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1. The Alligator
The Batcave was usually quiet when Bruce returned from patrol first. The gentle hum of the Batcomputer. The echo of dripping water from the ceiling. Tonight, though, there was… a sound.
A dragging sound.
Bruce stilled halfway down the platform steps. His cape whispered against stone as he listened. Something heavy scraped across the floor. Something alive.
And then he saw it — Damian, small frame taut with determination, hauling a bulging duffel bag behind him. The bag lurched once, violently. Damian dug in his heels and tugged harder.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Son.”
Damian froze, then straightened like a soldier caught mid-inspection. “Father.”
“Why is that bag moving?” Bruce asked evenly.
“It isn’t.” Damian’s voice was flat. Too flat.
The duffel chose that moment to thump again, almost knocking the boy sideways. Bruce raised a brow.
Damian scowled and dropped the pretence. “Fine. Perhaps it moves. But only because it contains a highly advanced reptile, one woefully mistreated by this city’s pathetic excuse for animal control.”
Before Bruce could respond, the zipper strained and popped open. Out slid a green, scaly snout lined with teeth. A pair of unblinking yellow eyes blinked at him. The creature hissed low in its throat.
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Damian.”
“Yes?”
“Is that an alligator?”
“A juvenile Alligator mississippiensis,” Damian corrected primly. “Approximately three years old, malnourished, and quite possibly infested with parasites. Gotham’s sewers are no place for such a noble predator.”
The reptile wriggled halfway out of the bag. Bruce took a step closer, voice like steel. “Put it back.”
Damian crouched protectively in front of the creature, as if Bruce was going to try and forcefully wrestle the alligator away from him. “You of all people should understand, Father. This animal was bred to survive in harsh conditions. Instead, it is forced to wallow in filth, preyed upon by thugs who find amusement in cruelty. Would you leave it to die?”
Bruce exhaled through his nose. He’d had this argument before, though not with alligators. “We don’t keep wild animals in the house.”
“We keep Drake and Grayson in the house,” Damian shot back.
“Not the same.”
“Tt.” Damian folded his arms, chin raised in stubborn defiance. The gator nosed his boot, hissing softly. “It likes me.”
“Damian—”
“Father.” The boy’s voice was sharp now, echoing through the cave. “I was trained from birth to tame warhorses and falcons. To command lions in the League’s arenas. Do you honestly believe a reptile of such limited intellect could outwit me?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
Bruce’s silence stretched. He’d meant to say: the point is safety. He’d meant to remind Damian that Alfred would sooner abandon the Manor than share it with a swamp predator. He’d meant to forbid, as fathers are supposed to.
But Damian was crouched low, one hand hovering just above the gator’s back, his expression fierce yet… gentler than usual. Like he was daring Bruce to tell him this thing didn’t matter. That it wasn’t worth protecting.
Bruce sighed. “It will outgrow you. Fast.”
“I am aware,” Damian said crisply. “Once it reaches a suitable weight, I will release it into an appropriate sanctuary. Until then, it requires medical attention. And a safe habitat.”
“No,” Bruce said flatly.
Damian’s jaw clenched. The boy rose to his full height, glaring up at him with all the defiance a thirteen-year-old could muster. “You preach about justice, yet you would condemn this creature for its nature? Hypocrisy.”
“It’s not hypocrisy. It’s common sense. It doesn’t belong here.”
There was silence, broken only by the low hum of the computers and the restless shifting of scales against canvas. Bruce could see the wheels turning in Damian’s mind — the boy calculating whether he could sprint past him and make it to the elevator before Bruce intervened.
Bruce crossed his arms.
Damian scowled. “You are impossible.”
“You’re stubborn.”
The boy looked back down at the alligator, then back at Bruce. “Just a week. To nurse it back to strength.”
“No.”
“Three days.”
“No.”
“A single night.”
Bruce’s voice brooked no argument. “It’s not staying here, Damian.”
For a long moment, Damian held his gaze, fury and hurt warring in his eyes. He bent down, shoving the reptile back into the bag, though more gently this time, as though worried the zipper might pinch its scales. The alligator thrashed, and Damian’s grip tightened.
