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Chapter Text

Damian Wayne had always been a strange contradiction—assassin and heir, genius and child, arrogance forged from the League and tenderness he refused to name. But even for the Waynes, this was new.

It started innocuously enough: Dick had returned from Blüdhaven for a week, an unannounced visit that sent Alfred scrambling for guest linens and Tim into a mild existential dread. Damian had sulked through dinner that night, stabbing at his roasted vegetables as Dick animatedly talked about his patrols. When Bruce asked if something was wrong, the boy only muttered, “No.”

The next morning, Bashō appeared.

It was a massive red panda plushie—fluffy, bright-eyed, wearing a soft little onesie with patterned bamboo leaves. Damian carried it downstairs in a baby sling strapped across his chest, its head tucked just beneath his chin.

Jason choked on his coffee. “What in God’s name is that?”

Damian shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. “This—” he adjusted the sling with clinical precision “—is Bashō. And if you harm a single thread on his head, Todd, I will end you.”

The room went dead silent. Even Bruce blinked.

Alfred, bless him, broke the tension. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Bashō,” he said with perfect composure, giving the plushie a polite bow.

“Thank you, Pennyworth,” Damian replied solemnly.

And just like that, Bashō became a permanent fixture in the manor.

It was, at first, a quietly absurd thing. Damian took Bashō everywhere—mealtimes, patrol briefings, even to the Batcave. He’d sit at the Batcomputer typing up mission reports with the red panda strapped to his chest. When Bruce tried to ask, Damian said simply, “He requires proximity to regulate his—sleep schedule.”

Bruce didn’t have the heart to correct him.

Tim caught him once trying to buckle Bashō into the back seat of the Batmobile, using a properly installed infant car seat. Damian had even fastened the security strap over the plushie’s belly and was carefully adjusting the stuffed animal’s tiny hat.

Tim leaned against the doorway. “You realize that thing doesn’t need a seat belt, right?”

Damian didn’t even glance up. “You’re just jealous he gets to ride up front.”

Tim sighed. There was no winning that one.

It wasn’t just carrying the plushie. Damian *parented* it with staggering devotion. He had a small collection of baby items: soft blankets, bottles filled with water (for hydration “training”), a rotation of miniature clothes. Bashō had a nightlight in Damian’s room, a daily “feeding schedule,” and, in one baffling instance, a crib next to the window.

When Alfred found Damian late one night rocking the plushie gently, humming under his breath (Alfred was fairly sure it was an ancient Arabic lullaby), he paused in the doorway for a long moment. The boy looked small there—bathed in pale moonlight, dressed in one of Bruce’s old T-shirts, his usual sharpness replaced by something softer. When Damian noticed him, he straightened immediately, face returning to its familiar stony mask.

“Bashō had a nightmare,” he explained flatly.

“Of course, Master Damian,” Alfred answered, voice quiet, eyes kindly amused. “I trust Bashō is doing better now?”

“He will be.”

Alfred left it at that.

The others began to adjust. Jason teased him at first, loudly and relentlessly, until one morning he found Damian fast asleep on the library couch—Bashō pressed against his chest, Damian’s small, gloved hand resting protectively around the plushie’s paw. The kid’s face was relaxed, peaceful.

Jason stopped teasing after that.

Dick took to it quickest. He’d watch Damian buckle the plushie into a stroller (custom-built from Wayne Industries spare parts, naturally) and smile faintly. “You’re a good dad, Dami,” he’d say, just the right mix of warmth and mischief.

Damian would scoff, cheeks flushing. “He’s a panda,” he’d mutter, though he never denied it.

Bruce, however, found the whole affair oddly grounding. It reminded him that Damian, for all his training and ferocity, was still—painfully, deeply—a child. A boy who’d never had plush toys or birthday candles. Who’d spent his youth learning to kill instead of to play.

He realized, watching Damian dutifully spoon nonexistent food into Bashō’s mouth, that this was what healing looked like in the Wayne household—fragmented, unexpected, but real.

When he told Alfred as much, the butler smiled faintly. “It seems Master Damian has found both an outlet and a form of affection he understands. I would consider that progress.”

“I know,” Bruce said, his voice quiet. “I just wish it didn’t make me feel like I should buy Bashō a college fund.”

There were incidents, of course. Bashō fell once—an accident involving Titus chasing Alfred’s cat across the living room, and the resulting chaos left Damian furious. He patched Bashō up with surgical precision, sewing one of the plushie’s seams closed with medical thread, muttering to himself the entire time.

Tim swore he heard him whisper “You’re all right, little one” under his breath.

For the next week, Damian refused to speak to anyone except Bashō.

Jason tried to bribe him with cinnamon rolls. Dick brought him new baby clothes for the plush: tiny shoes, a hat with bear ears. Nothing worked until Bruce approached him late one evening.

“You know,” Bruce said, setting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “you did well taking care of him.”

Damian blinked. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m not,” Bruce said. “You were responsible. Protective. That’s—good.”

There was a long pause. Then Damian nodded once, silent but reassured.

When he next appeared the following morning—with Bashō dressed in an absurd little Wayne Enterprises bib—Bruce couldn’t help but smile.

Eventually, the family adapted entirely. There was an extra chair at the table for Bashō. A tiny Batarang-shaped rattle on the shelf above Damian’s desk. Alfred even began folding a minuscule blanket with the evening linens.

The manor filled with something new—laughter that wasn’t edged with pain, softness that didn’t feel dangerous. In his own odd, fiercely guarded way, Damian Wayne was growing up by finally allowing himself to be small.

And every evening, after patrol, when he’d take off the cape and cowl and settle onto his bed with Bashō cradled in his arms, Bruce would sometimes stand quietly in the doorway and watch him.

Because Bashō wasn’t just a plushie.

Bashō was childhood reclaimed—the piece of Damian’s world that had been stolen and now, by sheer force of will, fiercely protected.

And though Bruce never said it aloud, he found comfort knowing that the first thing his son ever truly chose to care for wasn’t a sword, or a mission, or a legacy—
but a small, soft red panda named Bashō.

Chapter Text

It began like any other patrol—quiet, efficient, methodical. Damian had perfected the rhythm of it: move, observe, strike if necessary. Gotham’s skyline blurred beneath his boots, the city breathing in broken neon and smoke. And as always, strapped to his small chest beneath the cape, Bashō rode along.

The red panda’s plush head peeked from the edge of the baby carrier, its button eyes glinting dully under the citylight. Damian never said it aloud, but somehow, *having Bashō there made the nights quieter.*

At least, until the explosion.

A flash seared across the east block—one of those abandoned chemical warehouses Joker loved to haunt. The shockwave cracked the metal rooftop Damian stood on, the sound like thunder in his ears. He felt the impact in his ribs, stumbled—and when his gloved hand shot instinctively to his chest, he felt only fabric, buckles—nothing else.

The carrier was *empty.*

“No,” Damian breathed. His pulse spiked. “No, no, no.”

He dropped to his knees, searching the rooftop, his heart shattering with every inch of empty space. Smoke howled around him, and the only thing he could think—his only coherent thought—was that Bashō was gone.

“Father!” he barked through the comm, voice cracking. “He’s missing! Bashō—someone took him—”

Bruce’s voice came through the channel, low, measured. “Damian, listen to me. Where’s your location?”

