Baby Damian one-shots

Damian Wayne and the Chocolate Chip Cookies

The scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies wafted through the halls of Wayne Manor, making its way to the small living room where Damian sat perched on the edge of a couch, legs swinging impatiently. He had been waiting for what felt like hours, though it had only been ten minutes. His green eyes glinted with both curiosity and hunger, his hands pressed together as if in silent prayer.

Alfred had promised him one of his famous chocolate chip cookies after lunch, and Damian had no intention of letting him forget.

"Papa," Damian said, his little voice cutting through the quiet of the manor. His eyes never left the kitchen door. "I want a cookie."

Bruce, who had been reading through his latest case files, looked over the top of the folder, blinking in surprise. "Dami," he said softly, but there was a certain indulgence in his tone. "Alfred's still baking. You'll need to wait a little longer."

Damian's bottom lip immediately jutted out, and his brow furrowed in a perfect imitation of a storm cloud. He slid off the couch and marched to his father's side, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. "I want cookie now. I don't want to wait."

Bruce chuckled, his stern expression softening. He had learned long ago that saying no to Damian was an exercise in futility. The boy didn't throw tantrums or scream, but his silent determination was a force of nature.

"Dami," Bruce said, lowering his voice to a softer, more serious tone. "You need to wait. It'll be worth it, I promise."

But Damian wasn't having it. He folded his arms across his chest and huffed, turning on his heel and marching toward the kitchen. His small hands reached up, and with the precision only a Wayne could manage, he gripped the kitchen door handle, tugging with all his might.

The door creaked open, and there, in the middle of the room, Alfred stood with a tray of warm, gooey cookies.

Damian's eyes lit up as he pointed at the tray. "I want one," he demanded, his tone final, a small but regal gesture that only someone as spoiled as Damian could pull off at such a tender age.

Alfred, who had long grown accustomed to the little demands of the child he had helped raise, raised an eyebrow, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Master Damian, the cookies are still quite hot. I'd hate to see you burn your little fingers."

Damian didn't even flinch. "I don't care," he said firmly, his voice unwavering. "I want it. Now."

Bruce, who had followed Damian into the kitchen, could only shake his head, unable to suppress the smile tugging at his lips. He knew that when Damian had his mind set on something, nothing would deter him.

"Let him have one, Alfred," Bruce said, giving in with an amused sigh. "We can deal with the consequences later."

Alfred sighed dramatically, but his eyes twinkled with affection as he carefully slid a warm cookie onto a small plate and handed it to Damian.

The moment the cookie was in his hand, Damian's face lit up, and his previous frustration melted away into sheer bliss. He bit into the soft, still-warm cookie, his eyes closing in delight as the rich sweetness filled his senses.

"Best cookie," Damian mumbled through a mouthful, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

Bruce, watching the scene, smiled. "Spoiled, yes. But happy."

Damian, barely paying attention to his father's comment, reached up to hold out the cookie plate toward Bruce. "Papa," he said in a sing-song voice, "have some. You're going to need strength to carry me later."

Bruce chuckled and took the plate, joining his son in his chocolate chip indulgence. They weren't in a rush. There was no schedule to follow, no crime to fight. Just father and son, sharing a quiet moment in the heart of Wayne Manor.

Damian may have been spoiled, but it was in these small moments—his quiet demands and his unspoken ways of showing love—that Bruce saw the heart of a child who was learning to be part of a world he'd never known before. And in return, Bruce knew he would spoil him for as long as he could.