“This is unjust,” he muttered darkly.
Bruce pulled out his phone. “I’ll call Dr. Helena Markov. She runs the Gotham Herpetological Society. They specialise in reptiles.”
Damian blinked, caught off guard. “…There’s a society for that?”
“There’s a society for everything,” Bruce said dryly. “They’ll know how to handle it. Medical care, proper housing, even relocation to a protected reserve if it’s healthy enough.”
Damian hesitated, then looked down at the duffel bag where the gator wriggled. His scowl softened, just barely. “…And you’re certain it won’t be harmed?”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Bruce said firmly.
Damian studied him for a long moment, searching for any sign of deception, then gave a short, sharp nod. “Very well. But I expect updates on its condition.”
Bruce allowed the faintest of smiles, already dialling. “Not negotiable.”
As Bruce stepped aside to make the arrangements, he caught the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of Damian’s mouth — quickly smothered, of course, but there all the same.
Bruce allowed himself a quiet breath. The boy was impossible, yes. But at least this way, Damian would learn that compassion didn’t have to mean chaos.
And if Bruce had to play middleman between his son and a three-foot alligator? Well. He’d handled worse.
2. The Feral Cat Army
When Dick came home from patrol, he expected the usual chaos: Damian muttering over schematics at the dining table, Alfred quietly glaring at anyone who tracked mud inside, maybe Bruce brooding in the Cave.
What he didn’t expect was the sound.
A low chorus of meows. A lot of meows.
Dick slowed as he pushed open the Manor’s front door. He sniffed. The faint scent of tuna lingered in the air. He frowned. “Damian?”
Silence. Then a crash from the kitchen. Followed by a furious yowl.
Dick jogged down the hall and skidded into the kitchen doorway… and stopped dead.
The kitchen had become a feline warzone. Cats were everywhere. Perched on countertops. Crawling across the fridge. Wrestling under the table. At least three were hissing at each other near the stove. Another had climbed halfway up the curtains, its claws shredding fabric.
And at the centre of it all was Damian, sleeves rolled up, Alfred the Cat taking refuge around his neck like a scarf, attempting to pour tuna into six different bowls at once. His face was pinched with concentration.
“Dami—what—why—” Dick sputtered. “Why are there so many cats in our kitchen?”
Damian didn’t even glance up. “They were cold.”
“Sixteen cats,” Dick said, counting tails with a growing sense of horror, “is not... this is— this is a lot of Cats, Dami.”
“They are Gotham strays,” Damian said matter-of-factly. “Useless citizens abandon them to die in alleys. I refuse to ignore their suffering.”
A tabby leapt onto the counter, pawing at an open can of tuna. Damian batted it away with a hiss of his own. The tabby hung its head in shame.
“They’ll patrol the Manor,” Damian added, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Rodent control. A strategic investment. Alfred the Cat shall lead them.”
Alfred the Cat didn’t seem particularly happy with that arrangement, hissing at the cats swarming around Damian.
“Strategically painful,” Dick muttered as another cat swiped at his ankle. He danced back, grimacing. “Ouch! That one bit me!”
“You stepped on its tail,” Damian snapped, already scooping the offender up and checking its paw with surprising gentleness. “It was provoked.”
“Damian, no one in this house signed up for—” Dick gestured helplessly at the furry chaos, “—this. Alfred the Cat is… not happy. And Alfred’s going to have a coronary.”
As if summoned, Alfred appeared in the doorway, carrying a laundry basket. He surveyed the scene in silence. His gaze tracked over shredded curtains, paw prints in spilt milk, and at least two kittens attempting to scale the pantry door. His eyebrow arched.
“Well,” Alfred said at last, tone bone-dry, “it seems the Manor has been repurposed as an ark. Might I inquire, Master Damian, how many more species you intend to collect before supper?”
Damian stiffened. “They require shelter.”
