Baby Damian one-shots

Book Troubles

The soft hum of the Batcave's machinery was drowned out by the piercing wail of a very displeased Damian Wayne. The three-year-old sat in the middle of the Batcomputer's chair, his tiny arms crossed, his face scrunched into the angriest pout Bruce had ever seen.

"Dami," Bruce said with his usual calm demeanor, crouching down to meet his son's furious glare. "What's the problem?"

Damian's lip quivered, but he remained defiant. "You said you would read to me, but you're doing work instead."

"I have to finish this report, buddy," Bruce explained gently. "It's important."

Damian huffed, turning his head away dramatically. "No. You promised. You're breaking your word. A Wayne never breaks their word."

Bruce sighed, rubbing his temples. "I'll read to you right after, I swear."

"I don't want after," Damian said, his voice climbing in pitch. "I want now!"

From behind, Alfred cleared his throat. "Master Bruce, might I suggest attending to Master Damian before the Batcave suffers from another, shall we say, 'incident'? The last tantrum left the grappling equipment scattered in places we're still discovering."

Bruce gave Alfred a dry look. "You're not helping."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "On the contrary, I believe I am."

Bruce turned back to Damian, who was now pulling Batty—the well-loved Batman stuffed toy—close to his chest. His green eyes shimmered with unshed tears, his lower lip trembling.

"Papa, please," Damian finally said, in the smallest, most pitiful voice.

Bruce's resolve crumbled instantly. "Alright, alright. One chapter."

Damian's pout transformed into a triumphant smile. "Two chapters."

Bruce sighed but couldn't fight the grin tugging at his lips. "Fine. Two chapters. But after that, I need to get back to work, okay?"

Damian nodded solemnly, climbing down from the chair and tugging Bruce's hand toward the living quarters.

As they walked past Alfred, Damian looked up at him, smirking. "I told you he'd read to me."

Bruce groaned. "Alfred, stop enabling him."

"Me, sir? I would never," Alfred replied, his expression far too innocent.

By the time Bruce finished reading the second chapter of Great Expectations (Damian's choice, of course), the toddler was curled up in his lap, Batty tucked under his arm, fast asleep.

Bruce looked down at his son, brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. "Spoiled," he murmured affectionately.

From the doorway, Alfred whispered, "He gets that from his father."

Bruce shot him a look, but it was hard to argue when Damian let out a small, satisfied sigh in his sleep, as if dreaming about his latest victory.