FicWad

The slight purr of the Batmobile’s engine was the only noise that broke the heavy silence, and Dick made a mental note to check the motor when he got the chance. Even the quietest sound wasn’t permitted for the legendary car. He would just add that to the ever-growing to do list that was rapidly filling the entirety of his head. Sneaking a glance out of the corner of his eye towards the passenger seat, he noticed the rigidly silent figure beside him.

Car seats, he reminded himself. Got to get car seats. Alfred is going to kill me for not having car seats.

They were closing in on the Bat-bunker, the familiar streets of Gotham providing a sense of security (as odd as that sounded, even in his own head) to the frazzled young man. He drove almost completely on instinct, something he knew better than to do, but an act that he simply could not force himself to quit. It was easier to have room to think. And he needed a lot of room to think, especially with the latest turn of events.

Damian still hadn’t moved. It unnerved him. Why was the kid so still? At that age, Dick, even though he couldn’t remember it, knew that he had been a nonstop bouncing ball of energy. He still was, in fact. But the toddler seated next to him hadn’t so much as twitched since they had gotten into the Batmobile. His arms were crossed over his chest, his steely-eyed gaze directed at the dashboard that was parallel to his field of vision, and his back was resolutely straight, not even grazing the leather seat. Only the steady rise and fall of his stomach assured Dick that he was still alive.

And that had been going on for hours.

Ever since they had departed from Talia’s super-secret underground lair in London, in fact. After she had introduced Dick to his son for the first time, Talia had quickly left alongside the majority of her ninja and man-bats (somewhere off in the Himalayas, she claimed), leaving the father and son alone with only a handful of opponents. Truthfully, Dick might’ve been able to escape at that point, but he had been going through ‘daddy-shock’, and it’s not like he could’ve left the kid behind. So instead Dick had allowed himself to be effectively blind-folded. Minutes later, he had found himself unceremoniously dumped on a drone plane with his silent and pouting son.

After a three hour flight, and many rejected conversation starters, the plane had landed in a remote part of New Jersey. Where Dick had found the Batmobile conveniently hidden. He had decided not to ask how it had gotten there. Especially since he hadn’t known how the kid had gotten there either. He knew even less about the League of Assassins than he had thought.

That was a terrifying realization.

He had contacted Alfred, who was thankfully back at the penthouse safely, on the flight over, informing the loyal butler to the situation at hand. Aside from the briefest hesitation and slight dash of shock in the elderly man’s voice, he had taken everything completely in stride and had assured Dick that he would prepare everything that he could. They would have to do quite a bit of shopping, as there wasn’t exactly an over-abundance of toddler necessities in the Wayne household.

Thankfully, the drive to the Bat-bunker was much shorter than the flight had been, and Dick was soon pulling into the clean, and admittedly empty, headquarters. He had already managed to get a few DNA samples from Damian, much to the toddler’s utter displeasure, and had started a paternity test in the Batmobile’s computer, the data having been sent straight to the Batcomputer. Dick realized that it was a very Batman thing to do first, but, well, he did have a reputation to keep up now, didn’t he?

Didn’t he?

“Master Richard, glad to see you return in one piece, sir,” Alfred greeted professionally as Dick got out of the Batmobile and opened the door for Damian. “And I assume this is young Master Damian,” he allowed his expression to soften, almost unnoticeably, and his eyes twinkled just a bit. It was no secret that Alfred rather enjoyed young children. No matter how hard they could be to care for, they were more often than not easier to handle than any member of the Bat Family.

Although, the young assassin may just prove that theory wrong.

“Yeah, Alfie,” Dick nodded, slipping the cowl off of his face and watching the toddler beside him. “The Batcomputer is running a paternity test now,” he added in a subdued voice. “We’ll know whether or not Talia was lying within twenty-four hours.”

