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The first time it happened, Bruce Wayne nearly dropped his coffee.
It was a Tuesday. The sun had barely crested the manicured edges of the Wayne Manor grounds, casting long, judgmental shadows across the study where Bruce was reviewing quarterly reports for a shell company that funded satellite upgrades for the Watchtower. The door creaked open, a sound he knew as well as his own heartbeat, and Damian padded in, a small, silent figure in black silk pyjamas.
“Father.”
Bruce hummed in acknowledgement, not looking up from the tablet. “Damian. Breakfast is in twenty.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, a shift in the air. Bruce’s combat-honed senses registered movement, a slight redistribution of weight, and before his brain could fully process the trajectory, a small, surprisingly dense weight attached itself to his left leg.
He looked down.
Damian was there, arms wrapped around Bruce’s thigh just above the knee, cheek pressed against the tailored wool of his trousers. He clung with the absolute, tenacious certainty of a barnacle. His expression was one of serene, practised indifference, as if he were merely leaning against a lamppost.
The tablet nearly slipped from Bruce’s fingers. His entire body went rigid, not with threat assessment, but with a bafflement so profound that it short-circuited his usual protocols. He’d faced down intergalactic despots, psycho-clowns with laughing gas, and boardrooms full of sharks. None had prepared him for this.
“Damian?”
“It is efficient,” Damian stated, his voice slightly muffled by the fabric. “My destination is the kitchen. Yours is presumably the same, later. This eliminates unnecessary traversal of the hallway for separate trips.”
Bruce stared. The logic was… airtight, in a completely deranged way. It was also a blatant, glorious lie. Damian moved through the manor’s halls with the silent, predatory grace of a panther. He didn’t need efficiency. He didn’t need… a lift.
“I see,” Bruce said, his voice carefully neutral. He took a slow, experimental step forward. Damian adjusted his grip, holding on effortlessly, his feet dangling a few inches off the Persian rug. Bruce took another step. The weight was negligible, Damian was still slight for his age, all compact muscle and fierce will, but the presence of it was seismic.
A memory, sharp and unbidden, pierced his confusion: Dick, at maybe seven or eight, launching himself onto Bruce’s back, laughing as Bruce pretended to stagger under the weight. A moment of unguarded, easy joy, before the world fell into darkness.
This was not that. Damian’s cling was strategic, silent, and utterly deliberate. Yet, as Bruce walked stiffly toward the study door, the small, warm weight on his leg began to unspool something tightly wound in his chest. A tension he hadn’t even named, the tension of watching a child soldier navigate a civilian world, of seeing a son who flinched at pats on the back but could disassemble a firearm in total darkness.
He didn’t question it. He couldn’t. If this was Damian’s way of… bridging some unspoken gap, of testing a boundary in the only way his League-of-Shadows-trained mind could conceptualise (“Physical proximity as tactical advantage”), Bruce would walk him to the moon.
“Alfred has prepared oatmeal,” Bruce offered, as they moved into the hall.
“Adequate,” Damian replied, his cheek still firmly planted.
It became a thing.
Bruce would be examining a new prototype Batarang in the Cave, and a small shadow would detach itself from the staircase to latch onto his leg. He’d be on a League call, listening to Clark’s reassuring baritone, and feel the familiar pressure just above his knee. He was once in a tense video conference with Lucius Fox, discussing clean energy initiatives, when the camera on Bruce’s end surely captured a small, pyjama-clad limb suddenly appearing in the frame, wrapped around his father’s calf. Lucius had paused, adjusted his glasses, and continued without comment. A true friend.
The pretext remained. “The library is in the same easterly direction as your route to the Cave, Father.” Or, more bluntly, “You are the only one with the structural integrity to support my mass without impeding your own mobility.”
Bruce just nodded. He’d pat Damian’s head once, a careful, gentle touch on the raven hair. Damian would tolerate it for exactly three seconds before subtly shifting away, but he never let go of the leg.
The origin of the behaviour was revealed one weekend when Dick Grayson blew into the Manor like a colorful hurricane, all wide grin and easy affection. He found Bruce in the den, attempting to read a novel Alfred had insisted upon, with Damian anchored to his leg like a silent, possessive limpet.