“Indeed,” Alfred replied evenly. “Though I had rather hoped to offer it to houseguests of the human variety.” A grey cat darted between his legs; Alfred didn’t so much as flinch. “Master Richard, if you would be so good as to begin the evacuation before the dining room succumbs as well.”
“Easier said than done,” Dick muttered, eyeing the cats like they were booby traps.
Damian bristled. “Throw them out, and you doom them. Frostbite. Hunger. Cars.” His voice grew sharp. “You might as well kill them yourself.”
The room went still. Even the cats seemed to pause in their chaos. Damian’s shoulders hunched, arms tight around the scrappy tabby in his grip. Alfred the Cat was almost dislodged and meowed in protest.
Dick blew out a breath. Okay. He knew that look — underneath the scowl was something knotted and fragile. Damian wasn’t just being stubborn. He believed this was life or death.
“Hey,” Dick said gently. He crouched a little, trying to meet Damian’s eyes. “Nobody’s killing anybody, okay? We’re not heartless.”
Damian didn’t reply, but his jaw clenched.
Dick softened his voice. “But sixteen cats tearing up Alfred’s kitchen? That’s not sustainable. And it’s not fair on Alfred the Cat. Look,” He gestured at Alfred the Cat, who was trying to claw his way onto Damian’s head. Damian was paying no mind to the claws scratching at him. “Look how upset he is. What we can do is find them somewhere better. Warmer. Safer.”
Damian’s eyes flicked upwards to Alfred the Cat, and something like guilt flickered across his features. Then he squinted at Dick, suspicious. “Where.”
“The Gotham Animal Rescue League owes me a favour. They’ve got a foster network. Actual homes, not cages. People who know how to care for strays.” Dick gave him a small smile. “We can even ask them to keep the group together if you want.”
Damian hesitated. His grip loosened on the tabby, who promptly wriggled free and bounded onto the counter again. Alfred the Cat relaxed a little.
“You’re certain?” he asked at last, voice low.
“Positive.” Dick stepped closer, gently picking up one of the kittens gnawing on a chair leg. “Look, they’ll have warmth, food, space to run around. Way more than we can give them here.” He gave a sheepish glance at Alfred. “And maybe Alfred won’t murder us in our sleep.”
Alfred gave the faintest sniff. “Perish the thought, Master Richard. I should never dream of inconveniencing the carpets with bloodstains before breakfast.”
One of the cats chose that moment to knock over a milk jug, sending it splattering across the counter. Dick winced.
Damian sighed, long-suffering. “Very well. But I will visit them. Weekly.”
“Deal,” Dick said quickly, before Alfred could sharpen his rebuttal.
Damian gave a sharp nod, then began scooping cats into carriers with surprising efficiency, muttering instructions under his breath in Arabic as though commanding soldiers. The cats didn’t exactly obey, but somehow, within minutes, half of them were corralled.
Watching, Dick couldn’t help but grin. Damian Wayne: heir to the Bat, scourge of Gotham’s underworld… and champion of stray cats.
Yeah. That tracked.
3. The Racoon
Patrol had been uneventful. Rare for Gotham. Minimal muggers, no breakouts, not even a rooftop chase to spice things up. Bruce guided the Batmobile into the Cave in silence, Damian at his side, arms crossed and unusually quiet.
That was the first warning.
The second warning came when Damian refused to remove his hood, even under the glare of the overhead lights. Normally, he shed his gear like clockwork: gloves, boots, tunic, folded with military precision. Tonight, though, he hunched forward, arms protectively crossed, as though guarding something.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “What’s under your hood.”
It wasn’t a question. Not really.
“Nothing.” Damian’s tone was flat. Too flat.
Bruce turned fully toward him. “Damian.”
Before the boy could reply, the hood wriggled.
Bruce stilled. “…Did your hood just move?”
“No.”
The bulge shifted again. This time, a small black nose poked out from behind Damian’s cape. Beady eyes blinked up at Bruce, followed by whiskers twitching curiously. Then came the tell-tale little chittering sound.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “…Is that a raccoon?”
Damian drew himself up, indignant. “His name is Sir Thomas Bandit the Third.”
