Work Text:
Bruce was just about to finish his paperwork when there was a knock on his home office door.
“Come in.”
Bruce glanced up from his paperwork for only a split second, continuing to read through the forms as Damian gradually approached his desk.
“Father, I’d like to speak to you,” his son said slowly. Damian was never much of a fast talker, but as he reached puberty and his voice started changing, he took extra care to speak calmly in an attempt to avoid any embarrassing voice cracks, despite Bruce and Alfred telling him it was nothing to be ashamed of. It didn’t help that Tim would burst out laughing any time it happened.
“Give me just a minute, Damian,” Bruce grumbled, still not lifting his gaze. He really wanted to be done with these papers, and despite being known for his carefree nature, Bruce Wayne never signed anything without reading the fineprint thoroughly. Even if he had signed the same forms with the same information year after year after year. Bruce had to be sure.
Damian nodded, standing quietly at the desk and waiting. Bruce did not pay mind to Damian’s eyes flitting around the room, to him shifting his weight from one foot onto the other repeatedly, moving his hands back and forth, unable to decide if he should clasp them at the front of his body or hide them behind his back.
When Bruce got the last paper signed, he cleared his desk and finally turned to look Damian in the eyes, who in return was looking everywhere but in his.
As he stared expectantly at his son, Bruce noted Damian was long overdue a haircut. Bruce didn’t think anything wrong of it, he’d been perfectly accepting of Dick letting his hair grow out, it was just that usually Damian would demand Alfred take him to the barber’s every six weeks exactly. Now it must have been nearing three months since his last haircut.
“Do you want to sit down?” Bruce asked.
Damian finally locked eyes with him, swallowed, blinked a couple of times, and then wordlessly went to sit down in the chair across from his father’s on the other side of the desk.
Bruce waited, patiently, expectantly, trying to analyze Damian as he still refused to speak. All of the previous fidgeting had stilled, and Damian seemed almost as stiff as he was years ago when he first moved into the manor, all challenging scowls, biting, yet formal words, and immaculate posture, the constant, subconscious fear of an ambush waiting to happen hidden behind regality.
Damian had softened now, over the years having learnt to trust that his family was with him, not against him, and that in the manor he was safe, and could lower his guard. Eventually, after a lot of adjustment, Bruce could find Damian draped over the couch in the living room, limbs sprawling in whatever way felt comfortable, could see him walking down the halls of the manor, entire body not tense like he was constantly listening out for a threat, could hear him joking with his brothers, sarcastic comments slipping out before he could have time to think them over in his head to make sure the words he spoke would be dignified enough. Damian had even started to pick up slang from school, and would laugh at Dick when he tried to use outdated slang of his own teen years around him.
That’s why it was strange, and concerning, for Bruce to see his son back to his old mannerisms, back to an uncomfortably straight back, squared shoulders, stiff jaw, and intensely focused eyes occupying themselves with analyzing the swirling wood pattern of the desk.
“What did you want to talk about, son?” Bruce broke the silence.
That seemed to wake Damian up from his trance, corner of his mouth twitching just the slightest at Bruce’s words.
Damian cleared his throat: “Yes, I... I’d like to tell you something.”
Bruce nodded, gesturing to Damian to ‘be my guest’.
Damian lifted his chin up, as if to seem more prideful and confident, but his eyes still avoided his father’s face.
“Father, I assure you I’ve done a lot of thinking about this before coming to you, so I hope you trust my judgement.”
He’s been rehearsing this, Bruce thought to himself, noticing the way Damian uttered his words akin to how the batcomputer would read out inputted text; slow, one word at a time, not thinking about the meaning behind the words, instead just focusing on the sounds that needed to be produced.
If it were any other one of his sons, Bruce would have also noted the lack of emotion behind the words, but in Damian’s case this was usual. Damian was much like his father in that way, tone of voice rarely exhibiting any particular emotion unless conscious effort was put in to simulate that emotion.
“Father, I-“ Damian tried, but choked, words suddenly stuck in his throat. Bruce furrowed his brows and, ever the detective, tried to analyze his body language further, tried to think back to notable events of the past week, to try and figure out what he has to say, to read into what Damian was currently thinking.
Surely father would find the news... acceptable. After all, Timothy had a boyfriend now, and Bruce did not seem bothered at all. While he did advice Tim and Bernard refrain from holding hands or displaying other forms of affection during galas and other such public events, for the sake of their safety, Bruce did not think any less of Tim, and he didn’t hold any resentment toward Bernard. In fact he had been very welcoming to the young man, and was just as accepting of him as he was of Richard’s girlfriends, if not more.
But Damian’s news were... different.
Bruce watched on with concern and curiosity as Damian shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and took a deep, slow breath.
When he opened his eyes, he was staring at Bruce’s right temple, he could tell. It was the trick Bruce himself had taught Damian, when he realized his son’s issues with maintaining eye contact.
“I have done a lot of thinking, and I have recently come to realize I may be transgender,” Damian said tensely, all in one go, “I wish to be a woman.”
A girl, Bruce corrected in his head, but did not say out loud, knowing how Damian felt about being treated like a child. But the boy was too young to be considered a man, let alone a woman.
Wait, what did Damian just say?