“I’m going after him,” Damian cut in. “You can *follow* if you want.”

“Stay where you—”

But Damian had already shut off comms.

The trail wasn’t hard to follow.

Green paint-splashed calling cards, laughter scrawled on the walls, a chemical stench wafting on the wind. Damian was silent as he stalked through the shadows, his mind a storm of rage and panic. Every step was a vow: *touch him, and I’ll kill you.*

When he reached the warehouse, he could hear it—the shrill, echoing laugh that had haunted Gotham for decades.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite little sociopath-in-training,” Joker sang from across the steel rafters. His hair hung limp under the flickering lights, purple coat splattered with something unspeakable. In his hand, dangled above a bubbling vat of acid, was Bashō.

The plushie swung lazily by one arm, the light glinting off its button eye.

“Put him down,” Damian said. His voice was calmer than it should have been. Dangerously calm.

Joker grinned. “Oh, come *now.* You didn’t tell me you had a new sidekick! I was getting *bored*, you know, waiting for Batsy to show up. But this... oh, this is *delightful.*”

He gave the bear a little shake. It swayed, limp.

Damian moved before the words left Joker’s mouth. He threw a blade—clean, precise—but the clown ducked, the knife biting into a steel drum instead. Acid hissed.

“Temper, temper!” the Joker taunted. “Where’s Daddy? Does he know you’re out past bedtime?”

“Let him go.”

“Oh, I *will,*” Joker said lightly, tilting his wrist. “Just need to decide which splash will make the best sound—*pffft*—or maybe *glug, glug—*”

The rest never left his mouth.

Damian was already on him, feet pounding across the catwalk. The boy slammed into the Joker with all the violent grace the League had bred into his bones. They went down hard, a flash of cape and green hair and fury.

“You *took my son!*” Damian’s fists landed fast, brutal. “You—took—him!”

“*He’s a toy!*” Joker laughed, blood at the corner of his mouth. “What’s next? You want me to babysit your—*nnngh!*”

The blade found flesh.

Bruce arrived to the sound of Joker’s scream.

“Damian!” Bruce’s voice cracked through the chaos, cutting through the clang of metal and the hiss of acid. He moved fast, too fast—throwing a batarang that split the chains above the vat. Bashō dropped, unharmed, landing harmlessly on the grated floor.

Bruce snatched the plush up instantly, cradling it in one hand like something precious, and turned just in time to see his son standing over Joker, knife buried almost to the hilt in the man’s shoulder.

“*He took my baby,*” Damian hissed through his teeth, trembling, jaw clenched, eyes wet. “He touched him—he *hurt* him.”

“Enough.” Bruce’s voice was firm but not cruel. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You did what you had to. It’s over.”

For a second, Damian looked like he might argue. He looked like all of Gotham’s fury had found a home in his small frame. But then his eyes dropped to the plush in Bruce’s hand, safe, whole—and something in him broke.

Bruce pressed Bashō into Damian’s arms, and the boy crumpled around it, clutching the soft toy to his chest like oxygen.

“Let’s go,” Bruce said quietly.

As they turned to leave, Joker wheezed laughter from the floor. “You Bat boys are all the same,” he rasped. “Bleeding hearts and daddy issues—ha—”

Bruce stopped. Looked down at him once. Then, without breaking stride, he drove a sharp, measured kick into the Joker’s ribs. The clown gasped, laughter choked off.

“Stay down,” Bruce said simply, and walked away.

Outside, the storm had started again. Damian didn’t speak. He kept Bashō close, hood pulled low, face buried in the plush’s fur.

In the cowl’s shadow, Bruce looked down at him. The boy’s breathing was steady now. But his fingers never loosened their hold.

That night in the Batmobile, Gotham’s lights streaked by in silence. Damian whispered something no louder than a breath.

“It’s okay, Bashō. You’re safe now. I won’t ever let anyone near you again.”

And Bruce, driving beside him, said nothing—just reached over once, briefly, to rest a hand on his son’s shoulder.

It wasn’t much. But between them, it was enough.

Chapter Text

The manor was quiet when they returned. Gotham’s night still clung to them—the smell of rain, smoke, and acid trailing through the cave as the Batmobile rolled to a stop.

Bruce didn’t speak immediately. He touched the console once to power everything down and glanced sideways at Damian, who hadn’t moved. The boy’s arms stayed locked around Bashō, his small frame rigid, eyes fixed on nothing.

“Come on,” Bruce said softly. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

Damian didn’t answer. He simply followed, feet silent on the stairs, Bashō clutched to his chest as though the world were capable of ripping him away again.

Alfred was waiting at the top. He said nothing, only nodded once, relief and heartbreak blurring together in the faint tremor of his jaw. When his gaze flicked to the small patch of dried blood on Damian’s gauntlet, his expression steadied. “Master Damian. Welcome home.”

Damian stopped, his voice barely audible. “He hurt Bashō.”

“I am aware, young sir.” Alfred’s tone never wavered. “But he did not prevail.”

Damian nodded once.

Bruce shot Alfred a silent look—don’t press—and guided Damian toward the sitting room.

When the rest of the family arrived, the air changed. Dick was first; his voice caught somewhere between laughter and disbelief. “You’re telling me *Joker*—the Joker—kidnapped your stuffed panda?”

Jason dragged a chair over, shaking his head. “Man, that’s a new one even for him.”

Tim took one look at Damian’s expression and elbowed Jason sharply. “Shut up. Now.”

Damian sat on the couch, curled in the corner. Bashō was swaddled in a soft baby blanket Alfred had set aside, its corner tucked under Damian’s chin. The boy’s eyes tracked every movement in the room—sharp, defensive, feral.

When Bruce stood behind the couch, one hand resting lightly on the backrest, Dick’s teasing grin softened. “Hey, Dami,” he said gently. “We heard what happened.”

Damian said nothing.

Jason cleared his throat. “So, uh… you stabbed Joker?”

Silence. Then Damian growled low under his breath, “He deserved worse.”

Jason raised both hands. “Fair enough, mini murder machine. Can’t argue with that.”

Bruce’s tone cut across him. “Jason.”

But Jason just shrugged. “I’m just saying. Guy hung a *plushie* over a vat of acid. That’s messed up even for Joker.” He looked at Damian then, voice quieter. “You did good getting Bashō back, kid.”

That seemed to crack something in the room. Tim took the chair nearest Damian and leaned forward, arms on his knees. “You know,” he said, voice steady, “you keeping that thing safe—what you did—it wasn’t crazy. Bashō’s important to you.”

Damian finally looked up, eyes bright. “He *isn’t* a thing. He’s my son.”

There was no irony in his tone, no childish exaggeration. Just conviction.

“I know,” Tim replied. “That’s why I said what you did was good.”

For a beat, no one spoke. Then Dick moved, sitting on the other side of Damian and gently tugging the blanket higher around Bashō’s neck. “You know, kiddo,” he said softly, “it’s okay. You did everything right. You protected someone you love. That’s kind of the whole point of being a Wayne.”

Damian blinked up at him—confusion plain in the slight tilt of his brow. “You’re not angry.”