The raccoon clambered higher, tiny claws scrabbling at the fabric as it attempted to crawl onto Damian’s shoulder. Damian adjusted with military precision, catching it like a falconer handling a hawk. “He is remarkably intelligent for a scavenger. Agile. Adaptable. Possesses opposable thumbs.”
“He’s a raccoon.”
“A perfect infiltration specialist,” Damian countered. “His talents could be invaluable on patrol.”
Bruce deadpanned. “We do not smuggle wild animals into crime-fighting operations.”
The raccoon chose that moment to reach into Damian’s utility belt, yank out a smoke pellet, and promptly drop it. It clattered to the floor, rolled a few feet, and went off with a loud pop.
A cloud of smoke filled the Cave.
Bruce coughed, waving a hand through the haze. When it cleared, he found Damian standing exactly where he had been, raccoon perched smugly on his shoulder, both of them glaring at him in eerie synchronisation.
“Demonstrably effective,” Damian said, as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Bruce exhaled slowly. “Take it back.”
“No. He followed me.”
“You fed it, didn’t you?”
Silence. Damian’s jaw tightened. The raccoon chirped innocently, then promptly attempted to unzip another pocket on Damian’s hoodie. The one Damian kept snacks in to give to scared kids.
Bruce gestured at it. “Case in point.”
“Tt. His curiosity is a strength.” Damian stroked the animal’s back like a Bond villain petting a cat. “He could disarm traps. Locate hidden contraband. Slip into air vents.”
“He’ll slip rabies into Alfred’s tea,” Bruce muttered.
As if summoned, Alfred appeared at the top of the stairs. “Master Bruce, I must inform you the laundry machine is making a most—” He stopped mid-step, gaze falling on the raccoon now perched on Damian’s shoulder. His eyebrow arched ever so slightly.
“Master Damian,” he said evenly, “I do hope that is not what it appears to be.”
Damian bristled. “You don’t even know him.”
“I know masked bandits, sir,” Alfred replied dryly. “They generally belong in holding cells, not in one’s clothing.”
The raccoon hissed at him. Alfred’s only reaction was a faint sigh. “Charming. Shall I add rabies shots to the evening’s schedule, or would you prefer to pencil them in for tomorrow?”
Damian tucked the animal closer, glaring back. “He merely dislikes your tone.”
“Damian.” Bruce’s voice cut sharp. “This is not negotiable. He doesn’t belong here.”
Damian’s scowl deepened. “So you would leave him to starve in the alleys? That is your vaunted justice?”
Bruce’s answer was calm, steady. “I’ll call Dr. Markov.”
Damian blinked. “…The reptile woman?”
“She runs the Gotham Herpetological Society, but she has contacts. They’ll place him with specialists. Somewhere safe.”
The boy hesitated, clearly torn. His grip on the raccoon loosened slightly. “And you’re certain he won’t be caged? Tormented?”
“They’ll make sure he’s healthy. He’ll have space. Food. Other animals. Better than this.” Bruce gestured at the Cave, still faintly smoky. “Much better than this.”
Damian’s jaw worked. Then, slowly, he handed the raccoon over. The creature promptly tried to climb onto Bruce’s cape. Bruce caught it with one gloved hand, holding it firmly at arm’s length while it squirmed.
Damian looked away. “…I expect updates.”
“Of course,” Bruce said.
Alfred sniffed. “Preferably from a distance greater than my pantry.”
The raccoon chittered, thrashing in Bruce’s grip. Bruce sighed. “Sir Thomas Bandit the Third,” he muttered, “is not joining the family business.”
Still, as he secured the call to Dr. Markov, he caught Damian sneaking one last glance at the animal. Just a flicker of softness, quickly masked. Bruce filed it away silently. The boy’s heart was too big for his own good.
And apparently, Gotham’s wildlife knew it.
4. The Hawk Incident
The day had already been long. Dick was halfway through unstrapping his boots when the front door creaked open and Damian entered, his school bag slung across one shoulder. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the large bird of prey perched on his arm.
