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His son was a Disney princess.
That was all Bruce could think as Robin was suddenly surrounded by a hoard of pigeons, all of them aggressively pecking at the criminal who had been trying to punch him. Bruce had been ready to step in and give the guy a piece of his mind when, out of nowhere, the flock came flying through the window, swarming the man’s face and arms.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Damian standing calmly in the middle of the chaos, looking smug as ever. A particularly large pigeon landed on his shoulder like it was in command, chest puffed out with pride.
“Adequate job here, my friends,” the boy praised, giving a solemn nod of acknowledgement as the pigeons began to fly out, their mission apparently complete.
“Batman, it seems our work here is done.” Bruce only nodded at him, following his son like an idiot to the Batmobile.
When they settled in the car, Damian frowned at the lack of response from his father.
“Father, do you not feel alright?” He asked, feeling confused when the man turned to him with his own confused expression.
“Where did the pigeons come from, Damian?” Bruce sighed, feeling like he was about to purposely crash the car into the walls as Damian gave him a knowing smirk.
“They are my companions, Father. They have been diligently trained to assist me in times of need.” The little boy told him, looking very serious, way too serious for this.
“You know what? I am not going to ask.” Bruce mumbled to himself, feeling a headache creeping up as the boy nodded to himself.
By the time they returned to the Batcave, Bruce was still trying to process everything, mostly how a pigeon had straight-up dive-bombed a grown man on command.
As the Batmobile pulled in, the lights overhead flickered to life, revealing the rest of his sons already waiting—Dick perched on the edge of the workbench, Jason lazily leaning against the wall with a protein bar in hand, and Tim typing away at the Batcomputer like he hadn’t been in meetings all day.
“Yo,” Jason called. “How was crime-fighting with Snow White?”
Bruce blinked. “What?”
Tim didn’t even look up. “He means Damian. We’ve known for a while.”
“Yeah, last week a raccoon handed me my Batarang mid-fight,” Dick said, lifting a brow like it was completely normal. “Then it patted my head. It patted my head, Bruce.”
Jason snorted. “A fucking squirrel gave me a tour of the rooftop exit last time I dropped Damian off for patrol. I thought I was hallucinating.”
Tim finally turned around in his chair. “The birds? They’re regulars. Pretty sure he trained them using some kind of ancient assassin method. Or Disney movies. It’s hard to tell with him.”
Damian stood beside Bruce, arms crossed, looking smug. “You are all simply bitter that your animal communication skills are inferior to mine.”
Dick placed a hand on his heart. “He talks to animals, Bruce. They respond. He's like Cinderella with a hit list.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “You all knew?”
Jason grinned. “You were the last to know, old man. Congratulations.”
Tim swiveled back to the computer. “I’ve been keeping a spreadsheet of the wildlife sightings, if you’re interested. There was an owl that delivered his juice box last Thursday.”
Damian just looked proud. The large pigeon from earlier somehow flew in and landed gracefully on the railing above them, like it belonged there.
Bruce stared. Then muttered, “I need a drink.”
“Tea, Father. Caffeine stunts your growth,” Damian added helpfully.
Jason wheezed. Dick nearly fell off the bench. And Bruce seriously considered retirement.
“I don’t think that’s the kind of drink he meant, demon spawn,” Jason smirked, arms crossed as he watched Damian blink up at him with a wide-eyed, confused look that screamed innocence.
“I simply wished for Father to make healthy choices,” Damian said primly, patting his pigeon’s feathers like a Bond villain in preschool.
Jason snorted. “You sicced a flock of birds on a man like it was The Birds live-action. You don’t get to preach about health.”
“Actually,” Tim chimed in, still typing, “the pigeon tactic was surprisingly effective. I’ve logged a 40% decrease in enemy resistance whenever animals are involved.”
Bruce looked like he was physically restraining his soul from leaving his body.
“Oh yeah?” Dick perked up, pointing at Damian. “What about the time the deer walked out of the woods and helped him corner a mugger?”
“That was majestic,” Jason agreed. “Like, I thought I was hallucinating. He just raised his hand like Simba and it came out of nowhere.”
Damian huffed. “That deer is named Henrietta. Show some respect.”
Tim nodded seriously. “She’s got a little leather collar now. Alfred made it.”
Bruce blinked. “Alfred is in on this?”
As if summoned, Alfred descended the staircase, carrying a tray with tea and snacks. Without missing a beat, he gave a polite nod to the pigeon. “Ah, Monsieur Fluffwing. Shall I bring you a dish of seeds as usual?”
The pigeon cooed. Damian looked smug.
Bruce stared, absolutely done. “We have officially lost control.”
