Chapter Text
Gotham’s rain, a dull, familiar rhythm, was a lullaby against Wayne Manor’s windows. Any other thirteen-year-old would find the silence of the house on their birthday to be upsetting.
For the Damian Wayne that should have been here, it would have been fuel for a simmering, cold resentment.
Yet the boy at the mahogany table, looking at the candle on the strawberry cake, was a different boy.
Though still a child of thirteen, they possessed the resilience of a survivor, their spirit hardened by the darkness they had faced.
Leviathan Rising
The Infinite Darkness
The Demon Lord Nezha
He witnessed the world’s collapse, shouldered a burden he couldn’t bear, and saw his loved ones perish.
In that world, Alfred Pennyworth was just a memory, a ghost in a decaying mansion.
A small, lacquered box sat on the table, which had been delivered by the League of Assassins.
Inside, the carcass of a robin, its neck snapped with clinical precision. A message from his grandfather: The nest is empty. Return to the Peak, or perish with the Bat.
In another life, Damian would have gritted his teeth, muttered a sharp “Tt,” and begun plotting a bloody retribution. Now? He didn’t even give the box a second glance.
Compared to the demonic incursions he had seen, The League was a campfire story. Ra’s al Ghul was a mortal man playing god; Damian had seen veritable monsters.
“I know this is a small gathering, Master Damian,” a gentle voice said from the kitchen shadows.
“Your father’s duties in the Watchtower were... unavoidable. And Master Dick sent word that the traffic in Blüdhaven is—”
“It does not matter, Alfred.”
Damian rose. His gaze did not rest upon the cake. He wasn’t looking at the League’s threat. He was watching the man with the silver cake server.
Alfred’s crisp tuxedo, the smell of starch and tea, and his eyes caught his attention.
Alfred was alive.
Damian had lost interest in “becoming” behavior. He didn’t care for the Al Ghul family’s dignity or the Wayne family’s legacy. To the boy who had lost everything to the infinite darkness, this wasn’t a lonely birthday.
It was a miracle.
Before Alfred could place the server down, Damian lunged.
He didn’t attack; he collided.
He wrapped his arms around the older man and hid his face in Alfred’s vest. Soap and old books’ scent permeated his deep breath. He used all his senses to ensure it wasn’t a hallucination, or a Lazarus Pit trick.
“Master Damian?Alfred was shocked, the silver server making a soft clatter. His hands froze mid-air, unable to move due to the gesture’s impossibility. “I... I apologize if the cake is not to your liking, I can—”
“It’s perfect,” Damian whispered, his voice shaking with a vulnerability he hadn’t shown in years. “You are here. That is enough.”
The future seemed bleak and uncertain, yet with Alfred’s hand softly resting on his head, Damian knew Nezha wouldn’t be able to destroy this world.
Not this time.
Alfred paused, the boy in his arms breaking etiquette and expectations of the Demon’s Heir.
Yet, the rigidity within Damian’s tiny form wasn’t like a warrior’s tension; Like someone adrift at sea, it was a desperate clutch for land.
The butler let out a soft, shaky breath, setting aside his professional mask. He reached down, his weathered hand moving with a tenderness that had comforted generations of Waynes, and began to slowly caress Damian’s dark hair.
“I am right here, Master Damian,” Alfred murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, fierce affection. “I am not going anywhere.”
The exhaustion of two lifetimes seemed to crash over Damian at once. The adrenaline of the time-slip, the trauma of the demonic wars, and the sheer emotional overload of seeing Alfred alive acted like a physical weight. His knees buckled slightly, his small body sagging against the man he had mourned for years.
Alfred caught him effortlessly, shifting his stance to cradle the boy against his chest. He felt the dampness of the Gotham rain still clinging to Damian’s clothes and the heat of a feverish, bone-deep tiredness radiating from him.
As Damian’s eyes fluttered shut, his grip on Alfred’s vest loosened just a fraction. He looked younger than thirteen in that moment—vulnerable, stripped of the assassin’s pride and the hero’s burden.
“Thank you, Alfred...” Damian whispered, the words slurred by the onset of a heavy, dreamless sleep. “I missed you. This time... I won’t let you go.”
