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The Watchtower’s conference room was suffocating with tension. Alien delegates from countless star systems sat around the enormous oval table, their faces a mixture of suspicion and hope. Bruce sat rigid, every muscle coiled, as he absorbed the weight of the diplomatic standoff hanging over them. A single misstep now could ignite a war across galaxies.
The room’s ambient hum was suddenly pierced by the sharp buzz of Bruce’s communicator. The name flashed silently on the screen: Alfred.
Bruce’s heart skipped. Alfred rarely interrupted him during League business, and when he did, it was never trivial.
He offered a terse apology and excused himself, stepping out into the dimly lit hallway. The cold, metallic walls of the Watchtower felt suddenly alien, too distant from home, too far from the people he needed.
“Alfred,” Bruce said quietly, trying to keep the strain from his voice.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred answered, measured but with an unmistakable edge of concern. “I apologize for interrupting your meeting. But there’s an urgent situation at the Manor.”
Bruce’s pulse accelerated. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Damian,” Alfred said cautiously, as if choosing each word carefully. “He’s… small, sir. Very small.”
The words slammed into Bruce like a physical blow. His breath hitched; the world tilted. Damian. His son. His responsibility.
Small.
Not a child who’d simply fallen or gotten sick.
But small.
Bruce’s chest tightened painfully. He felt the first crack of panic.
He glanced back at the conference room door as if it might open and let him slip away, let him be there where he was needed most.
But the Watchtower was a fortress of impossible demands. Diplomatic tensions with volatile species, delicate negotiations with no margin for error.
If Bruce disappeared now, if Batman vanished in the middle of the standoff, the consequences could spiral out of control. A ripple that might become a tidal wave.
He clenched his jaw, fists balling tightly at his sides as the weight of his duty crushed him.
“I can’t leave,” he said in a near whisper. “Not now.”
Alfred’s voice was steady but compassionate. “I understand, sir. Dick is on his way. We have every confidence he can handle things until you arrive.”
Bruce’s shoulders slumped fractionally, but he fought the urge to give in to helplessness.
“Call me the moment anything changes,” he said firmly, voice strained but resolute.
“Of course, Master Bruce.”
The call ended, leaving Bruce alone in the cold corridor.
His mind was already racing, images of Damian, small and vulnerable, clouding his focus.
He couldn’t shake the ache of absence, the gnawing desperation of being so far away from his son when he was needed most.
Bruce squared his shoulders, breathed deeply, and turned back toward the conference.
He was a soldier of justice.
But in his heart, he was a father desperate to be home.
---
The moment the call ended, Dick felt the world narrow to a pinpoint of urgency. Without a second thought, he dropped everything, no matter the mission or meeting still in progress. Damian needed him. His baby brother needed him.
He jumped into his car, heart pounding, hands gripping the wheel tighter than usual. The city blurred as he raced through the streets, tires screeching on tight corners. His mind was a storm of worry and determination.
When he pulled up to the Manor, he didn’t even pause to breathe. Dick dashed inside, calling out softly, “Damian? Where are you?”
He found him in the library, curled small and tense in the corner, knees hugged tight against his chest, breath quick and shallow, eyes darting like he was trying to hold back a flood.
“Dames?” Dick’s voice was low and soothing as he knelt beside him. The sight of his baby brother so overwhelmed shook something deep inside.
Damian’s lower lip quivered, and his voice was barely a whisper. “W-Where’s… Daddy?”
Dick’s heart clenched. He reached out, pulling Damian close without hesitation, letting the boy collapse against his chest. “He’s coming, baby bird. He just can’t fly down yet. But I’m here, okay? I got you.”
His fingers gently stroked Damian’s damp hair as he whispered, “You’re safe now.”
Dick carefully helped Damian into a soft hoodie, one from their emergency stash. Then, with a practiced but tender hand, he slipped a fresh diaper beneath the hoodie, making sure Damian was comfortable.
From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a pacifier, offering it gently. Damian hesitated for a heartbeat, then accepted, the comforting suckling slowing his ragged breaths.
Alfred appeared in the doorway, carrying a warm bottle of milk, steam curling in the cool air.
“Alfred,” Dick nodded gratefully.
Alfred smiled softly. “Master Bruce instructed us to provide whatever comforts he might need.”
Dick scooped Damian into his arms and padded over to the couch, settling down into the cushions. Wrapping Damian in one of the soft blankets from the emergency stash, he cradled him protectively.
Damian’s small fingers curled around Dick’s shirt as he finally relaxed, eyelids fluttering closed.
Dick sat still, breathing steadily, his heart swelling with the fierce love and responsibility that came with being the big brother in an instant.