“If I was you? I’d have done the same,” Dick said. “Not about—” he nodded at Bruce, “—the stabbing part, but the protecting part? Yeah. That’s what we do. That’s what *Dad* does.”

Bruce exhaled slowly, caught between pride and unease. But he knelt then, resting a hand on Damian’s wrist, ensuring their eyes met. “He’s right. No one’s angry, Damian.”

Damian bit down hard on his lip, shaking his head. “I failed. He was taken because I wasn’t watching closely enough.”

Bruce’s reply was simple. “He came home because you didn’t give up.”

For a long moment, the silence was heavy with the things they all understood but never said aloud. Then Damian’s shoulders sagged. He pulled Bashō closer and pressed his forehead against the plush’s head, muttering something so soft only Bruce caught it.

“I thought I lost him forever.”

Bruce’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “He’s safe,” he said. “You’re both safe.”

###

As the family slowly retreated—Tim back to his computer, Dick to the kitchen for hot chocolate, Jason muttering something about needing a cigarette—Alfred quietly stepped forward.

He knelt by the couch, one hand adjusting the blanket that had slipped from Bashō’s side. “There we are,” he murmured. “Good as new.”

Damian blinked, exhaustion settling deep behind his eyes. “You’re sure he’s all right?”

“I took the liberty of checking his stitching and fluff distribution,” Alfred said, utterly serious. “All intact. Not even Master Joker’s antics could unmake the young gentleman.”

A faint flicker of a smile tugged at Damian’s mouth. “Thank you, Pennyworth.”

“It is my honor,” Alfred said. Then, lowering his voice further, “Master Damian, for what it is worth—the instincts you showed tonight were not wrong. They were human.”

Damian’s eyes flicked up. “Human?”

Alfred nodded. “To love something enough that its loss terrifies you—that is what we call being human. You do your family proud.”

He stood, smoothing his gloves. “If you’ll excuse me, I have instructed Titus’s dog bed be moved to your room tonight, in case you’d like the household’s other guardian nearby.”

The old butler departed before Damian could respond.

Damian looked down at Bashō again, stroking the plush’s fur thoughtfully. After a moment, he whispered, “You hear that, Bashō? We’re human.”

When Bruce returned later, Damian was asleep on the couch, Bashō tucked against him, the blanket snug. The storm outside had quieted, and for once, the cave’s hum felt gentle instead of lonely.

Bruce stood there for a long time. His son—his small, fierce, impossible son—looked peaceful. Finally, Bruce reached down and carefully brushed a smear of soot from Bashō’s fur.

“Good work, soldier,” he murmured to the plush.

Upstairs, Alfred poured a cup of tea and set an extra saucer beside it—a faint ritual of reassurance, the sort he only used when nights ran too long. He allowed himself a small smile.

For the first time in his life, Damian Wayne slept through the night. Bashō, his undaunted red panda, safely in his arms.

And in Wayne Manor, peace—fragile and extraordinary—finally settled, if only for a night.

Chapter Text

In the days after the warehouse, Damian stayed close to home. Patrol was now handled in rotations that kept him at Bruce’s side, rarely more than a few yards away. Bashō remained a constant presence—never left behind, never set down for more than a moment.

At first, the family kept their distance. They let the boy move like a shadow through the manor, the red panda plush tucked into his arms, his gaze sharp but tired. Alfred instituted “quiet hours” without announcing them, lowering the noise in the house so Damian could rest. Titus was stationed near his bedroom at night, the big dog’s presence both comfort and guard.

When asked directly, Damian denied anything was wrong. But Bruce saw it—the tension in his shoulders when the wind rattled a window, the way his eyes darted at sudden sounds, the restless way he checked Bashō’s blanket every few minutes. The Joker had touched something deeper than anger.

And Bruce decided the boy needed more than reassurance—he needed something tangible, something safe. A place that felt untouchable.

On the third day, Bruce approached him in the study.

“I want to show you something,” Bruce said.

Damian stared, suspicious. “What?”

“Come downstairs.”

In a hidden corner of the Cave—a smaller space branching off the main chamber—Bruce had cleared out the storage crates. The walls had been painted a soft forest green, the floor layered in thick carpets. Shelving lined one side, empty but ready. A sturdy crib-like bed sat against the far wall, flanked by two small dressers.

Damian froze at the threshold. His eyes widened fractionally. “What is this?”

“A place for Bashō,” Bruce said simply. “Where he can stay safe when you’re not holding him. Where no one can touch him.”

For a moment, Damian didn’t speak. His hands tightened around the plush until Bruce was sure the seams would pop. Then he stepped inside, moving slow, cautious—like crossing into sacred territory.

He examined every corner, every angle of the little sanctuary. Bashō was set gently into the crib, Damian’s hands lingering on the edge before pulling back.

“This… seems excessive,” Damian muttered, though his voice was very soft.

Bruce’s answer was equally quiet. “I think he deserves it. And I think you need him to have it. That’s not excessive, Damian. That’s care.”

The boy’s jaw tightened—and then he nodded once, the barest motion.

“Good,” Bruce said, stepping back to give him space.

For the next hour, Damian rearranged the room—blankets folded, toys (Alfred had quietly provided a few) arranged precisely, a small closet organized with Bashō’s rotating wardrobe. The focus never once faltered. In every motion was intent, ritual; it wasn’t just preparation—it was reclaiming security.

Later that night, Bruce stood in the training room with Jason.

“You’re sending me to *who*?” Jason asked.

“Joker.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “And… what’s the plan?”

Bruce’s tone was like steel. “Make him wish he was dead. Don’t kill him.”

Jason’s grin spread slow. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Bruce didn’t smile. “He crossed a line. You make sure he understands what happens when he touches family.”

Jason’s nod was curt. “Consider it done.”

When he left, Bruce didn’t doubt the message would be delivered—thoroughly, and without mercy.

Over the next week, Damian began to settle. Not quickly, and not entirely—but enough. The nursery became part of his routine. He’d place Bashō there during training, check in between exercises, narrate entire patrol briefings to the plush while polishing his sword.

The change wasn’t lost on the others. Dick passed by the room one evening and found Damian humming softly while folding Bashō’s blanket. Tim brought him a small set of books “for Bashō’s intellectual development,” earning a faint smirk. Alfred handled Bashō’s laundry without comment, as if caring for a plushie’s wardrobe was the most natural task in the world.

And Bruce… Bruce watched his son without intruding. He saw the way Damian began answering when called from across the room, the way his shoulders eased when Titus ambled in, the way laughter started—sparingly—at something Jason said.

Bashō’s survival had become symbolic. A reminder that not everything precious had to be lost. A proof, quiet but unshakable, that sometimes care could win against cruelty.

On the seventh night, Damian found Bruce in the Cave.

“Thank you,” the boy said abruptly.

Bruce looked up from the console. “For what?”

“For making Bashō safe.” Damian’s gaze was steady. “And for not treating me like I’m weak for protecting him.”

Bruce’s voice softened. “Everyone here knows why you fought for him. They respect it. That’s not weakness, Damian. That’s strength.”

There was a pause. Damian’s expression shifted—still guarded, but lighter somehow. “Good,” he said finally. Then he turned for the stairs, Bashō tucked against his chest.

Bruce watched him go, the shadow of a smile breaking over his face.