Dick’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. Then, a huge, dazzling smile spread across his face. “No way,” he breathed, looking delighted. “He does it!”
Bruce lowered his book. “Does what, Dick?”
“The koala thing! I showed him some old cartoons last time I was here. Gotham Adventures. There was this little kid who’d do that to his dad when he was tired or wanted attention. Damian watched it three times in a row. I thought he was critiquing the animation physics!”
Bruce looked from Dick’s beaming face down to the top of Damian’s head. Damian pointedly refused to look up, but the tip of his ear had gone pink.
So it wasn’t tactical. It was… imitation. A learned behaviour from a fictional, normal child. The revelation hit Bruce with a force that stole his breath. This was Damian, his fierce, deadly little prince, trying on an act of childish whimsy. Because he’d seen it done. Because, perhaps, some part of him wondered what it felt like.
The love that swelled in Bruce’s chest then was so fierce it was painful. It was laced with a sudden, white-hot spike of anger so intense his vision momentarily sharpened. The target of that anger had a name, and a face of emerald green and beautiful, ruthless calculation.
Talia.
Talia al Ghul, who had given him this incredible, infuriating, wonderful son. Talia, who had raised him in a fortress of stone and dogma, where cartoons were propaganda and clinging was a weakness to be exploited, not a comfort to be given. Talia, who had honed Damian’s body into a weapon before he could even conceptualise a childhood. She had never let him be silly. She had never let him be a child. She had only let him be perfect, and deadly, and alone.
Bruce’s hand, which had been resting on the arm of his chair, curled into a fist so tight the leather creaked. The desire to somehow reach back through the years, to snatch a smaller, softer Damian away from the League’s cold halls and endless training, was a physical ache. He wanted to give him years of lazy Saturdays, of scraped knees, of ill-advised sugary cereals and too-long cartoon marathons. All the things Bruce himself had missed, and all the things Talia had deliberately withheld.
He forced his hand to relax. That anger was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not here, not now. It was a flame to be banked, stored for the next time the League’s shadow fell across Gotham. For now, he had this. A son, clinging to his leg, pretending it was about efficiency.
Dick was grinning, mischief in his eyes. “So, does he do this on patrol? Imagine the fear in the hearts of Gotham’s underworld: the looming Bat, and his… leg ornament.”
“Grayson, do not be absurd,” Damian sniffed, finally releasing Bruce’s leg to stand with affronted dignity. “The tactical conditions of patrol are entirely unsuitable for such manoeuvres.”
But a week later, on a cold, drizzly patrol that had involved stopping a warehouse robbery and dismantling a fear-gas dispersal unit, Batman found himself on a gargoyle overlooking the financial district. The city was quiet for a moment, the only sounds the distant wail of a siren and the patter of rain on stone.
He needed to check a thermal signature three blocks over. Lifting his arm to activate the micro-console on his gauntlet, he shifted his weight. The movement caused the heavy, rain-slicked Kevlar cape to swish aside.
It felt like an opening for the boy beside him as immediately a tiny, dark shape was curled against his leg, its feet clear of the roof, utilising Batman’s own formidable stance as an anchor against the void below.
Robin. In full uniform. Clinging.
Bruce’s breath caught in his throat. The sheer, breathtaking absurdity of it. The Demon’s Heir, the Boy Wonder who had once declared fun a “biological impairment,” was clinging to his leg on a gargoyle in the pouring rain.
He didn’t move. He didn’t dare. He slowly finished his gauntlet input, his heart hammering against his ribs not from adrenaline, but from a feeling so vast and tender it threatened to crack the Batman’s stern demeanour wide open. He carefully lowered his arm, letting the cape fall back into place, shrouding the little secret against his leg.
“Robin,” he said, his voice modulator making it a low, gravelly rumble.
“Batman,” came the immediate, muffled reply from somewhere near his thigh.
“Report.”
“All systems are functional. The precipitation, however, is suboptimal.”
A smile, invisible to the world, broke across Bruce’s face beneath the cowl. Suboptimal. Of course.
“Affirmative. Next coordinates: heading north. Maintain… position.”
There was a slight tightening of the grip on his leg.
“Ready to proceed, Batman.”