Except for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock and the sound of rain on the stone, the room became quiet. Alfred looked down at the sleeping boy, his brow furrowed with a mixture of confusion and deep concern. Damian spoke the chilling words, “I missed you,” as if he’d been gone for ages.
Alfred didn’t move.
He hadn’t brought him to bed yet. He remained, holding the boy in the dining room’s dimness, keeping shadows away.
------
Gotham’s fog was thick, but the Manor felt airy and bright.
Damian was in the foyer, wearing his perfectly ironed school uniform. He still kept the shadow of the future in mind, with its tactical map of wars to prevent, but he focused sharply on the present domestic situation.
“Alfred,” Damian called, his voice now authoritative but with a warmer tone.
“Can you help me choose a bouquet from the florist and drive me to Gotham Academy at once?”
Alfred emerged from the hallway, putting a polishing cloth in his pocket. His eyebrows rose in mild shock .“A florist, Master Damian? That’s a change from the morning routine of sword drills and brooding.
“Routine is for those who do not have a vision for the future,” Damian replied, checking his reflection. Though young in appearance, his eyes seemed aged beyond his years.
Alfred watched the boy in the rearview mirror as the black Rolls-Royce drove away from the manor. Curiosity finally won out. “If I may be so bold, Master Damian... what are the flowers for? And more importantly, who are they for?”
Damian looked out the window at the passing grey streets. “For an old friend at the Academy. The one who stays. The sunshine of this dreary Gotham. My age has come to the teens, Alfred. Puberty is near, and I plan to set my intentions right before everything happens anyway. This way, I can plan ahead.”
Alfred chuckled softly, a slight smile gracing his face.
“A pragmatic approach to matters of the heart, as always. However, you still haven’t answered the question, Master Damian. Who is this for? Is it for someone... special?”
“Tt,” Damian clicked his tongue, though he couldn’t hide the faint ghost of a smirk. “Alfred, you just have to be part of the surprise. Let us make haste. I want to be there early.”
He straightened his collar, briefly forgetting about League assassins and demonic invasions. In the timeline he came from, he had waited too long to say too many things.
He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He would secure his allies, his family, and his heart before the darkness even thought to knock.
----
Damian entered the cafeteria, and the heavy oak doors creaked.
The noisy room suddenly became eerily quiet. Rumors at Gotham Academy traveled faster than the Batmobile; every student there knew of the Wayne heir, the boy who had been suspended on his very first day for “behavioral issues” that would have made a drill sergeant flinch.
A frown was anticipated by them. They expected the icy, lethal gaze of a prince who found them all beneath him.
However, Damian’s gaze wasn’t fixed on the audience.
His eyes were locked on a table near the window where the morning light managed to fight through the Gotham haze.
There she was. Maps Mizoguchi, with her messy pixie cut and her signature sunflower clip, laughing at something written in a notebook.
Having watched the sun be extinguished through wicked sorcery, her laughter was the most beautiful sound in his world.
Damian didn’t hesitate.
He strode across the linoleum, the black Rolls-Royce-delivered bouquet clutched in his hand.
“Mizoguchi!” His voice boomed, a sharp order that reverberated through the high-ceilinged room.
The entire room froze.
Maps spun around in her seat, her eyes widening behind her glasses. “Damian? You’re back! I thought you were in the doghouse for another—”
She stopped mid-sentence, her gaze dropping to the massive arrangement of Pink Camellias and Red Tulips in his arms.
Beside her, Olive Silverlock and Pomeline Fritch shared a look of pure, unadulterated shock.
They weren’t like Maps; they understood the Victorian language of flowers. Pink Camellias for longing, and Red Tulips -- a declaration of true love and intent. In the social hierarchy of Gotham Academy, this wasn’t just a gift; it was a territorial claim.
“Oh, Damian! These are so cool!” Maps beamed, standing up and reaching for them with the pure, oblivious energy that made her who she was.
“Are these for the Detective Club? Are we starting a botanical mystery?”
Damian showed no sign of fear, but a subtle, sincere smile played on his mouth. He held the bouquet out, his posture as formal as a knight’s.