Damian had since lost his scowl, more from lack of concentration than anything, as he was curiously looking about the underground facility. His deep blue eyes, the same ones that Dick saw in the mirror every day, were widened ever so slightly and wandered about the Bat-bunker with a sort of critical knowledge that seemed misplaced on his young features. Dick admitted that the bunker wasn’t much. It wasn’t as impressive, as expansive, as completely Batman as the Batcave had been. There were no oversized props, no suit memorials for lost soldiers, and no decommissioned Batmobiles or Batplanes or Robin Cycles.

But the Batcave had been Bruce’s, and the Bat-bunker was his.

He wanted to keep it that way, even if it meant that his suspected son wasn’t all that impressed.

“So, what do you think of your new home, Damian?” Dick wondered cheerfully, sending a wide smile to the toddler.

Said child moved his head to make eye contact with Dick, his unnerving scowl immediately sliding into place once more. He scrunched his button-like nose with obvious disdain, turning his chin up and crossing his arms. A distinctive scoff slipped past his lips, sounding suspiciously like a toddler-sized ‘tt’. At that, Damian stalked off down one of the hallways of the Bat-bunker, headed towards the weapons.

Dick’s shoulders slumped, even though he knew he should’ve known better. But he had to admit that the child’s obvious distaste for him stung a bit more than logical. He had always considered himself pretty good with kids; after all, you don’t become everyone’s favorite uncle without being fun, and he had oftentimes been the go-to guy for superhero babysitting. And now his own son would hardly even look at him.

“Give it time, Master Richard,” Alfred assured him, correctly interpreting the hopeless look in his charge’s eyes. “I doubt the young master has ever been shown affection before, and it will take more than several hours of silence to teach him what it is,” he observed astutely. Before Dick could reply, the kindly old butler ushered him along. “Now, go change out of that. I will tend to your wounds and then it’s off to bed, for the both of you.”

“Yes, Alfred,” Dick gave in, knowing better than to argue with the elder man. “But Damian-”

“Rest assured, I will fetch the young master.”

He was given no choice, and Dick decided to leave it at that and willingly trudge into the changing area of the Bat-bunker. Alfred could handle the two-year-old while he peeled the Batsuit off. As he unhooked the cape and cowl, Dick was half-tempted to just discard it on the floor. But he knew better than to do that, even if his protesting and aching muscles just wanted him to curl up on the ground and fall asleep. After wrestling with the cursed suit for an embarrassingly long amount of time, he was finally clad in just a pair of gym shorts.

Most of his wounds were thankfully superficial, the worst being a few nasty cuts that had long since stopped bleeding. Aside from those, his chest and face were littered with bruises and scrapes both new and old. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.

A great crash and a surprised shout came from further in the Bat-bunker, sending Dick on alert immediately. Ignoring the painful strain it put on his already sore muscles, he took off at a dead sprint towards the sound. He noticed with dread that it had come from the weapons area, where Alfred and Damian had last been. Worst case scenarios began running through his head, even though most of them were all but impossible.

What he saw, though, was more surprising than anything he had imagined. Alfred was on the ground, back up against the wall, and quickly advancing on him was a toddler with a samurai sword. Thinking on his feet like he had been taught, Dick grabbed another ornate sword that was nearby, and intercepted Damian’s violent downwards strike before any blood was spilled. Dick expertly twisted his sword in his one-handed grip, effectively disarming the sour-faced toddler.

But Damian would have none of it, and immediately the pint-sized fighter launched himself at his father. Much to the experienced crime fighter’s chagrin, the toddler actually managed to land a solid kick to Dick’s already bruised shin, followed up by a punch to the kneecap. It wasn’t very painful, all considering everything that Dick had been through in his career, but Damian’s strength was rather surprising and caught Dick off guard for a fraction of a second. Nevertheless, the vigilante unceremoniously tossed his own sword aside and grabbed the violent child, instantly maneuvering him into a relatively painless joint-lock and hold combo.

“Alfred, are you okay?” Dick checked in a desperate rush.