---
Within the hour, the familiar thrum of bikes and footsteps echoed through the Manor’s grand entrance. Jason, Tim, and Duke arrived in a flurry, their faces etched with concern and determination.
Jason kicked off his boots and grinned at Dick. “So… he little-little?”
Dick gave a tired but affectionate smile. “He asked if Nightwing could do voices for storytime. So… yeah.”
The team wasted no time setting up a safe zone in the living room, a fortress of blankets, pillows, and soft lighting.
Damian nestled in Dick’s lap, pacifier in place, exhaustion evident in his heavy eyes and slack posture. The effort to stay ‘big’ for so long had clearly drained him.
Jason sat beside them, brushing strands of dark hair back from Damian’s damp forehead with surprising gentleness.
Tim arranged a sensory station nearby, complete with soft fidget toys, calming lights, and gentle music tailored to soothe overstimulation.
Duke brought over a tray of snacks—healthy finger foods and soft treats—while quietly selecting a playlist of mellow songs to fill the room.
They were trying. Really trying to keep everything under control.
But the tension was palpable.
Jason hadn’t cracked a joke or teased anyone in over twenty minutes, a rare silence that set the room on edge.
Tim kept rubbing his temples, brow furrowed, as if trying to push away a growing headache.
Dick sat stiff and tight, as if holding his breath, eyes flickering constantly to Damian, willing his baby brother to relax but barely allowing himself to do the same.
The brothers were united in purpose, but each one was silently struggling under the weight of this new reality.
The quiet wasn’t peace.
It was the calm before something gave way.
---
The living room was dimly lit, a soft glow from the muted lamps casting gentle shadows over the scattered blankets and pillows. At first glance, everything seemed calm, organized even. But beneath the surface, the fragile balance was starting to unravel.
Each of the brothers sat or stood in their assigned roles, each desperately trying to hold up the weight of responsibility, of being the big one for Damian. Because no matter what, someone had to be. Someone had to hold steady so their little brother wouldn’t feel alone, wouldn’t feel small and scared without their father.
Jason was closest to Damian, gently brushing the boy’s damp hair from his forehead. His touch was softer than anyone would expect from the sarcastic, sometimes brash older brother. Yet, the moment Damian let out a sudden, shaky cry, Jason’s body jerked, a sharp flinch, as though the sound had struck him in a place he tried to keep locked away. His fingers faltered, hovering in midair before he hastily resumed brushing, but the tension in his jaw was unmistakable. Jason wasn’t as composed as he wanted to appear.
Across the room, Tim paced slowly, fingers nervously tapping the armrest of the chair. When Alfred quietly suggested a different lullaby to soothe Damian, Tim’s response was sharper than intended, a terse “That’s fine, Alfred,” clipped with frustration. His own voice surprised him. He immediately fell silent, staring down at the floor with tight shoulders and hands clenched into fists. For a long time, he simply sat there, head bowed, rubbing his temples as though trying to physically push away the building pressure inside his mind.
Meanwhile, Dick sat on the couch with Damian curled in his lap. Every muscle in Dick’s body was taut, every breath measured and cautious. Without thinking, he reached down and tucked another blanket over Damian’s legs, soft fleece against already warm skin. It was unnecessary, but the motion was automatic, a way to soothe himself as much as his brother. The need to fix, to protect, burned through him, even when there was nothing left to do but wait and hope.
Duke sat quietly in the corner, his usually bright eyes clouded with fatigue. He watched the others with a gentle sadness that went unspoken. Finally, in a small voice barely above a whisper, he said, “We’re okay. Just tired.”
No one disagreed.
Because they were tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of exhaustion that comes not from lack of sleep alone but from holding too much inside. The kind that makes you want to cry but keeps your face a mask because you know someone else needs you to be strong.
They were all fraying at the edges, trying to be the big brothers, the caretakers, the rock for Damian when their own foundations were beginning to crumble.
And none of them knew how much longer they could hold the cracks at bay.
---
The change was so subtle at first that no one really saw it coming.
Jason sat alone near the corner of the room, absentmindedly flipping through a magazine he didn’t really care about. His eyes kept drifting to the pile of Damian’s things stacked on the side table, blankets, a few plushies, and a small, well-worn chew toy shaped like a bat. With a small shrug, he picked it up and spun it between his fingers.
“It’s for Damian,” Jason muttered, mostly to himself. “Keeps him calm, or whatever.”
But when no one was looking, Jason’s jaw clenched around the edge of the chew toy. His sharp teeth pressed into the soft rubber like it was something he desperately needed but was too proud to admit. His eyes flickered with a flash of something raw, frustration, maybe, or exhaustion.