“These are for you, Mizoguchi,” he said, his voice dropping to a tone that was uncharacteristically soft. “If you accept them, it means I have set my intentions. In the darkness that is to come, I require a light that does not flicker. I require... you.”
Maps blinked, her hands hovering over the petals. “Wait, is this a quest? Are we becoming a duo again?”
Olive leaned over, whispering loudly, “Maps, he’s courting you, you dork!”
Damian ignored the peanut gallery. He looked Maps straight in the eye, seeing the friend who had stayed by his side in a future that no longer existed. “Take them, Maps. If you are by my side, I know I cannot lose.”
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEH!”
Maps Mizoguchi emitted a sound that was less of a word and more of an ear-splitting noise, capable of breaking glass or calling bats from a great distance. She slammed her hands over her mouth, her face turning a shade of red that rivaled the tulips in Damian’s arms.
Olive Silverlock grimaced and shielded her ears, whereas Pomeline Fritch emitted a soft whistle, obviously amused by the spectacle.
Everyone in the cafeteria was now watching, with forks paused mid-air and phones recording; the silence was filled with the buzz of fresh high school gossip spreading quickly.
“M-m-me?” Maps stammered, her voice muffled behind her hands. She peeked through her fingers, looking at Damian like he was an alien puzzle she usually loved to solve, but one that was currently threatening to make her faint. “Why me? I mean... I’m just Maps! I do dungeon crawling and detective clubs! You’re... you’re Damian Wayne!”
Damian’s eyes didn’t move.
He moved in close, his presence as overwhelming as an impending crash.
To him, the logic was flawless. He wasn’t thinking about romance, or holding hands, or prom dates.
His mind was racing through the archives of the future he had left behind. In that dark timeline, he had seen what Maps was capable of. She is Meridian, The Time Travelling Heroine.
He was aware of her unusual traits, including her hidden powers, especially her link to the timeline. She wasn’t just a girl; she was a living Reset Button.
If his mission against Nezha failed, if the darkness consumed them again, Maps was the only one with the potential power to send them back. She was his contingency plan. She was his fail-safe.
But he couldn’t say that in a cafeteria full of civilians.
“You are the only one,” Damian said, his voice dropping to a gravelly seriousness that made half the girls at the nearby tables swoon. “I have calculated the variables, Mizoguchi. You possess... the power.”
Maps’ eyes went wide. The power? The power of love?
Damian continued, his eyes burning with strategic determination. “To be with you... it is the only way I can ensure my future. With you by my side, I can move forward. If I make a mistake, I know you will be there to... fix it.”
In Damian’s head: If I die, you can manipulate time to save the mission.
In Maps’ head: He thinks I’m the only one who can fix his broken heart! He wants to build a future with me!
“Oh my god,” Olive whispered, actually looking impressed. “That is the most intense thing I have ever heard.”
Maps felt like her brain was short-circuiting. She looked at the flowers, then at Damian’s expectant, serious face.
He wasn’t making fun of her. He gazed at her as if she were the most precious person in his life.
“I...” Maps lowered her hands, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She straightened her posture, trying to match his seriousness but failing miserably as a goofy, terrified grin spread across her face.
“Okay! I mean -- affirmative! I accept the... the mission! The flowers! The intentions!”
She grabbed the bouquet, burying her face in the petals to hide her burning cheeks.
Damian nodded, satisfied. The asset was secured. The timeline had a safety net.
“Excellent,” he said, turning on his heel with a swirl of his coat. “We begin immediately after school. Do not be late, Mizoguchi. We have much to prepare for.”
As he walked away, leaving a stunned cafeteria in his wake, he mentally checked off the second item on his list.
1. Secure Alfred.
2. Secure the Time-Traveller (Maps).
3. Neutralize the Bat.
Maps sank back into her chair, clutching the flowers. “He wants to move forward with me,” she squeaked.
“He is totally obsessed with you,” Pomeline deadpanned, taking a bite of her apple. “Good luck surviving the Waynes, Maps. I hear they have baggage.”
“I don’t care,” Maps whispered, staring at Damian’s retreating back. “I’m ready.”
----------
The ride back to Bristol was quiet, save for the rhythmic thrum of the Rolls-Royce’s engine and the patter of rain against the tinted glass. Inside the cabin, however, the air was thick with two very different kinds of tension.
