Chapter Text
Bruce had delivered babies before. In alleyways, in the back of ambulances, once on a rooftop during a hostage situation. He knew what birth looked like, sounded like. The mess and the noise and the immediate, furious wail of a newborn demanding air.
This wasn't that.
The medical team Alfred had assembled worked in tense silence. Talia had refused a hospital, insisted on the manor, and privacy. Bruce hadn't argued. He'd seen enough of the League of Assassins to know that whatever agreement had led to this child, it came with complications he didn't fully understand.
Dick stood near the door, arms crossed. Tim hovered by the monitors, watching readouts with the focused intensity he brought to crime scenes. Jason had positioned himself in the corner, present but distant. Cass sat perfectly still in a chair, her eyes tracking every movement in the room.
"Almost there," the doctor murmured.
Bruce's hands were steady. They were always steady. But something cold had settled in his chest, something that felt like the moment before a building collapsed, when you knew the structure was failing but couldn't yet see how.
The baby came in a rush of fluid and blood.
No cry.
The silence stretched. The doctor's hands moved quickly, efficiently, clearing airways, checking responses. Bruce watched the small form— so small, impossibly small, and felt the cold in his chest spread.
"Why isn't he crying?" Dick's voice was tight.
The doctor didn't answer. She was staring at the infant in her hands, her face carefully blank in the way medical professionals learned when something was very, very wrong.
Bruce moved forward. "Let me see him."
She handed the baby over without a word.
Damian. They'd already chosen the name, in one of Talia's rare moments of cooperation; was perfectly still. His eyes were open. That was the first thing Bruce noticed. Newborns didn't do that, didn't stare with that kind of focused awareness. The second thing he noticed was the color.
The baby was pale. Not the normal pink-red of a newborn, not even the slight pallor of a child who needed oxygen. This was something else. Marble-white skin, almost translucent. Bruce could see the delicate tracery of veins beneath the surface, dark blue-black against that impossible paleness.
"His temperature," the doctor said quietly. "It's... I need to check the thermometer."
But Bruce already knew. The baby was cold in his arms. Not cool….. cold. Like holding something that had been left in a freezer.
"Bruce?" Tim had moved closer, his voice careful. "What's wrong with him?"
Damian's eyes tracked to the sound. They were green. Vivid, bright green, but the pupils were wrong. Too large, too dark, swallowing the iris in a way that made Bruce's hindbrain scream predator.
"I don't know," Bruce said, and hated the lie even as he spoke it.
Because he did know. He'd seen enough in his years as Batman, fought enough things that shouldn't exist, to recognize what he was holding.
His son was a vampire.
The word felt absurd even thinking it. Vampires were Gotham urban legends, the kind of thing that got filed away with the less credible reports. He'd never confirmed one. Never had reason to believe they were real.
Damian's mouth opened. No cry emerged, but Bruce saw the gums. Saw the tiny, sharp points already visible where teeth would eventually grow.
Fangs.
"Jesus Christ," Jason breathed. He'd moved closer without Bruce noticing. "Bruce, his teeth—"
"I see them."
Alfred appeared at his elbow, his face grave. "Master Bruce, the child needs—"
Damian moved. It was a small movement, just a turn of his head, but it was too fast. Too coordinated for a newborn who should barely be able to focus his eyes. His mouth opened wider, and a sound finally emerged— not a cry, but something closer to a hiss.
"He's hungry," Cass said softly. She hadn't moved from her chair, but her eyes were locked on the baby. "Scared. Doesn't understand."
"Hungry for what?" Dick asked, though his voice said he already knew the answer.
Bruce looked down at his son. Damian was staring at his neck. At the pulse point visible above his collar. The baby's mouth was working, instinctive, the way newborns rooted for milk.
Except Damian wasn't looking for milk.
"We need to figure out what to feed him," Tim said. He'd pulled out his phone, fingers already moving. "There has to be research, something about vampire physiology—"
"He's a baby," Dick interrupted. "He's a baby, Tim. We can't just—"
"I know he's a baby!" Tim's voice cracked. "I'm trying to help!"
Damian made the hissing sound again, louder this time. His small hands clenched, unclenched. The movement was jerky, uncoordinated, but Bruce could feel the strength in those tiny fingers. More strength than there should be.
"Alfred," Bruce said quietly. "Get blood. Donated blood. Whatever we have in the cave's medical supplies."
"At once, sir."
"Bruce, we don't even know if that'll work," Jason said. "We don't know what he needs, how much, if regular blood will—"
"Then we'll find out." Bruce's voice was flat. Final.
He looked down at Damian again. The baby was still staring at his neck, mouth open, those too-sharp teeth visible. There was no recognition in those eyes. No understanding. Just hunger and confusion and some deep, biological need that Bruce couldn't begin to address.
This was his son.
This was his son, and he was a vampire, and Bruce had no idea how to keep him alive.
Damian's hand reached up, grasping at air, at Bruce's shirt, at anything. The hissing sound turned into something closer to a whimper. It was the most infant-like sound he'd made since birth, and it broke something in Bruce's chest.
"It's okay," he heard himself say. The words were automatic, meaningless. Nothing about this was okay. "It's okay, Damian. We'll figure this out."
The baby's face crumpled. Not crying…….he still wasn't crying, and Bruce wondered if he could— but something close to it. Distress. Pain. The expression of a newborn who needed something and couldn't communicate what.
Dick moved to Bruce's side, looking down at the baby. His face was pale. "Bruce, what are we going to do?"
"We're going to keep him alive," Bruce said. "Whatever that takes."
Damian's mouth opened again, wider this time, and the whimper became a sound that was almost a growl. Hungry. He was so hungry, and he was only minutes old, and Bruce was holding him and had no idea how to help.
Alfred returned with a blood bag. His hands were steady as he prepared it, warming it slightly, but Bruce could see the tension in his shoulders.
"We should attempt a bottle first," Alfred said. "If he can feed that way—"
Damian's head turned sharply toward the blood bag. The movement was too fast, too focused. His mouth opened, and this time the sound that emerged was definitely a growl.
Bruce looked at his son; at the pale skin and wrong eyes and sharp teeth, at the small body that was cold and hungry and wrong in ways he couldn't fix, and felt the weight of the next eighteen years settle on his shoulders.
This was just the beginning.