“Uh,” Dick said carefully, straightening. “That’s… not a backpack accessory.”
Damian ignored him, walking with the purposeful stride of someone who saw nothing odd about entering the Manor with talons digging into his sleeve. The hawk shifted, spreading its wings briefly before settling, feathers rustling.
“Damian,” Dick tried again, “that’s a hawk.”
“Yes.”
“Why is there a hawk on your arm?”
“It followed me.”
Dick blinked. “It followed you? From where… PetSmart?”
Damian’s glare was pure acid. “From the school grounds. It was circling above the field, clearly malnourished. I offered food. It displayed loyalty.”
“You fed it?!”
Damian didn’t answer. The hawk screeched and snapped at the strap of his bag, tearing a loose thread free.
“That’s a yes,” Dick groaned. “Okay, look, I’m all for rescuing kittens, puppies, whatever, but this? This is not a house pet.”
“Tt.” Damian stroked the bird’s breast feathers with careful fingers. “She is a hunter. Noble, disciplined. With training, she will serve as a valuable partner on patrol.”
“Or,” Dick countered, “she’ll serve Alfred’s roast chicken at dinner.”
Once again, Alfred appeared from the dining room. He had an uncanny way of entering a room as soon as someone mentioned his name.
He was carrying a tray of fresh-baked dinner rolls. He stopped mid-step. His gaze shifted from Damian to the hawk, then to the tray in his hands. He did not sigh. Alfred rarely wasted air on such things, but his silence was eloquent.
“Don’t worry, Alfred,” Dick said quickly. “We’re working on it.”
The hawk had other ideas. With a sudden flap, it launched itself from Damian’s arm, wingspan broad enough to smack Dick in the face as it soared toward Alfred. Alfred sidestepped neatly, but not before the bird snatched a roll straight from the tray.
Feathers and bread crumbs exploded across the hallway.
Alfred looked down at the ruined tray, then back up at Damian. “Master Damian,” he said evenly, “if you felt the need for additional food, I should have been delighted to prepare you something less… airborne.”
Damian scowled, extending his arm sharply. “Return.”
Amazingly, the hawk obeyed, circling once before landing on him again. Damian cradled it close, protective. “She merely requires discipline. Her instincts are sharp. She simply lacks direction.”
“Her instinct,” Dick said, rubbing his cheek where the wing had smacked him, “is to steal carbs. You’ve adopted a flying raccoon.”
“She is not vermin,” Damian snapped. “She is misunderstood.”
A new voice drifted from the staircase. “She’s scared.”
Both brothers turned. Cass was leaning on the railing, dressed in pyjamas, hair loose around her face. She tilted her head, watching the hawk with dark, steady eyes.
Damian frowned. “She is not afraid. She is strong.”
Cass stepped closer, slow and quiet. The hawk shifted uneasily on Damian’s arm, wings twitching. Cass didn’t break eye contact. “Strong and scared,” she said simply.
Damian stiffened as if she’d jabbed him in the chest. For a moment, he looked down at the bird, his mouth tight.
“Hey.” Dick softened his voice. “Cass is right. She doesn’t belong in walls and hallways. She belongs out there.” He pointed toward the window, where the night sky stretched over Gotham. “She needs air. Sky. Other hawks.”
“And if I release her, she’ll starve,” Damian muttered.
“Not if we get help,” Dick said. “I’ll find someone.” He gave Damian a half-smile. “Someone way more qualified than us.”
Damian’s grip on the hawk tightened, then loosened. He glanced at Cass, who only watched him steadily. Not judging. Just seeing.
Finally, Damian sighed. “Very well. But I expect proof of her release.”
“You’ll get it,” Dick promised.
Alfred, ever serene, adjusted the tray under his arm. “And perhaps,” he added dryly, “proof that the Manor’s next meal will remain on the table rather than in the rafters.”
The hawk screeched in response.
Cass smiled faintly. “She agrees.”