Damian sat stiffly, holding a velvet box.
He’d handled all the arrangements: he quickly called the Mizoguchi residence, reached an agreement with Kyle about his sister’s well-being (threatening physical harm if anything happened to her, which Damian understood), and briefly confirmed with Alfred that the guest list was finalized.
He turned to Maps, who was currently vibrating at a frequency that could likely destabilize a particle accelerator.
“Mizoguchi,” Damian said. “Your hand.”
“Right! Yes! Hand!” Maps shot her hand out like she was answering a question in class.
Damian took it, not with the awkward clamminess of a teenager, but with the firm grip of a commander securing his lieutenant.
He put the velvet box in her hand and revealed what was inside.
A string of pearls, clearly costly, lay within, exhibiting a creamy, radiant appearance. These weren’t the pearls lost in Crime Alley, but they were, nevertheless, Wayne family treasures.
“Wear these,” Damian commanded softly. “They are a symbol. To enter the Manor not as a guest, but as... family. It grants you protection. Status. If anyone questions your presence, these serve as my seal.”
Damian’s Intent: I am marking you as a protected asset under the House of Wayne. These pearls are your badge of office in the coming war against the darkness.
Maps’ Interpretation: HE IS GIVING ME FAMILY JEWELRY. THIS IS BASICALLY A PROPOSAL. WE ARE MARRIED NOW?
“I... I will guard them with my life!” Maps squeaked, her fingers trembling as she clasped the necklace around her neck. She looked at him, her eyes wide and shining.
“Does this mean I get access to the big computer?”
“You get access to everything, Maps. We are partners now.”
The Manor differed significantly from the quiet, empty place Damian had known in the future.
Alfred pushed open the large double doors, and a rush of sound enveloped them, a wonderfully messy and chaotic sound that was the music of a family, complete for the moment.
Damian didn’t let go of Maps’ hand. He needed the anchor.
In the drawing room, the clan had gathered. Dick Grayson was balancing a plate of hors d’oeuvres on one finger, laughing at something Stephanie Brown was saying. Cassandra Cain was perched on the back of the sofa like a gargoyle, silently observing. And there, slumped in an armchair with a tablet and a mug of coffee that looked like crude oil, was Tim Drake, Co-CEO of Wayne Enterprises and looking like he hadn’t slept since the previous administration.
Barbara Gordon sat near the fire, her wheelchair turned toward the entrance, a knowing smile already playing on her lips.
And standing by the mantle, looking imposing even in a cashmere sweater, was Bruce Wayne.
The conversation died instantly as Damian and Maps stepped into the light.
“Whoa,” Stephanie whispered, nudging Cass. “Look at the Little Demon. Is he... holding hands?”
Dick’s eyes went wide, a grin threatening to split his face. “No way.”
Damian ignored them.
He walked straight up to his father, pulling Maps gently but firmly to his side. He felt her stiffen, awestruck by the sheer amount of vigilante royalty in the room, but she held her ground. She was a Mizoguchi, after all.
“Father,” Damian said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Everyone.”
He looked around the room. In his timeline, Tim was gone. Dick was broken. Cass was lost. Here, they were loud, annoying, and alive. He swallowed the lump in his throat and replaced it with steel.
“I have an announcement. The threats to Gotham are evolving. The future is... uncertain. Therefore, I have taken steps to secure my position.”
He lifted their joined hands, the pearls at Maps’ throat catching the firelight.
“This is Maps Meridian Mizoguchi. She possesses the necessary... qualities... to aid me in what comes next. She is my partner.”
The room was silent for a full three seconds.
Then Dick let out a strangled squeal of delight. “Oh my god, Damian got a girlfriend! And he gave her Grandma’s pearls!”
“I didn’t say girlfriend, Grayson!” Damian snapped, though he didn’t drop her hand. “I said partner! She is essential to the mission!”
“The mission of loooooove,” Stephanie crowed, leaning over a comatose Tim to high-five Cass.
Bruce stepped forward. He looked from Damian’s defiant, desperate eyes to Maps, who was currently turning a shade of purple but grinning like she’d just solved the Riddler’s hardest puzzle. Bruce saw the pearls. He saw the grip. And for the first time in a long time, the Dark Knight looked... softened.
