Baby Damian one-shots

Damian throws a tantrum

It started with a small thing, as most tantrums do. Damian was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to eat his lunch, but he wasn't having any of it. His food—an assortment of small sandwiches and fruit—wasn't up to his standards, and his tiny brow furrowed in displeasure.

"I don't like this," he muttered, pushing the plate away, his lips curled into a pout. "It tastes terrible."

Bruce, who had been on the phone with someone in the other room, came in to see what was going on. He raised an eyebrow at the scene, noting that Damian hadn't even touched most of the food on the plate. "Dami, you need to eat. You can't keep skipping meals like this."

"I don't want to," Damian snapped, crossing his arms. "It's gross."

Bruce sighed, setting down his phone and walking over to his son. "I made it for you. You need to eat something so you can feel better."

"No!" Damian's voice was loud and shrill as he slammed his hands on the table. "I won't eat it. I want something else!"

Bruce stayed calm, taking a deep breath. He'd dealt with tantrums before—though they were rare with Damian—and he knew that being patient was key. "Damian, we don't throw fits. You can't just have whatever you want all the time. We need to make sure you're eating right."

Damian's face twisted with frustration. He slammed his fists on the table again, this time causing the plate to rattle. "I don't care! I want what I want! Not this!" His eyes were starting to well up with tears, and his breath came in sharp, uneven bursts.

Bruce's expression softened, even though he knew this was a test of patience. He gently placed a hand on Damian's shoulder, trying to soothe him. "I understand that you're upset. But you have to calm down. I'm not going to let you go without food. You're not leaving this table until you eat something."

Damian's lower lip trembled, and for a moment, it seemed like the tantrum might calm down. But then, with a cry of frustration, he shoved the plate off the table, sending it crashing to the floor with a loud clatter.

Bruce's heart sank, but he remained firm. "Damian," he said, his voice quieter but more serious, "we don't act like this. I'm not angry, but you need to stop throwing things."

Damian's eyes were now filled with tears, and his face was scrunched up in the unmistakable look of a full tantrum. "I want my way! Why won't you listen?!" His small body trembled, and he flung himself backward in his chair, pushing it away as he started to cry.

Bruce moved quickly then, kneeling beside his son and pulling him into his arms. It wasn't an easy decision, but Damian's outburst was a cry for attention, even if it was born from frustration and hunger. "I'm listening," Bruce said softly, his tone full of patience, "but you have to calm down. I'm here, okay? I'll always listen to you. But we need to stop throwing things."

Damian hiccupped through his sobs, the anger slowly giving way to the vulnerability underneath. He clung to Bruce, still sniffling, but the tantrum had lost its momentum. "I'm sorry, Papa," he whispered, his voice small and fragile.

Bruce held him close, rocking him gently. "It's okay, Dami. I know you're upset. But we can't do this every time you don't like something. If you don't like the food, we'll try something else next time, okay?"

Damian nodded reluctantly, his arms still wrapped tightly around Bruce. "Okay... but I don't like that food."

"I know. But I'll make sure you get something better for dinner. Just calm down now, buddy."

Bruce continued to soothe him until his breathing returned to normal and the tension in his little body started to ease. "Can we eat together now?" Bruce asked gently.

Damian looked up at him, his tear-streaked face a mix of frustration and exhaustion. "Can I have something else?"

Bruce nodded. "Of course. We'll make something you like. But first, you need to relax. Deal?"

Damian sniffled again, his stubborn nature not fully gone, but the worst of the tantrum had passed. He nodded slowly. "Deal, Papa."

And with that, Bruce smiled softly, brushing a tear from his son's cheek. "Good boy."