5. The Donkey in the Batcave
There were certain sounds Bruce Wayne expected in his cave. The hum of the Batmobile’s engine cooling. The whir of tools from the maintenance bench. Maybe the faint clank of Damian sharpening a sword when he thought no one was listening.
What Bruce did not expect was braying.
He paused at the threshold, jaw tightening as the unmistakable “hee-haw” echoed against steel and concrete. He stepped inside, cape brushing the floor.
Sure enough, standing between the Batmobile and the Wingcycle was a small, scruffy donkey. Its coat was patchy, its mane ragged, and it was currently chewing on one of Alfred’s carefully rolled tarps.
Next to it, Damian stood with arms folded, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Father,” Damian said, as though this were perfectly normal. “I’ve rescued a donkey.”
Tim, perched cross-legged on the seat of the Redbird, looked up from his tablet. “Correction: Damian has stolen a donkey. From where, we’re still trying to figure out.”
“It was abandoned near the docks,” Damian snapped. “Clearly neglected. Malnourished. No one was tending to it.” He ran a hand along the donkey’s neck with surprising gentleness. “I couldn’t very well leave it to die.”
The donkey brayed again, startling Steph, who had been halfway through a sandwich. She nearly dropped it. “Oh my god. He brought home Eeyore.”
“Eeyore was a depressed stuffed animal,” Tim muttered. “This one’s real. And it smells worse.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damian. This is not a barn.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “So we should abandon it? Pretend we didn’t see it, like everyone else in this city does?”
“Not what I said,” Bruce replied evenly.
Jason strolled in, here to debrief the case he and Bruce were working on together, helmet tucked under his arm, and froze mid-step. His eyebrows shot up. “Okay, I gotta ask. Why is there livestock in the Cave annexe?”
“It is not livestock,” Damian snapped, clearly stung. “It is a noble creature.”
“It’s chewing a tarp,” Jason said flatly.
“Maybe it’s hungry,” Steph offered, still holding her sandwich out of reach.
The donkey’s ears perked, then it made a lunge toward her. Steph yelped and hopped onto the nearest workbench, clutching her food to her chest and pointing at the donkey threateningly with her other gloved hand. “Nope! Not sharing! Find your own hay bale!”
Bruce closed his eyes briefly. He could already feel the headache brewing. “Damian.”
Damian turned back to him, chin tilted stubbornly. “Father, the donkey is under my protection. I’ll care for it. Train it. It will be an asset.”
“An asset,” Bruce repeated.
“Yes. Patrol transport.”
There was a beat of silence before Jason barked out a laugh. “You’re gonna ride a donkey through Crime Alley? What, intimidate muggers with sheer confusion?”
Damian flushed. “It’s quieter than the Batcycle. Less conspicuous.”
“Less conspicuous,” Tim echoed, deadpan, tablet abandoned in his lap, lighting up his incredulous face with white light, “than a motorcycle. Because nothing says subtle like Batman’s kid riding a donkey through Gotham at midnight.”
The donkey punctuated his point with another loud bray. Its breath fogged in the cool air, and it stomped a hoof against the concrete floor with a dull clop.
“Father,” Damian pressed, voice tightening. “You allowed me to adopt Alfred the Cat.”
“Alfred the Cat is a cat. And trained,” Bruce said.
Damian countered. “This donkey will be trained. It will be highly disciplined under my care.”
“Disciplined,” Jason said, still grinning. “Sure. Until it kicks the Batmobile.”
As if on cue, the donkey gave the Batmobile’s rear bumper a curious nudge with its nose.
“Don’t you dare,” Bruce muttered, moving forward to place himself between the animal and several million dollars’ worth of custom tech.
Damian stepped with him, defensive. “It isn’t dangerous. It’s just hungry. If we gave it proper food—”
Bruce held up a hand. His patience was thinning. “It cannot stay.”
Damian’s jaw clenched. “So you’ll send it back to suffer?”
“No.” Bruce’s voice softened just enough to make the words land. “I’ll call… someone. Maybe Clark's parents can take it.”
Damian hesitated. His fingers dug into the donkey’s coarse mane. “And if they sell it for parts? Or meat?”