“You lost control,” Jason said cheerfully. “We’ve been on the Animal Sidekick Express for months now. Welcome aboard.”
Alfred gently placed a tea cup in Bruce’s hand and then turned to Damian. “And Master Damian, your applesauce is on the table upstairs. Monsieur Fluffwing’s is beside yours.”
“I like the cinnamon one,” Damian noted, hopping off the ledge and marching proudly up the stairs, pigeon fluttering behind him.
“Cinnamon, he says,” Jason mumbled, grinning as he followed behind.
Tim was already opening the spreadsheet again. “I think we can classify the pigeon unit as fully trained now. I’m moving them from Beta to Alpha Team.”
“Do we even have an Alpha Team anymore?” Bruce asked wearily.
“Yeah,” Dick grinned. “It’s just Damian. And the forest.”
-
It was supposed to be a standard crime scene. A robbery, some missing jewels, a broken window. The Gotham City Police were already on edge just from Batman showing up with Robin in tow. But they weren’t prepared for… this.
“Uh… is that… is that a ferret?” one officer whispered, watching in stunned silence as a long, sleek ferret skittered through the crime scene tape with frightening precision.
“Yes,” Damian said calmly, arms behind his back like a tiny general. “His name is Sir Wigglesworth. He’s trained to sniff out rare gems and idiotic behavior.”
The ferret ran a tight loop around the baseboards, darted under a couch, and popped out triumphantly with a velvet pouch in its tiny teeth. Damian took it with a nod of thanks, opening it to reveal the missing sapphire necklace.
“Good job, soldier,” he said, pulling a dried blueberry out of his pocket and feeding it to the ferret, who chirped like it had just completed a black ops mission.
The officers stared.
“...I—I don’t even know how to file a report on this,” one of them muttered.
Another one blinked and whispered, “Was that… was that thing wearing night-vision goggles?”
“Customized,” Damian said, like it was obvious.
Batman arrived just as an officer tried to ask more questions. “Is this normal? This—is this part of the plan? Because the rodent—”
“It’s not a rodent,” Damian snapped, defensive. “He’s family.”
Batman sighed deeply, like every life choice had led to this moment. He glanced at the ferret still lounging smugly on Damian’s shoulder, then looked at the stunned officers.
“He’s effective. Don’t question it,” Bruce grunted, already turning back to the Batmobile.
“But—he’s just walking away?” one officer hissed.
Damian merely lifted his chin. “The GCPD is welcome to try solving the case without Sir Wigglesworth next time. I imagine it’ll go as well as last week.”
The same officer remembered last week, when a swarm of bats had cornered a suspect in an alley and politely escorted him into a squad car.
“Nope. Nope, I’m good,” he muttered, jotting down “Case solved with assistance of one (1) ferret in tactical gear.”
As they disappeared into the night, the ferret gave a triumphant little squeak and curled into Damian’s cape like it owned Gotham.
And, to be fair, it probably did.
-
Damian sat cross-legged in the corner of the manor, looking entirely out of place in a sea of stuffed animals, notebooks, and half-eaten snacks. His brow was furrowed, his little fingers tracing patterns on the floor as if contemplating the deepest of existential dilemmas.
“Father,” he began, voice serious. “I require assistance in… socializing. The others are proving difficult to understand.”
Bruce was in the other room, but at the sound of his son’s voice, he turned to see the miniature assassin surrounded by a bizarrely large number of animals: a pair of squirrels, a rabbit, a bird
Damian had apparently trained to sit on his shoulder like a feathery lieutenant, and a very disinterested raccoon that was currently eating a cookie in the corner.
Bruce walked over slowly, narrowing his eyes. “What in the world…?”
Damian gave him a side glance but didn’t falter. “The animals are teaching me how to form connections, Father. Your methods… do not appear effective.” He said this as if it was a statement of fact, not a challenge to Batman’s entire parental strategy.
Before Bruce could ask what that meant, a small squirrel—the squirrel, apparently—climbed onto Damian’s lap, holding out a tiny walnut like it was a peace offering.
“This is Chip,” Damian explained, without a hint of shame. “Chip has taught me that in order to gain trust, one must offer something valuable first.”
Damian, with a grace that only an assassin could possess, presented a perfectly folded paper napkin to Chip, who immediately took it and scampered away to stash it somewhere.
Bruce, blinking rapidly, was unsure whether to be impressed or concerned. “Chip… taught you how to offer gifts?”
“Yes, Father,” Damian said, adjusting his stance. “In exchange, I receive something in return. This is how it works with humans as well, I presume.”
“Well, yes, technically,” Bruce said slowly, feeling the headache starting. “But you can’t just walk up to a friend and hand them a walnut.”