“Quite,” the butler confirmed primly, straightening himself and brushing off his suit jacket. “I apologize for worrying you, sir. I have taken worse than this, but the young master surprised me with his vigor.” At that, Alfred regarded the struggling toddler with calm acceptance. “Now, Master Richard, allow me to tend to your wounds.”

The incident now forgotten, Dick allowed himself to be led over to the bunker’s med-bay. Damian was still in his arms and was persistently fighting against Dick’s hold on him. Although unexpectedly strong and better trained than they had expected, Dick was not going to let a two-year-old beat him. As Alfred gathered up the required medical supplies, the younger man cautiously set Damian down onto one of the medical beds.

Almost instantly, the young assassin-trained boy lashed out with a well-aimed roundhouse kick, which would’ve struck Dick’s temple had he not easily grabbed Damian’s ankle. The boy let out a frustrated scream, one of the first noises that he had uttered since meeting his father, and retaliated with a right hook. That was quickly blocked as well.

“Damian,” Dick tried to gain the toddler’s attention by using his ‘stern voice’, the one that he utilized when the Justice League destroyed too much public property or when the Titans got into superficial spats.

The voice that usually had Bruce internally rolling his eyes and chuckling fondly.

Bad, Grayson, he mentally chastised himself. Now is not the time for reminiscing.

But Damian did nothing, except redouble his efforts until Dick had to physically restrain him in a joint-lock hold once again. And then he began furiously screeching like a baby dinosaur.

“Alfred,” the young man called in helplessness. “What do I do?”

“Allow me, Master Grayson,” Alfred stepped up, carefully prepping a small syringe. “Hold him still, if you would,” he nodded to the screaming, thrashing child.

Dick willingly complied, using one arm to lightly force Damian’s own up, and the other to hold down his legs. It was effective, but caused the toddler to cough on his own screams, a sound that practically reduced Dick’s heart to shattered glass. Assassin or no, Damian was still a kid, still a baby.

The loyal butler quickly injected the sleep-inducing compound into the toddler’s bloodstream, and the two adults patiently waited the few minutes for the agent to kick in. Once it did, the effect was near immediate, and the screaming child was replaced with a calmly slumbering one. Had it not been for the obvious assassin robes that he was clad in or the previous memories of the boy, he could’ve easily been mistaken for an angel in his unconsciousness.

Delicately laying him down, Dick then turned to the other medical bed and settled down on the edge. He put his head in his hands, letting his hair brush over his skin and cover his vision. “Knocking out two-year-olds, Alfie,” he observed. “What’s become of us?”

“Only the necessary, sir,” Alfred assured him, not unkindly, as he began to treat the wounds on his young charge’s back.

“What are we going to do with him?” Dick continued miserably. “He’s a two-year-old assassin! Trained by the League! For all we know, he could’ve been trained specifically to kill us!”

“He is still young, Master Grayson,” the butler pointed out, patiently taking Dick’s desperation in stride. “He is still impressionable. We will be patient, and we will be diligent. Whether his is your son or not, he deserves a chance. Don’t you agree, sir?”

Properly chastened in a way that only Alfred could accomplish, Dick nodded out an agreement. “But…how? He isn’t exactly your typical kid, Alf.”

“They never are, sir.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dick retorted petulantly, straightening so that Alfred could finish patching him up. “It’s not like I ever tried to kill you!”

“Perhaps not on purpose, Master Richard, but I do recall the number of near heart attacks I suffered from your…unexpected antics.”

The two lapsed into silence, Alfred focused on tending to Dick’s wounds, while the younger man found himself gazing at the toddler’s unconscious figure. Damian was on his back, limbs completely slack and near-lifeless, while his round face lolled off to the side, in the direction of his alleged father. He looked so peaceful in sleep, so innocent. So not assassin-like. His young features were free of any anger or hostility, and his muscles were relaxed, not in the previous tension that came with fighting.

“Alfred?” Dick broke the companionable quiet.

“Yes, sir?”

Dick pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying the soft skin before deciding to speak up once more. “Talia mentioned something else, something that didn’t have to do with Damian. But…she said it so cryptically.”