Transgender? A woman?
Where was this coming from? What would make Damian think that? Was something wrong?
Did Damian feel like he (is ‘he’ right?) had failed as a man? Failed as a son? That he (surely not ‘she’?) wasn’t masculine enough, not strong enough? Bruce knew Damian was under a lot of pressure growing up, great expectations set on him (I don’t know anymore) both as the future leader of the League of Assassins, and as the blood son of the legendary Batman. All of that could surely make Damian unsure of himself and his role in society, his role in his family.
His family. Damian had a deeply complicated relationship with his mother. Bruce knew a complicated relationship with one’s parents, especially one’s mother, could develop serious problems with self esteem, and a wide variety of psychological issues. Could that be the source of this? Damian near worshipped Talia, maybe in a moment of desperation he was trying to achieve a feeling of worthiness by being more like her, by finding comfort in her femininity.
But Damian was enough just as he was. He didn’t need to change himself to be worthy, he didn’t need to be the perfect model of masculinity to grow up into a respectable man, to be Bruce’s son, to be loved by Bruce.
Bruce set his hand on his desk, reaching out for Damian.
“Damian... I don’t know what brought this on, but you don’t have to change yourself-“
Something in Damian seemed to deflate, shoulders beginning to sag.
“-just because you’re not like other boys... like other men, doesn’t mean you’re not just as valid as a man as they are.”
Damian was back to staring at the desk, and Bruce tried to offer an encouraging smile.
“You’re my son, and you’re good, just the way you are, and I’m proud of you.”
Damian swallowed hard and exhaled a sharp huff of air, gaze still held low.
When Damian looked up again, Bruce was surprised to see glistening, teary eyes staring back at him.
“Father, please,” Damian said with a strained, wobbly voice, “I’m trying to tell you who I am.”
Damian looked down again, sniffling as Bruce continued to stare, frozen in place, confused by his son’s- his... his child’s distress.
“I don’t want to be your son...” Damian muttered, the lump in his... their throat audible.
When Damian let out a sob, Bruce stood up from his chair, walking around the desk to come kneel before his child, setting a hand on their knee, trying to coax them to turn towards him.
“You... want to be... my daughter?” he asked cautiously, finding the words strange in his mouth.
Damian nodded and gave an affirmative hum, not meeting Bruce’s eyes as they (... she?) tried to wipe away hot, salty tears.
Bruce knew he should say something comforting, but this was entirely unknown territory for him. Comforting children as Batman was a skill he’d perfected with experience over the years, but he had no experience in this. He knew how to comfort children who’d gotten lost and separated from their parents, who’d been rescued from fires and collapsing buildings, who’d been victims of kidnappings, who’d been hit by adults who were supposed to protect them, who’d been touched by bad men, who’d been scared and overwhelmed by all the ruckus at night that came with living in the most crime ridden city in the country.
He didn’t know how to comfort his own child having revelations about identity and their sense of self, that Bruce didn’t even understand on its own.
“Why?” was all Bruce could say.
Of course Bruce knew about the existence of transgender individuals. But they represented such a small portion of the population, Bruce didn’t expect to encounter the issue in his personal life, let alone within his family, let alone with someone as young as Damian.
Despite the deepening voice, the ongoing growth spurt, the newly growing body hair, and lord knows what other changes that Bruce wouldn’t notice outwardly about Damian, and would prefer to stay in the dark about, Damian was still just a kid. Were kids supposed to have thoughts like this?
“I don’t know,” Damian mumbled, still trying to hide the tears, “I just... I feel weird thinking about how when people look at me they’re categorizing me as a boy in their head and...”
Bruce stared at Damian’s tear streaked face with furrowed brows, listening intently, straining to hear when Damian mumbled just a little too quietly, or obscured their mouth in an attempt to wipe away snot.
“... and I... When I think about being categorized as a girl... being called pretty, being Richard’s little sister... i-it makes me feel good. Light. It makes the world feel... easier.”
Bruce hummed.
“Is the world... difficult, when you’re a boy?” he asked.
Damian shrugged: “I think so. I mean... it’s all I’ve ever known. But being a girl just feels. Easier.”
Bruce nodded.
Damian let out a sigh, seeming to be calming down from the crying bout. They... she still avoided her father’s eyes, looking off to the side and still letting out the occasional sniffle in the otherwise silent office.
Bruce reached up for Damian’s shoulder, and cleared his throat.
“You can be my daughter,” he murmured, “if you want.”
Damian finally turned to look at him with wide eyes, again brimming with tears, and for a moment Bruce thought he’d said the wrong thing again, until Damian spoke.
“I do,” she whispered, and Bruce smiled at her.
“Then you’re my daughter.”
Damian bit her lips, tears rolling down her cheeks again as she squeezed her eyes shut tight, and threw herself at her father, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his chest.
Bruce didn’t hesitate as he wrapped his strong arms around his daughter, one hand comforting on her back and the other coming to pet her hair. When Damian let out a muffled sob, Bruce laid a kiss on the top of her head, and whispered:
“My wonderful little girl.”
It felt strange, admittedly, to call Damian that, but when she let out a teary whine and held closer onto her father, Bruce decided it was worth getting used to.