Across the room, Tim was sitting close to Damian, who was nestled in Dick’s lap. The stress of the day weighed on Tim’s shoulders visibly, and after a long pause, he suddenly shifted. His hand moved on its own, brushing a stray lock of hair from Damian’s forehead.
Without thinking, Tim curled up beside Damian on the couch, his face softening as he rested his head near the boy’s shoulder. His fingers twitched toward his mouth, and before anyone could catch him, his thumb slipped between his lips. His eyes fluttered closed, and a deep, exhausted sigh escaped him.
“Tim?” Jason’s voice was quiet, cautious.
Tim blinked, startled awake. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but he didn’t pull away.
“I didn’t mean to—”
Jason shook his head, surprising Tim with a small smile. “It’s okay. You look like you needed it.”
Nearby, Duke was sitting cross-legged by the window. The sky was still bright with late afternoon light, but Duke reached out and clicked on the nightlight—a soft, glowing orb that filled the room with a gentle warmth.
“I thought it’d help,” Duke said softly when Alfred gave him a questioning look. “The shadows are too much, even during the day.”
Dick, holding Damian tightly, had been reading aloud quietly. But gradually, his voice softened, falling into a slow, sing-song rhythm. The steady cadence filled the room, but no one noticed when his tone shifted from his usual deep and confident to something gentler, almost soothing in its simplicity.
His free hand started to rock Damian’s back in small, rhythmic circles.
“Hey, little guy,” Dick murmured, voice tender. “Daddy’s coming soon, okay? We’re all here.”
Damian rested his head against Dick’s chest, eyes half-lidded with trust and fatigue.
None of them realized the lines between big and little were blurring.
But Bruce did.
Watching from the security feed at the Watchtower, his eyes scanned the live video, catching every detail: Jason biting the chew toy in silence, Tim asleep with his thumb in his mouth, Duke turning on the nightlight prematurely, and Dick’s soft rocking.
Bruce’s breath caught in his throat.
His fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.
“My boys,” he whispered brokenly.
All of them are his responsibility, his babies.
And he was so far away.
That was the moment something inside him shattered.
He couldn’t stay.
He wouldn’t stay.
Not when his sons needed him this badly.
---
The conference room was tense. A dozen heads of state had just logged off the shared call, and the Justice League sat in stiff silence. The negotiations had dragged for hours, each more grueling than the last, and Bruce had barely spoken, a dark silhouette at the end of the table, arms crossed, jaw locked, eyes distant.
His mind hadn’t been in the room. Not since he’d seen the footage.
Not since he saw Jason quietly chewing that bat-shaped toy like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Not since he’d watched Tim’s lips wrap around his thumb, exhausted and unguarded. Not since he saw Dick—his steady, strong, eldest—rocking back and forth with Damian curled in his arms, whispering lullabies without realizing it.
Something inside Bruce had snapped.
He stood suddenly, knocking his chair back with a screech.
“Bruce,” Diana said cautiously, raising a hand. “Let’s just take a break. We’ll regroup—”
“No.” His voice was hard. Low and final. “I’m done.”
Clark leaned forward, brows drawn. “We still need to finalize the aid routes. If you leave now—”
“My children need me.” Bruce slammed his communicator down on the table like a gavel. “And I am done playing diplomat.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
“Wait—Bruce—” Diana stood now, too, confused and tense. “What’s going on?”
“They’re not okay,” Bruce said, almost to himself. His voice cracked. “They’ve been strong for too long. All of them.”
“You mean physically?” J’onn asked, concerned.
“No. I mean emotionally. Mentally. They’re—” Bruce’s voice faltered. He gritted his teeth. “They need me. That’s all that matters.”
“Batman—” Clark started, but Bruce had already turned, cape snapping behind him.
He stormed out of the conference room, ignoring the voices calling after him, ignoring protocol. In the hallway, he barked into his comm, “Zeta-tube access. Now.”
“Destination?” the Watchtower AI replied automatically.
“Batcave.”
Zeta-tube lit up instantly, glowing with familiar blue.
“Bruce, wait—” Diana caught up to him, face stricken. “At least tell us what’s happening—”
But Bruce just looked at her, something raw in his eyes. “I’ll brief you later. Right now, I have to go home.”
And with that, he stepped into the light, vanishing in a flash.
Back to the Cave.
Back to his boys.
---
The Manor is hushed, wrapped in the sound of steady rain tapping against the tall windows. Thunder rolls in the distance, muffled by layers of stone and shadow. The only light in the main room comes from a single lamp in the corner, casting everything in a soft amber glow.