“She always does, Master Richard,” Alfred confirmed steadily.

“I don’t know what she meant. And I don’t know how to find out.”

Alfred gave him a soothing and understanding look. “I have nothing but faith that you will figure it out, sir. You have always been rather apt at solving such puzzles.”

“But this one was different, Alfie. She said that I still didn’t know the truth, even after all these years; that I was missing something.”

“About what, Master Richard?”

“The night the Graysons fell.”

Silence permeated the heavy air, and the English butler hesitated for a fraction of a second. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Dick to notice and take note of it. But Alfred just as quickly returned to the task at hand. Dick was all fixed up, leaving the elder gentleman to finish putting everything away.

“That is quite unusual. Miss al Ghul is not one for dredging up such things.”

“She didn’t say anything else. Just that some things had already been set into motion, and that those things couldn’t be stopped. What did she mean?” he wondered desperately.

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Master Grayson,” Alfred replied softly. “Perhaps you should sleep on it,” he suggested.

“Yeah. Thanks, Alfie,” he nodded slowly, slipping off of the edge of the medical bed and stepping over to where Damian was sleeping. Just as he was about to scoop up the toddler, a treacherous and terrifying thought struck him. “Alfred!” Dick just barely kept himself from shouting, spinning on his heel to face the older man.

“Yes, Master Richard?” the graying gentleman questioned with a cocked eyebrow, once again surprising Dick with his infinite patience.

“How am I going to tell everyone?”

“You will think of something, sir,” Alfred assured the frazzled and stressed young man. “No matter how you decide to break the news, I believe it best you do not wait for the press to do so for you.”

“They’ll freak!”

“Only as much as you are, sir.”

“That’s still too much!”

“Agreed, Master Richard.”

“But what do I say? ‘Oh yeah, this is my illegitimate son, who was raised by ninja and is actually a two-year-old assassin’?”

“The truth is always the best policy.”

Dick all but slumped in his position, resting his hands on the medical bed before him and leaning the majority of his weight on it. His dark blue eyes were trained on the naturally tanned skin of the toddler near him. It occurred to him that his so-called son had inherited his own skin tone, only perhaps a shade deeper (no doubt due to his time spent in the Middle East). Dick was becoming more and more convinced that Damian truly was his son.

He suddenly had an almost overwhelming urge to cry.

But he was the Batman. And Batman didn’t cry. So he wouldn’t. He would stay strong, and he would support the weight of the world on his shoulders and keep on going. Because that’s what Batman did.

And he was Batman.

“What would Bruce do?” Dick whispered, his voice echoing softly in the Bat-bunker.

“I think the question here, Master Richard, is not what Master Bruce would do, but rather what you will do.”

As if in answer to the wise words, Dick nodded and gently slid his arms under Damian’s back and knees. The defenseless toddler twitched and his muscles automatically tensed, as if his body physically rejected any form of contact. A shiver traveled up Dick’s spine. The very thought made him sick to his stomach, and he subconsciously pulled his son closer to his chest, eliciting another slight twitch.

“I believe a night’s rest will due you some good, Master Richard,” Alfred observed sagely, leading the dark-haired man to the elevator that would deliver them to the penthouse. “I have a room prepared for the young master, but supplies will need to be bought at a more opportune time.”

“Hmm,” Dick hummed in quiet agreement. “I don’t think I’m ready for this. I can hardly take care of myself, Alfie,” he spoke up when the doors slid shut behind them.

“Out of all the people I have met, Master Richard, I don’t believe anyone would be as qualified to raise the young master as you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Young Master Damian needs more than just a guiding hand, or a firm rock to rely on. The young master requires someone to show him, to teach him life itself. And I have never met one as full of life as you, sir.”

Dick was rendered mute for several fleeting moments, staring in awed disbelief at the elderly man beside him. “Thank you,” he replied quietly, not completely trusting his voice from the tightness in his throat. “But I’m still going to need a lot of help, Alfie.”

“I know, Master Richard. I know.”