Because phase or not, plush or not—Damian had found something worth protecting. And in a family built on scars, that was the surest sign of healing he’d ever seen.

Chapter Text

By the next week, Wayne Manor felt subtly different. Softer somehow—still filled with its usual training drills and quiet tension, but now carrying an undercurrent of laughter nobody quite recognized at first. It started, as most new things did lately, with Bashō.

Damian had begun letting the others help with his care. It was hesitant at first—the kind of “help” that had to be earned through trials, background checks, and interviews that Bruce swore rivaled the League of Assassins’ vetting. But once it began, Bashō became a shared secret, a point of gentle orbit for the entire family.

It began with Dick.

He was the first person Damian trusted to “babysit.” One afternoon, while Bruce and Tim handled a case downtown, Damian appeared in the living room, Bashō tucked in the crook of his arm.

“I have to medicate Titus. He dislikes the procedure. You will supervise Bashō while I’m gone.”

Dick barely managed not to grin. “You want me to watch him?”

“Monitor him,” Damian corrected. “He enjoys classical music. Nothing below Mozart or above 1970.”

Dick mock-saluted. “Got it, Boss Baby.”

When Damian returned twenty minutes later, Bashō was sitting serenely on the couch beside Dick, TV remote propped beside a tiny juice box.

“He demanded snack time,” Dick said innocently. “I didn’t want to cause behavioral issues.”

Damian stared for a long moment, then carefully picked up Bashō and whispered something to him before turning sharply and stalking off. Dick could’ve sworn he heard him mutter, “He says thank you.”

Tim joined the odd ritual next.

He discovered Damian reading to Bashō in the library late one evening—a thick physics text open, the red panda propped upright beside him. Without comment, Tim grabbed a smaller book from the shelf—some fantasy novel he was halfway through—and sat down silently across from them.

Two chapters later, Damian glanced up.

“You’re interrupting his bedtime routine,” he said flatly.

Tim shrugged. “Multilingual literacy builds cognitive development.”

Damian frowned… but didn’t tell him to leave. The next night, two bookmarks appeared in the same book.

Alfred handled Bashō’s domestic affairs with professional grace. The plush now had a rotation of pristine miniature outfits: tiny vests, neatly pressed pajamas, and even a tailored cape modeled suspiciously after Damian’s uniform.

When Dick snapped a picture, Alfred only said, “If Master Bruce’s son is learning empathy through caretaking, I will not impede the curriculum.”

He even arranged a soft nightlight shaped like a crescent moon beside Bashō’s crib in the nursery. When Damian discovered it, he stood quietly for five entire seconds before murmuring, “Thank you.” It was the first voluntary “thank you” Alfred had heard from him in months.

Jason’s contribution was, as expected, chaos.

He strolled into the manor one afternoon entirely too casual, helmet dangling from one hand. Damian eyed him suspiciously from across the room, Bashō strapped neatly in his carrier.

Jason grinned. “Relax, Baby Bat. I didn’t come to tease you today.” He paused. “Well, not much.”

Bruce, stepping out of his office, frowned. “Jason.”

Jason shrugged, tone deceptively light. “By the way, Joker’s in ICU.”

Three heads snapped toward him.

Bruce’s voice was low, but iron-hard. “Jason.”

“What? You said make him wish he was dead. Consider it done,” Jason replied, unfazed. “Nothing permanent. Few broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, maybe a concussion—hard to tell. He’s breathing. You’re welcome.”

Damian didn’t move or speak for a moment. Then he sat up straight, Bashō cradled tightly in his arms. “Good,” he said sharply. “He deserved worse.”

Jason nodded once. “Can’t argue with that.”

Bruce rubbed his temples but didn’t argue either. Alfred poured himself an uncharacteristically strong glass of brandy.

Later, when things quieted, something fundamentally shifted.

Damian appeared before Bruce one evening, the nursery light flickering faintly behind him. “Father. I believe Bashō could benefit from additional socialization,” he said formally.

Bruce blinked. “Meaning?”

Damian gestured stiffly. “Each family member may hold him for five minutes daily. Supervised.”

“Supervised,” Bruce echoed.

“Obviously,” Damian said, as though this was perfectly serious child-rearing policy.

And so, the ritual began.

Dick had “tummy time” sessions on the rug, Jason practiced combat stance drills while holding Bashō (“teaching him form”), Tim ran statistical analyses for “pediatric enrichment,” and Alfred read classic literature in calm, even tones. Titus learned to nap beside the crib without disturbing the panda—a feat worthy of a medal.

Bruce, naturally, took his turn last. He’d sit in the nursery’s armchair with Bashō tucked in the crook of his elbow, quietly reading reports while Damian worked at his desk nearby.

One evening, Bruce caught Damian peeking over at them and pretending to adjust files.

“Something on your mind?” he asked.

“You’re supporting his neck wrong,” Damian said primly. Then, softer, “But… thank you.”

Bruce smiled faintly. “You’re welcome.”

Over time, Bashō’s “recovery” mirrored Damian’s. The plush stayed patched, stitched at the seams, but carried proudly—proof of survival and protection. Damian began smiling more, even laughing, especially when Dick pretended to burp Bashō after “feeding time.”

Some nights, Bruce would pass by the open nursery door and watch: Damian tucked Bashō into the crib, whispering soft assurances in Arabic and English alike. The boy’s posture was looser now, easier, the weight of his earlier fear fading into something gentler.

When Alfred joined Bruce at the doorway one night, the old butler leaned toward him and murmured, “The child has come remarkably far, sir.”

Bruce nodded slowly. Bashō’s moonlight nightlight glowed softly across Damian’s face. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “He really has.”

In the crib under that pale warmth, Bashō—the stitched, scarred, ever-patient red panda—looked like a symbol of something the Wayne family had learned and nearly forgotten: that even broken things could still protect, still love, still heal.

And in that quiet, both Bruce and Alfred silently agreed to never, *ever* call it just a phase again.

Chapter Text

By October, Bashō’s influence on the Wayne Manor had shifted from novelty to quiet institution. The nursery Bruce built was in constant use. The nightly “check-ins” had evolved into a schedule pinned to the wall—times for reading, grooming, play, rest. Damian managed it with military precision.

It was subtle at first, but Bruce began noticing a strange ripple effect. Damian’s vocabulary when with Bashō—softened, patient, almost entirely devoid of his usual cutting tone—began appearing in how he spoke to the rest of them. He asked if Dick needed “assistance with his recovery from his patrol-related injuries.” He offered Tim “strategic advice for avoiding burnout in his work schedule.” Titus received a daily “nutritional assessment” and a longer walk.

The red panda had become a model.

It came to a head one evening in the kitchen.

Dick sat at the counter nursing a bruised ankle, Jason was digging through the fridge, and Tim was hunched over his tablet, shoulders stiff. Damian entered with Bashō strapped in his front carrier, expression cool as ever.

He stopped behind Tim. “Your posture is atrocious,” he said simply.

Without looking up, Tim muttered, “Thanks.”

Damian planted Bashō gently on the counter, adjusting him so his button eyes faced Tim directly. “Injury prevention is crucial if one intends to achieve long-term operational efficiency. Bashō sits straight. So should you.”

Jason snorted. “Did you just use a *stuffed animal* to tell Drake how to sit?”

