Another dog had landed between him and the stray. White fur. Glowing eyes. A red cape fluttering behind him.
Krypto.
The Superdog bared his teeth at the stray, who immediately recoiled with a whimper. There was no contest. In a matter of seconds, Krypto lunged, forcing the stray back with supernatural strength and speed. The growling, the yelping, the clash—it was over almost as fast as it started.
Krypto turned to Damian, ears twitching, head cocked.
Damian, still curled and trembling, looked up at him. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
Even though the danger had passed, even though the stray dog was gone and Krypto stood guard like a silent sentinel, Damian couldn’t stop shaking. His soaked fur clung to his small frame, his injured paw throbbed with every heartbeat, and exhaustion pressed down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake.
Krypto stepped forward slowly and lowered his head, letting out a soft, comforting woof. Then he gently nudged Damian with his nose—a careful, reassuring touch, like he was saying, It’s okay. I’ve got you now.
Damian didn’t flinch this time. He blinked up at the white dog, his eyes wide and glassy. Krypto laid down beside him, curling protectively around him, his warm body shielding Damian from the cold that had settled deep in his bones.
Then—he heard it.
“Krypto! Where are you, buddy?”
A voice echoed faintly down the alley.
“Come on, boy, I’ve been looking everywhere!”
Krypto perked up, ears twitching. He gave a sharp bark in response—loud enough to be heard, but not alarming. The sound of footsteps followed, hurried and getting closer.
Damian tried to lift his head, but even that took too much effort. Everything ached. Everything was heavy.
He wanted to call out. He wanted to say Jon, to let himself be found—but all that came from his throat was a soft, pitiful meow.
He heard the voice again, closer now, clearer. “Krypto?”
A blur of blue and red appeared at the edge of the alley.
“There you are!” Jon jogged a few steps forward, then stopped when he saw Krypto crouched protectively around a small, soaked figure. “What did you find, boy...?”
He squinted in the dim light.
“A cat?”
Krypto didn’t move, just kept his body curled protectively around Damian.
Jon took another step forward, more slowly now. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt him.”
But Damian didn’t hear the rest.
His strength was gone. His broken paw throbbed with every heartbeat, his body was too heavy to move, and the warmth of Krypto beside him was lulling him into a false sense of safety.
With one final, shuddering breath, Damian let his eyes fall closed.
And then everything went black.
—
Jon had only been in charge of Krypto for two days, and already things were getting out of hand.
His dad was off-world on a Justice League mission, his mom chasing a lead for the Daily Planet in South America, and Jon was supposed to be keeping things simple; Walk the dog. Do his homework. Don’t set anything on fire.
But then, halfway through their evening stroll, Krypto had suddenly taken off—zooming off at full super speed, ears back, tail straight, faster than Jon could react.
“Krypto!” he’d shouted, flying after him, “Come on! You can’t just vanish like that!”
But the dog had already disappeared, streaking across city skylines like a white bullet.
Jon chased the signal all the way to Gotham.
He wasn’t supposed to be in Gotham. His dad had made that very clear. But leaving Krypto lost wasn’t an option, and if it meant dipping into the gloomy city for a minute, fine. He’d be quick.
He called out for him again and again, flying lower, listening intently.
Finally, just when panic was starting to creep in, he heard it—a sharp bark echoing from a nearby alley.
“There you are!” Jon landed quickly and jogged toward the sound, expecting to find Krypto with maybe a pigeon or, hopefully, just being weird.
Instead, he found him hunched low over something—no, someone. A small black cat, soaked to the bone, fur matted with rain and grime. It wasn’t moving.
Jon blinked, surprised. “What…? Krypto, where’d you find this guy?”
The cat looked bad. Hurt. One paw looked swollen and twisted at a wrong angle, and there was a faint, shallow rise and fall to its chest. Still alive, but barely.
Jon knelt down carefully, trying not to spook either of them. “Okay, uh… We’ll get him to a shelter. They’ll know what to do.”
Krypto let out a low growl.
Jon paused. “What?”
“I mean—they’ll take care of him. I can’t really—”
Another growl.
Jon raised his eyebrows. “Seriously? You're growling at me?”
Krypto didn’t move from his spot beside the cat, gaze fixed on Jon like Don’t even think about it.
Jon sighed. “Okay, okay. No shelter. Guess I’m taking care of a mystery cat tonight.”
He carefully picked the limp feline up, wrapping it in his hoodie to keep it warm. Krypto hovered beside him the whole time, tail stiff, watchful. Protective.
Back home, Jon set to work immediately. He cleaned the dirt from the cat’s fur, trying to be gentle with the broken paw. He washed and dried the little thing as best he could without waking it, using a soft towel and low heat on the blow dryer. The cat was still unconscious—dead weight in his hands—but alive.