“They won’t,” Bruce said firmly. “You know the Kents, Damian. And you know that Jon wouldn't let them.”
Damian searched his face for a lie. Bruce let him look. After a long moment, Damian’s shoulders slumped — just slightly, but enough.
“…You’ll confirm?” Damian asked at last. “Make sure?”
“Yes.”
The donkey let out another bray, as though adding its vote.
Jason smirked. “Guess it’s a no on Bat-Donkey, huh?”
“Shut up,” Damian snapped, but the fight had already drained from his voice.
Bruce exhaled. One more battle survived. One more animal spared. And, though he wouldn’t say it aloud, one step closer to the inevitable day Damian would win one of these fights.
+1 The Bat-Cow
It was supposed to be a routine meeting. One where they all came together to discuss their latest cases, see if there was any overlap, or anything they could help each other with. As such, the Batcave was rather busy.
Bruce had spotted Damian striding across the Cave floor, mud on his boots, something bulky behind him, hidden by the shadows. He didn’t think much of it until the sound reached him; slow, heavy hooves clopping against stone, accompanied by a soft, low moo.
Bruce turned.
Standing under the harsh glow of the Batcomputer monitors was… a cow. A small one, young, but unmistakably a cow. Its black-and-white coat was splattered with Gotham grime, its nose damp and shining. It blinked at Bruce with wide, patient eyes, then let out another low, mournful moo that reverberated off the cave walls.
Damian, hand tight on the rope looped around its neck, lifted his chin. “Father. This is Bat-Cow.”
Bruce closed his eyes for a long moment. “…Of course it is.”
Tim swivelled in his chair, earbuds dangling. His face went from confusion to delight in seconds. “No way. No way. You actually did it. You brought home a cow.”
“Correction,” Jason called from the upper platform. “He brought home our dinner.”
“Jason,” Dick said warningly, though he was grinning as he bounded down the stairs. “Let him talk.” He stopped in front of the cow, hands on his knees, and whistled low. “Wow. She’s… really here. Hi, Bat-Cow.” He scratched gently under her chin, and the cow leaned into it with a blissful snort.
Steph wandered over, phone in hand. She paused mid-video, the sound playing even as she stared at the cow in front of her, delight slowly spreading over her face. “Oh my god. Damian, you win. This is the funniest thing you’ve ever done.”
“It is not meant to be humorous,” Damian snapped. He stroked Bat-Cow’s head, the harshness in his tone undercut by how gently his fingers moved. “She was tied up outside a slaughterhouse. Frightened. Alone. I cut her free.”
A soft throat-clear came from the shadows. Duke stepped into the light, still in his jacket, helmet tucked under one arm. He stared at the cow. “…Okay, not gonna lie, this is not even in the top ten weirdest things I’ve seen down here.” He tilted his head. “But it’s close.”
Jason smirked. “You’ll learn, kid. Weird is Tuesday around here.”
“Uh-huh.” Duke rubbed the back of his neck. “Just… please tell me she’s not gonna, like, sleep next to the Batmobile.”
Damian scoffed. “Of course not. She requires proper shelter.”
“And hay,” Duke added dryly. “A lot of hay. Which, fun fact, we don’t have stocked next to the grappling hooks.”
The Cave’s speaker comms crackled. “Hey guys. I’m not late am I? Library close took longer than usua— was that mooing?” Barbara’s voice cut through, amused and incredulous all at once. “Please tell me Damian didn’t drag a cow into the Cave.”
Tim hit a button so she could see the live feed. The image of Bat-Cow filled her screen.
There was a beat of silence. Then: “Oh my god. He actually did it.” A laugh burst out of her before she could smother it. “This is going in the files. Forever.”
Damian glared at the ceiling like he could burn through the comm system with sheer will. “She is Bat-Cow. Treat her with respect.”
Barbara chuckled. “Respect noted. But Bruce, I’m emailing you a list of large-animal vets right now, because I refuse to troubleshoot cow digestive emergencies over the comms at three a.m.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Barbara.”