Damian didn’t turn his head. “He responds better to visual examples.”

Dick leaned his chin into his palm. “Guess you’re a teacher now, Dami.”

Damian blinked at him. “I’m a *parent.* Parents teach.”

Jason grinned. “Fair point.”

Tim glanced at the plush, then straightened his back. “…Fine.”

Damian adjusted Bashō’s scarf and moved on.

In the training room later that week, Bruce watched Damian carefully demonstrate a defensive sweep to Jason. The boy explained it with the same calm cadence he used when coaching Bashō through “self-defense drills” (which mostly involved adjusting the panda’s tiny foam sword as it sat in the crib).

“Offense without control leads to chaos,” Damian said, guiding Jason’s arm into position. “If Bashō can master patience, so can you.”

Jason raised a brow. “Not sure I like being compared to a plush panda.”

“Plush pandas can’t bleed out,” Damian replied matter-of-factly. “That makes them smarter than you some days.”

Bruce had to turn away to hide his smile.

The change in Damian wasn’t only in tone—it was in *touch*. He had started fixing Dick’s busted gear without being asked, refilling Tim’s coffee on late nights, even adjusting Jason’s jacket before patrol. He never made a show of it, but the gestures were warming the fault-lines between them all.

Bruce noticed most when Damian walked past him one evening in the Cave, paused, and placed a small fabric pouch on the desk.

“It’s for you,” Damian said bluntly.

Inside was a heavy-duty cleaning cloth and polish kit for Bruce’s gauntlets.

“I do it for Bashō’s gear weekly,” Damian explained. “You neglect your armor. That’s unacceptable.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Is this—my son parenting me?”

Damian only said, “If it works for Bashō, it works for you,” before leaving.

That night, Bruce found himself replaying the day. He thought about the nursery room, meticulously kept. He thought about Damian reading bedtime stories to Bashō—voice patient, careful—using soft words Bruce realized he’d never heard directed at a sibling.

And then came the truth he didn’t want to voice: Damian was raising Bashō better than Bruce had ever raised his real children.

It wasn’t about rules or safety—it was about the consistency, the small reassurances, the insistence on routines that made Bashō feel protected every moment.

Bruce had always protected them *as Batman*. Damian protected Bashō as a father.

The realization hit like a quiet weight in his chest. *Maybe I should have learned from him sooner.*

###

The next evening, Bruce stepped into the nursery and found Damian tucking Bashō into bed, adjusting the moonlight nightlight to cast soft shadows across the crib.

“You’re good at this,” Bruce said, leaning in the doorway.

“Obviously,” Damian replied without looking up.

Bruce hesitated. “…Teach me.”

Damian finally glanced back, brow furrowed. “Teach you what?”

“How to do it right.”

Damian studied him for a long moment, then gave the smallest nod. “We’ll start with feeding schedules.”

Bruce smiled faintly. “All right.”

As Damian launched into his detailed rules for “raising” Bashō, Bruce listened—not as Batman, not as the head of the family, but as a father willing to admit he had things left to learn.

And in the soft green glow of the nursery, the stitched red panda looked over them both—a silent testament to how care could change even the most stubborn of hearts.

Chapter Text

If anyone had told Bruce Wayne that his home would one day host *family parenting lessons* with a five-foot red panda plush as the model child, he might’ve doubled security clearances on the Batcave entrance. But here they were, in the manor’s sitting room, gathered in an oddly formal circle around Bashō’s crib.

Damian stood at the helm, clipboard in hand, eyes narrowed with the intensity of a general briefing his troops.

“Lesson One,” he began, clicking a pen. “Consistency is critical in developmental routines. Children thrive under structure.”

Jason sprawled on the couch, sipping coffee. “Pretty sure my developmental routine was just gunfire and yelling.”

“Explains a lot,” Damian shot back. “If Bashō can maintain his feeding schedule and cognitive stimulation intervals, so can you.”

Tim smothered a laugh behind his mug. Bruce fought the urge to chuckle—he had to be the example, after all—but even he couldn’t deny the absurd warmth filling the room.

Bashō sat in a baby chair between them, wearing a fresh onesie emblazoned with a tiny bat-symbol Alfred had embroidered himself.

Damian tapped his pen against the clipboard. “Observation shows that Bashō responds positively to storytelling and physical reassurance. Kinetic bonding through hugs ensures emotional well-being.”

Jason cracked an evil grin. “Guess that means you’ve gotta practice on us too, Baby Bat.”

The look Damian shot him could’ve melted glass. “Don’t be ridiculous. None of you are emotionally calibrated for physical affection.”

“You wound me,” Dick said dramatically, clutching his chest. “I hug people *all the time.* It’s one of my best moves.”

“Quantity does not equal quality,” Damian replied primly.

Bruce, meanwhile, sat in the corner quietly taking notes on an actual tablet. He didn’t plan it—he’d just meant to sit in—but at some point he caught himself typing *Maintain open communication—weekly check-ins* and *praise behavior, not outcome.*

As Damian moved to Lesson Two—“Conflict Resolution Without Weapons”—Bruce was uncomfortably aware that he was learning. *Actually learning.*

When it came time for “feeding practice,” Damian directed Alfred to pass out small bottles of formula-shaped juice containers.

Jason snorted. “You’re joking.”

“Absolutely not,” Alfred said in his serene, unflappable voice. “Master Damian has requested your participation.”

Jason begrudgingly took one, scowling. “If I see this on social media…”

But halfway through pretending to “feed” Bashō, Jason muttered, “Man, he’s actually kinda peaceful when he’s not being dangled over acid.”

Damian beamed proudly. “Exactly.”

Bruce made another note. *Affirm positive behavior.*

Halfway through the session, Dick cleared his throat casually. “So, uh, just so you all know, I’m totally stealing these lessons.”

Damian blinked. “Why would you need them?”

Dick smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because—uh—I’ve been thinking about starting a family with Kori.”

The room froze. Tim’s eyes went wide. Jason nearly dropped his juice bottle. Damian’s jaw physically dropped open.

Then, as one, the group turned toward Bruce.

He looked like he’d short-circuited. “You’re—what?”

Dick shrugged, sheepish but sincere. “We’ve talked about it for a while. Don’t worry—I’m not saying tomorrow, but… yeah. I think I actually want that.”

Jason let out a low whistle. “Holy hell. Bruce, you’re gonna be a grandpa.”

Tim tried—and failed—to stifle a laugh. Damian looked horrified. “*Grandfather?*”

“I’m not… old enough to be a grandfather,” Bruce muttered defensively, half to himself.

“You’re *fifty-four*,” Jason pointed out. “You’re prime grandpa material.”

Bruce grimaced. “Jason.”

“Hell, I could make you a double grandpa if I tried,” Jason teased.

“Don’t,” Bruce said flatly.

Damian folded his arms, processing this staggering development with visible alarm. “Does this mean—Bashō will have a cousin?”

Tim snorted. “I think that’s how that works, yeah.”

Damian blinked. “Then he will teach them discipline.”

“Oh boy,” Dick said, laughing. “My future kid’s gonna have Uncle Damian as their drill sergeant.”

Damian nodded seriously. “They will thank me one day.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about needing a new will.