“Welcome to the Manor, Maps,” Bruce said, extending a hand. “I assume you’re staying for dinner?”
“Yes, Mr. Wayne! Sir! Batman! Sir!” Maps blurted out, then froze. “I mean... Mr. Wayne.”
Damian let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Phase One was complete. The family was distracted by the romance. The Bat was neutralized by the normalcy of a teenage son bringing a girl home.
Now, he could begin the real work.
The silence that followed Damian’s statement was heavier than the Batmobile’s armor plating.
“Is this some kind of Al Ghul ritual to process when you turn thirteen, Damian?” Dick asked, his voice tight. He stepped closer, his protective instincts flaring. “Because you know we don’t do that here. And I... look, I’m sorry no one was here for your birthday last night. We all are.”
A ripple of genuine guilt moved through the room. Stephanie looked down at her boots. Tim winced, massaging his neck. Even Bruce’s stoic mask cracked, revealing the regret of a father who had missed a milestone.
“It does not matter if you were absent last night,” Damian said, his voice cutting through their pity like a blade. “Alfred’s presence was enough.”
The words did not intend to wound, but they struck deep. They confirmed that Damian had expected nothing from them, and therefore, was not disappointed.
“As for the Al Ghul bloodline,” Damian continued, smoothing the lapel of his blazer with one hand while keeping the other firmly clasped around Maps’. “Yes. It is partially a tradition. At thirteen, the Heir is expected to claim the Demon’s Mantle and take a... partner. A bride.”
Maps made a sound that sounded like a tea kettle beginning to boil.
“I had no intention to get the Mantle part,” Damian said casually, as if declining a side dish at dinner. “But the partner... I needed that.”
He smirked-- a sharp, confident expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were old and weary. “The darkness requires unity. A bond that cannot be broken by time or death.”
Bruce’s face drained of all color. He paled so significantly that for a moment, he looked more like a vampire than a Bat.
“A... bride?” Bruce choked out, his voice straining. “Damian. You are thirteen.”
“It is a ceremonial title, Father,” Damian scoffed, though he didn’t actually clarify that it wasn’t a marriage. To him, ‘Bride’ meant ‘Eternal Ally Bound by Blood and Fate.’ To Bruce, it meant a lawsuit and a violation of every child welfare law in Gotham.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Stephanie burst out, pointing a finger at Maps. “Did you just propose to Maps Mizoguchi in the cafeteria? Does she know she’s the Demon Bride?”
Maps looked down at the pearls, then up at Damian, then at Batman. Her brain was processing the information at light speed.
Scenario A: I am being kidnapped by a cult.
Scenario B: I am the co-protagonist in a dark fantasy romance arc.
Conclusion: B. Definitely B.
“I accept the title!” Maps announced, saluting Bruce. “I am ready to serve the... uh... the bloodline! And the justice! Mostly the justice!”
Tim Drake, finally breaking his silence, stared into his coffee mug. “I’m hallucinating,” he mumbled. “I’ve finally cracked. The baby Robin is married. I’m going to sleep.”
“Damian,” Dick said, rubbing his temples, looking frantic. “You can’t just... claim a person. That’s not how ‘partnering’ works in the real world. Did you threaten her?”
“I offered her flowers and intent,” Damian replied, offended. “She accepted. The contract is sealed.”
“It’s not a contract!” Dick shouted.
Damian ignored him, turning to Maps. “Come, Bride. We must calibrate the Bat-Computer to scan for chrono-spatial anomalies.”
“Right behind you, Husband-Partner-Robin!” Maps chirped, following him like a duckling.
As they exited the room, leaving the stunned Bat-family in their wake, Bruce sank onto the sofa, putting his head in his hands.
“Alfred,” Bruce groaned. “Why did you let him get pearls?”
“I believe, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, appearing from the hallway with a fresh pot of coffee and a distinct twinkle in his eye, “that Master Damian is merely securing his future. And considering the alternatives for teenage rebellion, I find ‘aggressive monogamy’ to be quite manageable.”
----
Okay, this is just crack. And I love it!
Thank you for reading!