And as Batman launched his grapple into the rainy night, he felt the familiar, precious weight on his leg, holding on not for efficiency, not for tactics, but for something far simpler, and far more important. A son, finally, quietly, acting his age. And a father, carrying him, and the legacy of all the years they’d missed, into the heart of the dark, together.
********************
The air in the abandoned botanical conservatory was thick with the scent of damp earth, night-blooming jasmine, and impending chaos. Negotiations were not Batman’s preferred method with Pamela Isley. Her goals were too absolute, her methods too ecological and apocalyptic to allow for common ground. But the threat this time was a city-wide, genetically engineered pollen that would trigger instant, violent allergic reactions to synthetic materials, a death sentence for a city clothed in nylon and polyester. She had a cure. He needed it.
Standing in a clearing of cracked terracotta tiles, Batman was a monolith of shadow and patience. Before him, Poison Ivy reclined on a throne woven from living oak and thorny rose, her emerald skin glowing faintly in the moonlight filtering through the broken glass dome. Harley Quinn, a splash of riotous colour against the green, perched on the arm of the throne, swinging her legs and idly spinning a giant mallet.
“The terms are simple, Batman.” Ivy’s voice was a honeyed whisper that made the nearby vines shiver. “Gotham’s industrial district, from the river to the old steel mills, is designated a permanent green zone. No more factories. No more poisons. The earth will reclaim it.”
“The people who work there, Pamela,” Batman growled, his voice low. “Their livelihoods.”
“Their livelihoods are killing my children!” she snapped, the vines around her tightening. “I grow weary of this. The pollen disperses at dawn. Do we have an accord?”
Harley, bored with the serious talk, piped up, her gaze scanning the shadows behind Batman. “Yeah, yeah, green zones, yadda yadda. Say, Batsy, where’s the little demon spawn tonight? Usually he’s lurkin’ in the rafters, givin’ me the stink-eye. Miss his cheerful commentary.”
Batman didn’t flinch. “Robin’s location is not relevant to these negotiations.”
“Aw, c’mon! Is he off doin’ extra homework? Practicin’ his broodin’? I got a new joke for him: Why was the little Robin so angry? Because everyone kept tellin’ him to tweet about it!” She dissolved into giggles at her own joke.
Ivy shot her a fondly exasperated look. “Focus, Harley.”
“I am! I’m multitaskin’! Negotiatin’ and wonderin’ where the bat-brat is. It’s weird he’s not here to threaten to decapitate my hyenas. Makes me nervous.”
Batman saw an opening. A distraction. He needed to shift Ivy’s rigid focus. He remembered a scrap of intel from Oracle. “The cure, Ivy. Provide it, and I will personally ensure LexCorp’s proposed chemical plant on the old Miller Point site never receives a permit. That land borders your proposed zone. It’s a tangible, immediate victory.”
Ivy’s eyes narrowed, considering. It was a more specific, actionable offer. Harley, however, was still stuck on her previous train of thought.
“Seriously, did you ground him? Did the big bad Bat catch him usin’ a swear word?” She leaned forward, squinting. “Or is he… hangin’ around somewhere?”
Batman knew he needed to project absolute control. He decided to use a classic intimidation tactic: a slow, deliberate reach for a utility belt compartment containing a neutraliser he’d developed for Ivy’s pheromones. It was a calculated move, meant to remind her of his preparedness.
“The only thing hanging will be this negotiation if you don’t see reason, Ivy,” he said, his voice dropping another octave. He began to lift his right arm, the movement broad and authoritative.
As he raised his arm, the heavy, plated cape, designed to billow and intimidate, shifted with the motion. It swept aside, pulled by the gesture and a slight gust of wind that whispered through the broken panes above.
For a moment, the dark, shrouded space beside Batman’s left leg was exposed in the silvery moonlight.
There, clinging to the armoured greave just above his knee, was a compact figure in black, green, and red. Robin. His small hands were locked in a firm grip on a bat-shaped groove in the plating, his cheek resting against the cool armour. His domino mask was turned toward Ivy and Harley, but his body was moulded to his father’s leg like a second skin, feet dangling off the ground. He looked utterly comfortable and utterly, defiantly present.
The world froze.
The whispering vines stilled. Harley’s mallet stopped spinning mid-air, clattering to the mossy floor with a dull thud. Ivy’s poised, regal expression melted into one of pure, unadulterated shock.