Damian paused for a moment, as if considering Bruce's words with deep thought. Then, without warning, he stood and walked over to Dick, who was lounging on the couch. The bird that had been sitting on Damian’s shoulder fluttered over to land on Dick’s head, making the older Robin freeze mid-sentence.
“Grayson,” Damian said, his tone businesslike. “I’ve brought you a gift.” He presented Dick with a small, shiny rock he’d found in the yard. The bird chirped approvingly, clearly expecting Dick to take it.
Dick blinked at him, utterly caught off guard. “Uh… thanks, baby, but I—”
Damian’s eyes narrowed, serious as ever. “It is a gesture of goodwill,” he insisted, leaning in a little closer. “You will now owe me one favor.”
“Kiddo, you can’t just—” Dick started, but before he could finish, the bird on his head pecked at his ear, making him yelp in surprise.
“Clearly,” Damian said smugly, “you understand now.”
Jason, overhearing this from the other room, rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh god, we’re creating a monster.”
Tim, who had been watching from the doorway, crossed his arms. “At least he's learning to share. This is progress.”
Bruce was just standing there, hands on his hips, watching his son negotiate a favor with a small shiny rock. “Do you even know how to make friends the normal way?” he asked, his voice full of resignation.
Damian turned to him with a serious expression. “I believe I do. You offer something of value, and then they are obligated to repay you.”
Bruce’s head dropped to his hands. “Damian, that’s... that’s not how it works.”
Damian, looking as though he’d just been handed the world’s most complex puzzle, said nothing. Instead, he knelt and pulled a small, leather-bound journal from his belt, scribbling something down.
“Damian,” Bruce started again, but his son was already too absorbed in his notes.
“We will test this method with Pennyworth tomorrow,” Damian muttered to himself, looking pleased. “He will appreciate the gesture.”
Bruce only managed to look up as the raccoon wandered over, dropping a cookie in his lap as if to finalize the point.
“Yeah, we’re all fucked,” Jason muttered from the doorway.
-
It was well past midnight when Bruce found himself walking quietly through the manor, his footsteps muffled on the thick carpet as he made his way to Damian’s room. It had been a long night—missions, reports, and the usual chaos—but there was one thing that always seemed to put his mind at ease.
Checking on his son.
He reached Damian’s door, which was slightly ajar. Bruce hesitated for a moment, then pushed it open gently. The sight inside made his breath catch for a split second.
Damian was fast asleep in the middle of his bed, completely unaware of the small army of animals that had made their way into his room. Titus was curled up at the foot of the bed, taking up most of the space. His huge head rested lazily on the mattress, snoring lightly.
Alfred, the cat, was perched comfortably on Damian’s chest, looking extremely smug as always. It was clear he had claimed the top spot in the hierarchy of Damian’s pets. The small, gray tabby’s tail flicked lazily as he observed the scene around him, his half-closed eyes glinting in the dim light.
And then there was Batcow. The cow had somehow managed to squeeze herself into the room, and was now napping with one of Damian’s socks in her mouth. Her bulk was almost too much for the room, her body splayed awkwardly across a pile of stuffed animals.
But it was the sight of Damian, peaceful and unaware, that made Bruce pause. The boy was curled up in his blankets, his small hands clutching onto a stuffed bat in his sleep. His face was soft, unguarded, and for a moment, Bruce forgot the weight of the world.
It was rare to see Damian like this—vulnerable, surrounded by warmth and comfort instead of shadows and weapons. He hadn’t even noticed how many animals had decided to camp out with him. Titus, Alfred, and Batcow were joined by a small, napping rabbit and Chip the squirrel, who was perched on Damian’s pillow as if on lookout duty.
Bruce chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head. Of course, it would be his son who would create a miniature animal kingdom in his own bed.
He walked closer, kneeling beside the bed as he watched Damian’s chest rise and fall in deep, even breaths. Reaching down, he brushed a stray lock of hair from Damian’s forehead, his hand lingering for just a second longer than usual.
“You’re a handful, little one,” Bruce muttered softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
The only response was a soft murmur from Damian in his sleep.
“Night, son,” Bruce whispered, brushing a kiss against Damian’s temple.
As he turned to leave, the weight of the world seemed just a little bit lighter. He couldn’t help but smile as he glanced at the absurd scene of animals curled up around Damian. He’d never admit it aloud, but Bruce was grateful for these moments—the ones that reminded him that, even in the madness of Gotham and his past, his son had found his own kind of peace, a chance to somehow act like the child he is.
With a final glance at the small army of animals and the boy at the center of it all, Bruce slipped out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him.