When he got to the injured paw, he winced. “Oof. Yeah, that’s broken. Poor guy.”
He focused his heat vision to warm his hands just a little—not enough to burn, just enough to dull the swelling—and gently cleaned the wound. Then he grabbed a tiny splint (okay, part of a popsicle stick from the kitchen) and some gauze, wrapping the paw in a soft makeshift cast.
“There,” he murmured, tying the end gently. “Superboy-certified field medicine.”
Jon made a nest out of blankets on the couch, tucking the cat in carefully.
“There,” he said softly. “You’ll be okay. Just… rest up.”
He turned to find Krypto already lying down beside the makeshift bed, body curled like a sentry.
Jon tilted his head. “You really like this cat, huh?”
Krypto didn’t move.
Jon gave a small smile. “You probably just know he’s hurt. You’ve always been good with that. You big softie.”
He gave the dog a scratch behind the ear, then sat on the floor beside them, staring at the sleeping cat.
“…I guess I’m a cat owner now.”
—
Damian woke slowly, warmth soaking into his aching limbs.
For a few blissful seconds, he forgot everything—forgot the rain, the alley, the fear, the sharp pain in his paw. He was wrapped in soft blankets, dry for the first time in hours, and there was a gentle weight of something large and comforting next to him.
Then he moved, just slightly, and pain shot through his paw like lightning.
He hissed—a small, involuntary mewl—and memory came flooding back. The chase. The rain. The dog. The teeth. And then…
Krypto.
Damian turned his head and found the big white dog lying beside him, watching him calmly. His ears perked up as Damian stirred, and he nudged him gently with his nose.
Of course. He had been saved. By Superman’s dog. And… Jon.
He could hear movement in the other room—clinking plates, the soft hum of someone humming off-key. Damian’s stomach growled at the smell of food. Warm, spiced… familiar.
Krypto shifted slightly as Jon’s voice floated in from the kitchen.
“Okay, Krypto, curry’s ready. And don’t give me those eyes, I didn’t forget the carrots this time.”
A moment later, Jon appeared, carrying a plate of food in one hand and Krypto’s dish in the other. He knelt down and placed the dog’s bowl in front of him, giving him a fond scratch behind the ear. “Here you go, big guy.”
He glanced toward the nest of blankets, brightening when he saw Damian was awake.
“Oh hey! You’re up!”
Jon turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen again. “Hang on, I grabbed a couple cans of cat food just in case—I think it’s tuna?”
Damian blinked, still groggy, still hungry. His nose twitched. Jon had left his plate unattended—right next to the couch. The scent coming off it was stronger than the can of processed fish Jon was rummaging for.
Carefully, wincing as he shifted his injured paw, Damian crept forward. His movements were sluggish, but the hunger was worse than the limp.
He peered at the plate.
Chicken curry. Rice. Steamed peas and carrots. The chicken was covered in sauce, too rich for his still-sensitive feline stomach—but the vegetables…
He leaned in and, delicately, began to eat the peas and carrots, ignoring the rice and meat entirely.
Jon returned a moment later, holding a small can and a spoon. “Alright, here we go—hey!”
He stared at his plate, then at Damian, who froze mid-chew, a pea still on his tongue.
“Hey, this isn’t for you!” Jon said with mock offense.
He moved forward, clearly intending to lift Damian away, but Krypto raised his head sharply and let out a single, low growl.
Jon stopped in his tracks, raising his hands. “Okay, okay. Got it. Cat gets the peas. I won’t interfere.”
He sat down beside them, sighing with exaggerated defeat. “First my dog, now my dinner. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Damian didn’t dignify that with a response. He just kept eating the peas, ignoring both the cat food and the very smug dog curled protectively at his side.
—
Jon leaned back against the couch, balancing the now slightly lighter plate of curry on his knee. Krypto had settled again, still curled protectively around the bundle of blankets, and the cat—still unnamed—had finished eating Jon’s peas and carrots before falling back into an exhausted sleep.
Jon smiled at the sight despite himself. “You really made yourself at home, huh?”
His phone buzzed next to him.
He took it and glanced at the caller ID. Dick Grayson. Huh.
He answered. “Hey, Nightwing! What’s up?”
“Hey, Jon,” Dick’s voice came through, a little tense, but trying to stay casual. “Listen—have you seen Damian?”
Jon blinked. “Damian?”
“Yeah. No one’s heard from him since yesterday. He didn’t check in with Bruce or me, and Alfred says his bed hasn’t been slept in. We thought maybe he dropped by Metropolis or something?”
Jon’s stomach gave a small flip. “Oh. No, I haven’t seen him. I’ve kind of been… busy wrangling Krypto. He took off and led me on a chase all the way to Gotham.”