When the laughter finally settled, Damian resumed the session with renewed intensity.

“Lesson Three,” he said. “Community Reinforcement—each family member contributes to the child’s emotional foundation.”

He pointed directly at Bruce. “Father, you will demonstrate bedtime routine.”

Bruce blinked. “I—what?”

“Storytime and reassurance.” Damian handed over *Goodnight Moon* in one hand and Bashō in the other.

Bruce hesitated, eyes darting across the room—but every one of them was watching with mischievous grin-hidden glee.

So he sighed, settled in the oversized armchair, and begin in his best gravel-free voice, “Goodnight room, goodnight moon, goodnight—”

Jason immediately cracked up. Dick clapped a hand over his mouth. Alfred raised one polite eyebrow.

But Damian watched, expression perfectly serious. When Bruce finished, Damian nodded approvingly. “Acceptable. You may assist with tomorrow’s feeding exercise.”

Bruce found himself smiling despite the humiliation. “Looking forward to it.”

And somehow, he meant it.

Later, after everyone had dispersed—Jason still snickering about “Grandpa Bats” and Dick humming happily to himself—Bruce lingered in the nursery doorway. Damian was tidying up, Bashō tucked neatly into his crib beneath the soft green blankets.

“You seem proud of them,” Bruce said softly.

“They’re improving,” Damian replied matter-of-factly. “Tim read Bashō a bedtime story on his own, and Jason didn’t use profanity for four entire minutes.”

Bruce chuckled. “That’s progress.”

Damian adjusted Bashō’s blanket with care. “Family isn’t just an obligation. It’s training. Repetition. You just… keep showing up.”

Bruce studied him then—this small, fierce, absurdly thoughtful boy who had somehow turned healing into leadership.

“You’re right,” he said quietly.

Damian looked up, startled by the concession. “I usually am.”

Bruce smiled faintly. “And if Nightwing’s serious… maybe you’ll get to train Bashō’s cousin one day.”

Damian blinked, considering. “Then I’ll need to prepare new lesson plans.”

Bruce ruffled his son’s hair gently. “We’ll prepare them together.”

Under the nursery’s moonlight lamp, Bashō glowed softly within his crib—witness to the strangest, warmest chaos the Wayne family had ever known.

And somewhere between the laughter and the lessons, Bruce Wayne—billionaire, vigilante, reluctant father—realized that perhaps the best teachers in life were his sons… and one very patient red panda.

Chapter Text

The next week began with unusual sincerity in Wayne Manor. Dick showed up for Sunday brunch wearing an uncharacteristically nervous smile, the kind usually reserved for confession or catastrophe. The whole family was at the table—Bruce reading the paper, Tim half-asleep over his coffee, Jason scrolling through his phone, and Damian methodically slicing his fruit into identically sized pieces. Bashō sat buckled in his booster seat beside him, wearing a bib that read “World’s Cutest Sidekick.”

“So,” Dick started, drumming his fingers on the table. “Kori and I have been talking…”

Bruce’s newspaper lowered an inch.

Jason didn’t look up. “This sounds like one of those setups that ends with Dad groaning.”

Tim murmured, “Or Alfred pouring tea more aggressively than usual.”

Dick took a breath. “We’re trying for a baby.”

There was a collective *pause.* Jason’s eyebrows shot up, Tim choked on his coffee, Bruce froze mid-page turn, and Alfred’s tea kettle gave one quiet hiss in the distance—as if in punctuation.

The only sound after that came from Damian, who slowly set down his fork. “You’re breeding,” he said flatly.

Dick winced. “That’s… not really how I’d phrase it, but yeah. I guess I am.”

Bruce finally folded the paper aside, blinking. “You’re serious.”

“Yes,” Dick said, his voice bright and unshaken now. “We’ve been planning this for a while, and after everything with the Titans, and now—well, I think I’m ready. We’re ready.”

For a moment, Bruce only stared at him. Then, very quietly: “You’ll be an amazing father, Dick.”

It was so soft, so unfiltered, that even Jason stopped smirking.

Damian, however, looked like he was trying to calculate the end of the world. “That means… I’ll be an uncle,” he said slowly.

Tim nodded. “That’s usually how that works, yeah.”

Damian’s expression shifted—part pride, part horror. “This is… a heavy responsibility.”

Jason leaned back, grinning. “Relax, Uncle Dami. You’ll crush it.”

“I will not *crush* the child,” Damian retorted, misunderstanding the idiom.

“Good,” Jason said dryly. “Let’s keep that energy.”

Two hours later, Damian marched into the living room carrying a small stack of thick books and dropped them on Dick’s lap.

Dick stared down at them. *Parenting for Beginners*, *Raising the Ethical Child*, and—quite alarmingly—*Tactical Discipline: Methods of Constructive Authority.*

Damian crossed his arms. “Read them in order. Highlight key chapters.”

“Uh, buddy,” Dick started carefully, “you know we’re just… trying right now, right?”

“I am *aware* of biology,” Damian said curtly. “Preparation is key. Bashō and I will assist when necessary.”

“Bashō—?”

Damian nodded, strapping the plush panda to his chest in his familiar baby carrier. “He will be my demonstration co-parent. You’ll require practical examples.”

Dick blinked, then grinned wide. “You know, I don’t hate this idea.”

Tim peeked over his laptop from the couch. “I kind of want to see this.”

Jason snorted. “This is it. This is the era of Uncle Damian and Daddy Grayson. We’re doomed.”

Alfred, with characteristic composure, said from the kitchen doorway, “A cradle has already been delivered to Miss Anders’ apartment. It seemed prudent.”

Bruce turned sharply. “Alfred, *how—*”

“I make it my business to prepare, sir,” Alfred replied smoothly. “As should we all.”

Later that night, Bruce found Damian pacing through the nursery, Bashō riding in his sling, the stack of parenting books now spread across the crib like sacred scrolls.

“I must perfect these techniques before the baby arrives,” Damian muttered. “Proper feeding intervals. Developmental milestones. Language exposure. Kori will appreciate structure.”

Bruce leaned against the doorway, arms crossed but with a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re taking this seriously.”

“Fatherhood *is* a serious undertaking,” Damian said simply. “Even for Grayson.”

Bruce chuckled. “You sound like me.”

“That’s not the compliment you think it is,” Damian replied without looking up.

Bruce walked in then, glancing over the books before sitting on the edge of the crib. “Want to hear something funny? I’ve been looking up parenting books myself lately.”

Damian blinked mid-page. “For infants?”

“For eight-year-olds,” Bruce admitted. “It’s the point where I usually start getting things wrong.”

Damian frowned thoughtfully. “Eight was when you began training Todd.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said softly. “And when I realized I didn’t know what I was doing. Maybe this is my version of learning from you.”

That silenced Damian for a moment. He closed his book carefully and looked at him—just looked. “You’re improving,” he said finally.

Bruce couldn’t help it; he laughed. “You mean that?”

“I do.” Damian reached up, adjusted Bashō’s position, then added, “Though Bashō and I could refine your technique. Your reward system is inconsistent.”

Bruce couldn’t deny it. “That tracks.”

When Dick stopped by later in the week with Kori—radiant as always, smile bright enough to warm the whole manor—Damian met them at the door like a military instructor. Bashō was in his carrier, clipboard in hand.