Harley Quinn was the first to break the silence. A sound escaped her, a choked squeak that built into a high-pitched, gleeful coo. “Oh. My. Gotham.”
Robin didn’t move. He just stared back at them, his expression the usual granite mask of pre-teen severity, completely at odds with his position.
“He’s… he’s hanging on your leg,” Ivy stated, her voice devoid of its usual hypnotic allure, replaced by blank astonishment. “Like a… a…”
“A koala!” Harley shrieked, clapping her hands together. “A grumpy, stabby little koala! Lookit him! He’s just holdin’ on! Is he tired? Is this a new Bat-traversal method? Do you just… walk him around the city?!”
Batman slowly, very slowly, lowered his arm. The cape began to swish back into place. But the damage was done. The image was seared into the atmosphere.
“The negotiations,” Batman boomed, trying to reclaim the gravitas that had just evaporated. But the growl lacked its usual edge. It was undercut by the tiny, stubborn accessory on his leg.
“Negotiations? Pfft!” Harley was doubled over, wheezing with laughter. “I’ll give you the cure! I’ll give you two cures! Just promise me you’ll walk past the GCPD like that tomorrow! Oh, Batsy, you big softie!”
Ivy, still stunned, was looking back and forth between Batman’s impassive cowl and the visible bit of Robin clinging to him. A strange, almost wistful expression crossed her face. She saw the absolute trust in that cling, the unthinking, childlike demand for proximity. It was a form of symbiosis far purer than any she could force with her plants. It was… organic.
“The cure is in the seed pod on the weeping fig by the north door,” she said quietly, her gaze still fixed on the hidden Robin. “The LexCorp permit. See that it’s revoked.” Her command was firm, but her heart wasn’t in it anymore. She’d been completely disarmed, not by force, but by a single, ridiculous, heart-meltingly domestic sight.
“You heard her, Bats!” Harley skipped forward, ignoring all threat protocols, and actually pinched the air near where Robin’s leg was probably hidden under the cape. “Go get your cure! And give the little leech a squeeze from Auntie Harley!”
Robin’s voice, tight with mortified fury, finally emerged from the shadow of the cape. “I am not a leech, Quinn! It is a tactical resting position! The humidity in this structure is fatiguing!”
That sent Harley into a fresh paroxysm of giggles. “Tactical restin’! I’m gonna get that embroidered on a pillow!”
Batman knew the moment was lost. Any further intimidation was impossible. He had achieved his objective, but at a catastrophic cost to the fearsome mystique of the Batman. Yet, as he felt the small, steady weight on his leg, the weight that had chosen to stay there even through this profound humiliation, he found he didn’t care.
He gave a curt nod to Ivy, who was still watching with that strange, soft look. “The permit is dead.”
Then he turned, his cape flaring with finality. As he walked stiffly towards the north door, the little pair of boots once again came into view for a second, swinging gently with each of Batman’s strides.
Harley’s delighted shouts followed them out into the night. “Bye, Bat-dad! Bye, koala-boy! Get home safe! Don’t forget to water him!”
Once they were on the rooftop, three blocks away, Batman stopped. The city lights glittered below. He could feel the tension in the small form on his leg.
“Robin. You can disembark.”
There was a pause. Then, with great dignity, Damian released his grip and dropped silently to the rooftop. He straightened his tunic, refusing to meet the lenses of the cowl.
“I trust the tactical advantage of the elevated vantage point during the exchange was noted,” Batman said, his voice devoid of inflectionn.
Damian crossed his arms. “Of course. Quinn’s predictability and Isley’s momentary lapse in focus were directly attributable to my… position. It was an effective, if unorthodox, strategy.”
“Hn.”
A beat of silence passed, filled only with the distant hum of Gotham.
“Father.”
“Yes, Robin?”
“If you ever speak of this to Grayson, I will fill the Batmobile with manure from the Wayne Stables.”
Batman felt the smile spread beneath the cowl, wide and unguarded.
“Understood. Report to the Cave. And, Robin?”
“What?”
“Good work tonight.”
For a fraction of a second, Damian’s severe posture softened. He gave a sharp nod, then fired his grapple, disappearing into the darkness, leaving Batman alone on the rooftop.