“To Gotham?” Dick repeated.
“Yeah,” Jon said, eyeing the snoozing cat again. “Found him in an alley, standing over this stray cat. Hurt pretty bad. I brought it home.”
“Huh,” Dick said. “Well, Damian’s disappeared before.. Could just be on a solo mission and didn’t bother to tell anyone.”
Jon nodded. “Yeah, probably. I mean… it’s Damian.”
“Hm,” Dick agreed. “But let me know if you hear anything, just in case?”
“Of course.”
They hung up.
Jon stared at the sleeping cat. The black fur, the sharp, angular little face. The attitude. The… vegetable theft.
“…Nah,” he muttered.
Still, he leaned closer, squinting suspiciously at the feline’s peacefully curled form.
“…You’re not Damian, right?”
The cat didn’t stir.
Jon chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve officially lost it.”
He stood up and stretched. “Alright, nap all you want. You earned it.”
And with that, he headed to the kitchen to heat up a new plate of food—oblivious to the actual Robin passed out on his couch under a Superman blanket.
—
Damian woke up to sunlight warming his fur and the soft sound of someone humming off-key again.
He blinked slowly, trying to stretch—only to hiss as a sharp jolt of pain shot up his injured paw. Right. That. The memory of the dog, the alley, the rain all came back like a punch to the face.
But at least he was alive. And warm. And safe—for now.
He looked around groggily. The blankets were still wrapped around him, and Krypto was no longer curled at his side but lying nearby, head resting on his paws, watching him with those glowing, ever-vigilant eyes. A guardian, even now.
In the kitchen, Jon was multitasking: frying eggs, toasting bread, and trying to butter both at once with mild chaos. Damian narrowed his eyes. Now was the time. He couldn’t stay like this. He had to communicate.
He stood carefully, wincing at his splinted paw, and limped over to the edge of the counter. Then he let out a low, clear meow.
Jon turned. “Hey, buddy! You’re up.”
Damian sat back on his haunches and meowed again, more insistently this time.
“Hungry?” Jon asked.
Damian gave a quick, irritated tail flick and padded closer. He jumped—less gracefully than usual—onto the stool near the counter and began tapping the table with his paw.
Jon raised an eyebrow. “You want eggs?”
Damian let out a growl. A very un-catlike growl, full of frustration.
Jon just laughed. “You’re feisty today. I think you’re healing.”
Damian groaned. Well, tried to groan. It came out a pathetic little chirp.
He jumped onto the table, carefully avoiding the hot plate, and began pawing at the salt shaker. He tapped it over and pointedly looked at Jon. Tried to mime writing with his paw. Surely Jon would get it.
Jon blinked. “Oh no, you can’t have salt. You’re a cat.”
Damian froze mid-movement, staring at him in mute disbelief.
Jon grinned. “You’re really smart, though. Honestly, you remind me a lot of Damian.”
Damian perked up immediately. Yes. Yes. That’s because I AM—
“I’m gonna name you Robin.”
Damian froze again.
Jon beamed at him like he’d just discovered the secret to the universe. “Perfect, right? You’re small and grumpy and bossy, and you kind of glare like he does. It’s weirdly comforting.”
Damian opened his mouth. Only a sad meow came out.
Jon reached over and gave him a gentle pat between the ears. “Good little Robin.”
Damian slumped down on the counter and sighed. Loudly.
There was no getting through to him. Not like this.
He buried his head under one paw and gave up—for now.
—
Damian hadn’t meant to fall asleep again.
He’d meant to stay alert, analyze his surroundings, come up with a way to communicate his identity, maybe even figure out how to get back to the Batcave. Instead, he’d drifted off on a mound of soft blankets, stomach full, splinted paw gently bandaged, and a ridiculous name hanging over his head like a curse.
Robin. He still hadn’t forgiven Jon for that.
Now it was late afternoon, and Jon was back at it again—kneeling beside him with warm water, cotton pads, and that same maddeningly gentle expression. Damian huffed as Jon cradled his injured paw with practiced care.
“You’re really a mess, you know,” Jon murmured as he cleaned the wound. “You must’ve been on the street for days. Poor little guy.”
Damian flattened his ears. I am not little.
But still, the warmth of the water, the delicate way Jon was handling him—it made his muscles loosen. Just a little.
Jon smiled at the silence. “You’re not trying to scratch me today. Progress.”
He finished rewrapping the paw and gave Damian a light scratch under the chin. Damian grumbled in protest, but didn’t move away. His tail twitched once, then settled.
A few minutes later, Jon returned with a bowl of warm milk —again, offensive, but appreciated— and Damian sipped it while curled on the couch. Jon dropped beside him, a big bowl of popcorn in hand, and clicked the remote.