The Cave went quiet again.
Cass appeared silently at Bruce’s side. She tilted her head, studying Damian. “He’s scared.”
Damian whipped around. “She is not!” His voice cracked more than he intended.
Cass didn’t flinch. “Not her. You.”
That froze him.
Bruce watched his son’s jaw tighten, his eyes flicking down, betraying the crack in his armour. There it was again — the same desperate fire he’d seen with the alligator, the raccoon, even the donkey. But this time, there was something rawer underneath.
Damian whispered, almost too low to hear, “If I hadn’t come, no one would’ve saved her.”
Bat-Cow let out another low moo, as if in agreement, and nudged Damian’s shoulder with her damp nose.
Steph’s eyes softened. “Okay, that’s… actually kind of heart-breaking.”
Tim muttered, “Still smells like a barn,” but he wasn’t smiling anymore.
Jason leaned against the railing, arms crossed. “Kid’s got a point. World doesn’t exactly line up to save things like her.”
Damian bristled and shot him a heated glare. “She is not a thing. She is Bat-Cow.”
Jason held his hands up in apology, pulling a “my bad” face.
Bruce exhaled slowly. He had fought Damian on almost every animal so far, with the exception of Alfred the Cat. Each time, he’d argued logic, safety, and practicality. Each time, Damian had met him with stubbornness and fire. But now, standing in front of this muddy, trembling animal, Bruce realised it wasn’t about practicality at all.
It was about mercy.
“Damian,” Bruce said carefully, “you know livestock doesn’t belong in a cave.”
“She is not livestock,” Damian shot back, eyes flashing. “She is Bat-Cow. She requires sanctuary. And I will provide it.”
Jason opened his mouth, but Dick shot him a look that shut him up.
Bruce stepped closer, cape whispering against the floor. “If she stays here, she’ll suffer. It’s cold. Loud. Concrete. But…” He let the word hang. Damian’s eyes widened slightly.
“But?”
Bruce’s gaze softened. “If Alfred approves proper housing arrangements, she can stay. On the estate. Where she has space. Grass. Sunlight. Not in the Cave.”
For a moment, Damian didn’t move. He just stared, lips parting, eyes flicking between Bruce and Bat-Cow as though waiting for the trap.
“She stays?” he asked at last, voice cracking.
“She stays,” Bruce confirmed.
The words landed like a stone dropped into a still pond.
Damian’s face betrayed him before he could slam the mask back into place. Relief, raw and bright, broke across his expression, followed by something Bruce had rarely seen in his son. Something close to unadulterated joy. He ducked his head quickly, trying to smother it, but not fast enough.
“…Acceptable,” Damian said stiffly. But his hand stayed pressed to Bat-Cow’s neck, and his shoulders shook just a little.
The cow mooed again, softer this time, as if sealing the deal.
Tim laughed, breaking the silence. “I can’t believe it. You really let him keep one.”
Dick grinned, slinging an arm around Bruce’s shoulder. “About time.”
Jason groaned. “Great. Next thing you know, we’re adding goats to the roster.”
Steph raised her phone in the air. “I vote pig. Bat-Pig.”
“Absolutely not,” Bruce said flatly, though the corner of his mouth threatened to curve upward.
Duke lifted his phone. “Okay, but someone’s gotta tell the neighbours why there’s suddenly a cow grazing the Manor grounds. Because if we don’t, I guarantee TikTok will.”
“Not it,” Steph said, hand in the air.
Barbara’s voice chimed back in, smug: “Already tweeted it from the official Brucie Wayne Twitter account. Caption: ‘Holy cow.’”
Groans echoed through the Cave.
Cass, unbothered, reached out and stroked Bat-Cow’s head once, deliberate and gentle. “She’s safe,” she said.
Damian’s chin trembled, but he lifted it higher, proud. “Of course she is. She has me.”
Bat-Cow nosed his shoulder again, and for once, Damian allowed himself a smile — small, fleeting, but real.
And Bruce, watching from the shadows of the Cave, allowed himself one too.