“Welcome, prospective parents,” Damian announced gravely. “Orientation begins now.”

Kori beamed, touched rather than amused. “Thank you, little one. That is very kind.”

Dick laughed. “See, Dami? She gets it.”

Damian pointed toward the nursery with solemn authority. “Lesson One: swaddling efficiency. Bashō will model.”

Bruce, leaning against the stairs behind them, exchanged a helpless smile with Alfred. “He’s really doing it,” he murmured.

Alfred nodded. “It does appear so, sir.”

Jason walked by mid-lesson, popping a piece of toast into his mouth. “Is it weird this feels less like a joke and more like… legitimate family bonding?”

Tim, following behind with a coffee, shrugged. “That’s the Wayne brand: trauma, humor, and occasional competence.”

Kori laughed so hard she nearly cried, while Damian demonstrated pristine swaddling technique with Bashō, muttering things like “stability equals serenity” as if reciting from scripture.

And somehow, it *worked.*

That night, Bruce lingered once again outside the nursery. Damian was still awake, reading quietly by the nightlight with Bashō tucked under one arm.

“Your brother’s happy,” Bruce said from the doorway.

“I know,” Damian answered softly. “He’ll make a good father.” He looked down then at Bashō, at the patchwork and softness that had carried him through his own worst moments. “He won’t have to learn the hard way.”

Bruce hummed quietly. “Neither will you.”

For the first time, Damian smiled—not sharp or proud, but real, soft at the edges. “I think I want to try that one day,” he admitted quietly. “For real.”

Bruce’s chest caught—not with fear, but with something lighter. “You’d be great at it,” he said.

Damian nodded once, satisfied. “I know. Bashō and I have an excellent track record.”

Bruce laughed—low, quiet, warm. And in the soft glow of the nursery, between father, son, and red panda, the Wayne manor felt like something Bruce had never quite envisioned but now couldn’t imagine losing: a home learning, piece by piece, how to love right.

Chapter Text

By the time spring eased its way into Gotham, everything in the manor had changed again—subtly, but entirely. Damian’s old nursery sat pristine now, no longer bustling with baby drills and “parenting modules.” Bashō rested quietly in his crib, his button eyes watching the door like a silent sentinel.

Most days, Damian simply glanced in from the hall, sometimes brushing a bit of dust from the frame, sometimes adjusting the blanket. But the obsessive protectiveness was gone. Bashō had become something quieter now—a relic of healing he no longer needed to cling to.

And then came the news that turned the manor’s routine on its head.

Kori was visiting. Pregnant Kori.

The moment Dick announced it, Jason whistled low. “And the circus continues.”

Tim muttered, “We’re never going to have a quiet weekend again.”

Bruce said nothing, though the soft, stunned expression on his face said everything—it had finally sunk in: He was going to be a grandfather.

They arrived early Sunday morning. Kori glowed in the threshold, her hair catching the light, her smile radiant. She was about five months along, belly round beneath a casual sundress. Dick stood beside her, both proud and visibly terrified.

And standing just beyond the foyer was Damian, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Starfire,” he said with solemn precision. “You are carrying precious genetic material. You will not lift heavy objects, consume processed sugar, or fight minor crime while under this roof.”

Kori blinked, then let out a delighted laugh. “You are very sweet, little brother.”

“I am being factual,” Damian said stiffly. “Pregnant individuals require constant care.”

Dick rubbed his temple. “Dami, we agreed: I will handle the care. You do *not* need to patrol her like a bodyguard.”

“Incorrect,” Damian said flatly. “You are unreliable.”

Jason, lounging on the couch, raised his coffee cup. “He’s got you there, Grayson.”

Dick turned and hissed through gritted teeth, “Jason, please, for the love of God, **do not** make any comments about how this happened.”

Jason blinked innocently. “What, me? I’d *never.*”

Tim leaned forward from the chair. “You totally would.”

Jason grinned. “I totally would.”

Dick looked like a man on the brink of collapse.

Kori, smiling warmly, only said, “It’s very sweet of all of you to be so invested. Though truly, we are perfectly capable.”

That was when Damian produced a **clipboard.**

“Capable or not,” he declared, “I’ve created a checklist to ensure the safety of my niece or nephew.”

Bruce, standing a few paces behind, raised an eyebrow but didn’t intervene. He was still processing the word *grandchild.*

Damian continued matter-of-factly, “No caffeine past sunrise. Walk daily. Sleep in intervals of—”

“Damian,” Dick interrupted desperately, “Starfire is *fine.*”

“She is carrying your child,” Damian countered. “You set your apartment on fire trying to make pancakes, Richard.”

Kori giggled so hard she had to lean on Dick’s arm.

“Okay,” Dick said weakly. “That’s… not inaccurate.”

Bruce finally stepped forward, laying a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Maybe give them some space to breathe, son.”

“They can breathe under structured supervision,” Damian said.

Jason muttered, “Jesus, it’s like Bashō 2.0 but now there’s prenatal vitamins.”

The chaos settled into something almost domestic.

Kori set up in the living room, radiant and laughing, as Dick fussed over her snack plate while pretending not to panic. Alfred hovered at the edges with refreshments that were somehow perfectly tailored to Tamaranean nutrition, thanks to a few discreet inquiries with the Titans.

Tim sat half-hidden behind his laptop, muttering, “I’m making a spreadsheet for baby-proofing the nursery. Don’t ask why I’m invested in this.”

Jason was invested for his *own* reasons. “You realize when that kid hits ten, I’m buying them their first throwing knife,” he announced.

“Over my dead body,” Dick snapped.

“That can be arranged,” Jason said pleasantly.

Bruce sighed. “We are setting rules.”

“About time,” Tim said from behind his screen.

Damian, meanwhile, had repositioned himself within Kori’s orbit, watching with hawk-like intensity. When she reached for a tray of tea, he darted in to grab it first. “Allow me,” he said swiftly, setting it on the table for her.

Kori patted his shoulder. “Thank you, little brother.”

“You should elevate your feet,” Damian said. “Improved circulation promotes fetal oxygen levels.”

“Dami,” Dick said, half-begging this time, “we’ve talked about boundaries.”

Damian ignored him, plucking a throw pillow off the couch and placing it behind Kori’s back. “And posture.”

The others murmured laughter around the room, equal parts touched and amused.

Bruce leaned toward Alfred. “Remember when he used to threaten to disembowel people for looking at him wrong?”

“Indeed, sir,” Alfred said dryly. “Progress looks different for every child.”

That night at dinner, Bruce finally raised a toast.

“To family,” he said. His voice was steady but filled with a weight that made the table hush. “And to the new life joining ours.”

Kori smiled. “Thank you, Bruce. That means a great deal.”

Damian raised his glass next, expression grave but eyes bright. “To my future niece or nephew,” he said. “May they grow strong, disciplined, and far less dramatic than their father.”

Dick groaned. “You couldn’t just leave it at ‘healthy and strong,’ could you?”

“Accuracy matters,” Damian said.

Jason lifted his glass next. “To Dad finally being the oldest man in the manor for real.”

“Shut up, Jason,” Bruce muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Tim added softly, “To mothers and fathers who try, even when they don’t always get it right.”