“Alright, Robin,” he said, plopping his legs up on the coffee table. “You’re officially part of movie night. Krypto already called dibs on the other side of the couch, so you’re stuck with me.”
Krypto, now comfortably nestled on the opposite end, gave a soft huff and nudged a pillow into place with his nose.
Damian stayed where he was, close enough to feel Jon’s warmth. The movie started—something animated and absurdly cheerful—but he didn’t mind. It was quiet. Safe.
A hand drifted into his fur.
Jon absentmindedly stroked his back, fingers combing gently through the black fur between his shoulder blades. Damian tensed at first. He wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t here to be doted on like some stray—
But the hand moved in slow, even motions. Soothing.
He blinked. His eyes felt heavy.
And then… it happened.
A low, rumbling vibration rose in his chest. He froze.
Was that—? Was he purring?
He looked down at himself, stunned, like his body had betrayed him. But the sound only grew deeper the longer Jon’s fingers moved through his fur.
Jon chuckled softly. “Aw. You’re purring. That’s a good sign.”
Damian scowled inwardly, but he didn’t move. Not this time.
The movie kept playing, Jon kept petting, Krypto let out a sleepy snore, and Damian…
He just stayed there.
Warm. Safe. Purring.
For once, allowing himself the smallest moment of peace.
—
Jon had started noticing it in the small things.
At first, it was just how unusually expressive the cat was—how he’d react to certain words, glare when called “Robin”, or somehow roll his eyes without actually rolling his eyes. Then there was the way he carried himself: proud, deliberate, way too dignified for a stray.
And then there were the reactions.
Like when Jon had dropped his utility belt near the couch and the cat had immediately tried to drag it under the blanket like it was some precious artifact.
Or when Jon had left a batarang-shaped cookie cutter out after baking—why did they have that?—and the cat had stared at it like he was having a flashback.
He’d even found the little guy trying to operate the TV remote. With his paws.
Still, Jon hadn’t put it together. Not really. Because who would?
In the meantime, he kept taking pictures. He couldn’t help it—the cat was just so photogenic. Especially when grumpy.
“Hold still, Robin. This sailor hat is very important.”
The cat—Damian—was mid-glare, dressed in a tiny navy blue sailor outfit complete with a little anchor hat. He looked like he wanted to die.
Snap.
Next was the bee costume. Damian had actually tried to claw it off. Jon had taken that as a success.
Krypto, lying uselessly nearby, didn’t intervene. In fact, he watched the whole affair with serene amusement, tail thumping whenever Damian fell over from costume-induced fury.
the cat had meowed at him once as if to say you’re no help.
Krypto sneezed. Probably on purpose.
And then came the final outfit—Jon’s masterpiece: a custom Robin cat costume. A red and green bodysuit with a little ‘R’ badge and a flowing yellow cape.
“You look amazing,” Jon said, laughing as he snapped a dozen photos. “You’re like… my tiny sidekick now!”
Damian meowed in rage. Jon grinned and added a bow tie.
—
The next morning, everything felt… different.
The apartment was still. Jon was yawning into his cereal when he heard a strange sound from the living room—a low hum, almost like static. And then, a thump.
He turned the corner and—
Dropped his spoon.
There, standing in front of the couch where the cat bed used to be, was a boy. Not just any boy.
Robin.
Full gear. Cape. Mask. Boots. Arms crossed. Looking… sheepish?
Jon’s mouth opened and closed a few times before words happened.
“...Damian?”
Damian avoided his eyes. “Yes.”
Jon blinked. “Wait. What?”
“It was a wizard,” Damian said flatly, like that explained everything. “A clown-looking one. I underestimated him. He turned me into a cat.”
Jon slowly sat down on the armrest, stunned. “So... you were Robin this whole time?”
“You named me after myself,” Damian deadpanned.
Jon choked on a laugh.
“And you dressed me up, Kent. As a bee.”
Jon was full-on laughing now. “I—I gave you a bowtie! I called you ‘my tiny sidekick’—!”
Damian scowled, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you purred.”
“Shut up.”
Jon wiped a tear of laughter from his eye. “You should’ve told me sooner.”
“I tried,” Damian muttered. “You thought I wanted salt.”
They both laughed then—awkwardly at first, then more freely. The tension eased, and for a second, it was just them again. Two best friends. The world a little quieter for once.
“Breakfast?” Jon offered. “I owe you something that’s not cat food.”
Damian gave a reluctant nod. “Only if I get to pick the movie this time.”
“No more documentaries about birds.”
“They're educational.”
Jon grinned. “Fine. But you're not sitting in my lap this time.”
Damian paused. “...I make no promises.”