Everyone raised their glasses, and for the briefest moment, the usually fractured, fiery Wayne family felt like something whole.

Later, long after everyone had turned in, Bruce walked past the nursery. The door was ajar, faint lamplight spilling out.

Damian stood inside, hands clasped behind his back, Bashō resting peacefully in his crib. He was speaking softly—not to the toy exactly, but maybe through it.

“You can rest now,” Damian said quietly. “We did good. There’s a new kid on the way. You helped me practice.” He paused, then nodded once and whispered, “Thank you.”

Bruce watched from the hall, unseen. And in that quiet room—between the retired red panda, the growing family, and the boy who had once forgotten how to be a child—Bruce realized something extraordinary.

Damian wasn’t preparing anymore. He’d *become.*

And for the first time in years, Bruce Wayne went to bed smiling, the faintest echo of laughter drifting from below—laughter that sounded like home.

Chapter Text

The day started with chaos and ended in awe—exactly the way Dick Grayson’s life tended to run.

Kori had gone into labor just before dawn. As soon as the call came through, Gotham collectively held its breath—Wayne Manor most of all. Jason almost ran three red lights on the way to the hospital; Tim brought coffee and four medical textbooks for no reason; Bruce drove, silent and pale, like a man steeling himself to face eternity. Damian was eerily calm, hands folded in his lap, but everyone could see it—his knuckles white, his jaw tight.

Three hours later, a nurse emerged with a smile.

“It’s a healthy baby girl.”

The relief hit like a wave. Dick nearly collapsed against the wall, gasping something incoherent, while Jason punched the air. Bruce swore softly and looked upward, blinking fast. Alfred simply pressed a hand to his chest, whispering, “Well done, Master Dick.”

When they were finally allowed in, the sight that greeted them stopped everyone cold.

Kori lay propped up in bed, radiant even in exhaustion. Her eyes gleamed with pride, and tucked against her was a bundle of pink and white—a tiny form making the faintest sounds of protest.

“She’s beautiful,” Bruce said quietly, which in Bruce-speak was a sonnet.

Kori smiled. “Would you like to meet your granddaughter?”

Bruce blinked. “Grand—yes. Yes, I would.”

He stepped forward awkwardly, hands suddenly too large, too calloused. The nurse guided the infant into his hold. For one fragile, fumbling moment, Bruce Wayne—Batman, the terror of Gotham’s underworld—was reduced to nothing but awe.

She blinked up at him, a small squeak escaping her lips.

“She’s perfect,” he murmured. Then, fumbling for words he never used, added, “Good work… both of you.”

Jason cleared his throat, leaning closer. “Mind if I—?”

Before anyone could answer, he had the baby in his arms, laughing softly. “Hey there, little bird. I’m your Uncle Jason. You call me if you ever need to break outta Arkham, yeah?”

“Jason,” Bruce warned.

“What? She’s gotta know her options.”

Kori laughed weakly. Dick looked both fond and horrified. “Give me my daughter,” he said, reaching out.

Jason stepped back immediately. “No.”

“Jason.”

“She likes me, man.”

“The only reason you’re holding her is because **Kori** handed her over, and she wasn’t exactly in the mood to argue,” Dick said, tone slipping into wild exasperation. “Give me my daughter, you didn’t have a part in *making her!*”

Tim made a noise that suspiciously resembled a snort. The nurse fled before someone started yelling.

Jason just grinned over the baby’s head. “I’m bonding.”

One more moment of furious staring, and then, mercifully, Damian intervened. “Todd,” he said coolly, “hand her to her father before Grayson hyperventilates.”

Jason sighed. “Fine, fine.” He handed the baby over gently, careful as though she were made of glass.

The instant Dick’s arms closed around her, the room stilled. His breath hitched, and his grin faltered—slowly replaced by something raw. He looked down at her tiny face, and everything—the circus, the acrobat training, the blood, the pain, the years—crashed in all at once.

“Hi,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Kori smiled faintly from the bed. “She already knows you.”

That’s when Alfred stepped forward, eyes glassy. “Master Richard,” he said softly, “your mother would be proud of you.”

The words hit him like a strike to the chest. Dick’s face crumpled. His breath came in shuddering gasps, and then he was just—gone. Sobbing openly, shoulders shaking, clutching his daughter as though she were proof that love overcame everything.

The baby, startled by the commotion, let out a tiny wail of her own.

So now both Graysons were crying.

Jason, despite himself, started laughing so hard he had to turn away. “She’s, like, ten minutes old and already matching your energy, bro.”

Tim handed Dick a tissue silently, trying not to grin.

Kori reached out and touched Dick’s arm, still glowing with that unearthly serenity even in her exhaustion. “You’re both beautiful messes,” she said softly. “It suits you.”

Bruce stood beside Alfred, quiet, watching. A rare, soft pride lingered in his voice when he finally said, “You did good, son.”

Damian didn’t move the entire time. He stood near the window, posture perfect, face unreadable. Only when Dick turned and gently said, “Hey… you wanna say hi to your niece?” did Damian step forward.

He looked down carefully. The baby’s face scrunched in a sleepy frown—small, unmistakably alive and warm.

“She’s fragile,” Damian said softly.

“Yeah,” Dick said, smiling through the tears still streaking his face. “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

Damian’s gaze softened. “You’ll do fine.”

He turned then and lifted something from the bag he’d carried in—Bashō, now perfectly cleaned, the faint seam of his repaired stitching still visible.

“I brought this,” Damian said, voice low but steady. “He’s… served his purpose. He helped me learn what it means to care for someone small and defenseless. Now I think it’s his turn to help her.”

He placed the red panda beside the baby. Bashō flopped gently against the side of the bassinet, looking oddly dignified for a stuffed toy.

Kori touched his arm. “That’s a beautiful gift, little brother.”

“Family heirloom,” Damian said seriously.

Bruce smiled faintly. “He really is the sentimental one.”

“Do *not* tell anyone,” Damian muttered.

By evening, the hospital room had fallen into a warm hush. Dick sat in a chair by Kori’s bed, one arm around her shoulders, his daughter asleep on his chest, Bashō tucked beside them both.

Jason kept watch at the doorway, pretending it was about “security” when really he just didn’t want to leave. Tim was quietly documenting the moment—one photo, just one—for the family archives. Bruce and Alfred lingered behind them, silent witnesses to the continuation of something long fought for and finally earned.

At some point, Kori fell asleep, her hand resting on Dick’s. The baby stirred faintly, cooing. Dick looked down, still red-eyed and utterly undone, whispering, “You can cry all you want, kiddo. That’s just part of being a Grayson.”

From near the window, Damian crossed his arms, watching solemnly. “You’re both embarrassing,” he said quietly.

Jason chuckled. “Nah, kid. That’s what love looks like.”

And for once, Damian didn’t argue.

In the soft glow of the hospital’s nightlight, Bruce stared at this strange, perfect scene—his son, his sons, his daughter-in-law, and the tiny new heartbeat that seemed to fill every corner of the room—and thought, simply and profoundly: *We made it.*

Bashō, curled against that newborn little girl, looked on silently—a relic of growth, of forgiveness, of a boy who learned how to be gentle.

And for the first time in a long, long life, Bruce Wayne felt whole.