The floor has been transformed into a massive, chaotic nest, blankets, comforters, stuffed animals, half-zipped sleeping bags, and scattered pillows forming a padded fortress in front of the fireplace. The embers inside crackle gently, flickering orange across damp lashes and tired eyes.
Damian is the smallest he’s ever been.
He’s curled in tight, tucked right into Dick’s chest like a kitten, though he’s trying very hard to look brave. Dick is cradling him with one arm and gently carding fingers through his hair with the other, whispering nonsense in a soft, rhythmical hum. He doesn’t even realize he’s rocking them both.
Tim is curled on the other side of the nest, a half-full baby bottle clutched loosely in his hand. His head’s lolling a little, cheeks pink, eyelids fluttering. He looks like he might startle awake at any moment, like he’s not quite sure it’s safe to fall asleep yet.
Jason is the only one upright, perched near the edge of the blanket pile. His knees are drawn to his chest, and he’s rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm, sniffling. His jaw trembles like he’s chewing back the urge to cry again, but the wobble in his chin betrays him.
Duke is the only one halfway grounded, tucked in a chair nearby, watching the others quietly, protectively. He’s still, but his hand is resting on the nightlight remote.
And then—
The Zeta-beam hums low and distant from below.
Footsteps echo. The cave door creaks open.
And Bruce steps into the doorway.
For a moment, no one breathes.
Four sets of eyes snap toward him.
Damian’s voice is barely a whisper.
“Daddy?”
Bruce’s heart shatters into dust.
His face crumples, no more masks, no more cowl. Just a father. Wrecked and soft and aching with guilt.
He drops to his knees before any of them can move, arms wide, voice breaking.
“Hey, sweetheart. Daddy’s here. I’m here now, baby.”
And it’s like the spell breaks.
Suddenly they’re all moving. Scrambling.
Tim drops the bottle. Jason nearly trips on the blankets. Damian launches himself into Bruce’s chest with a desperate little whimper. Dick doesn’t even try to hold it together; he follows right after, pressing his face into Bruce’s shoulder.
Duke exhales shakily and sits back, letting himself cry for the first time all day.
Bruce gathers all of them—every single one—into his arms.
Five grown boys. One desperate father.
They're tangled and clinging, sobbing into his neck, hands grabbing at his coat, whispering things like “Don’t go,” and “Stay,” and “We missed you.”
And Bruce just holds them, pressing kisses to damp foreheads, whispering over and over again:
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Daddy’s here. You’re safe now.”
---
Bruce changed out of the Batsuit in record time.
The second he was sure the cave was locked down, the armor was peeled off and dumped in a heap, gauntlets clattering to the floor, boots kicked aside, cape shed like a heavy skin. He didn’t even shower. Just threw on the first soft things he could grab: an old Gotham U hoodie, threadbare and worn, and gray sweatpants with a tiny coffee stain on the knee.
Now he’s curled on the Manor’s living room couch, surrounded by his five boys.
All of them.
All here.
All safe.
All just a little bit small.
Not tiny, not blank-eyed or nonverbal. Just soft. Vulnerable. Young in that invisible way only they and Bruce understand. Where the masks are down and the world can wait.
Dick is tucked at Bruce’s side, arms loosely slung around his waist, head resting on his shoulder. His eyes are glassy, like he’s been on the verge of tears for hours, but he’s not saying a word. He’s just holding on.
Jason’s on the other side, hiccuping quietly and curling in close like he’s trying to disappear under Bruce’s arm. Every few seconds, he rubs at his nose with his sleeve, shoulders twitching. Bruce keeps a steady hand on his back.
Tim’s curled in Bruce’s lap between Damian’s legs, trying to wedge himself deeper into Bruce’s chest like he wants to hide. He keeps rubbing his cheek against the hoodie fabric like he’s scenting it. He hasn’t said a single word, just made one small, choked sound when Bruce kissed the top of his head.
Duke is burrowed beside Dick under a weighted blanket, only his eyes and a tuft of hair visible. His hand is fisted in Bruce’s sleeve, and he hasn’t let go once, not even to shift.
And Damian—
Damian is on Bruce.
Fully curled in his lap, limbs tucked in tight, paci bobbing softly between his lips. He’s flushed and wide-eyed, staring at Bruce like he’s the only safe thing in the world. He’s so close Bruce can feel every breath.
The storm still rumbles outside.
But in here, it’s quiet.
Soft. Warm.
Safe.
Bruce rocks them slowly, just a gentle motion, back and forth, enough to soothe.
He kisses heads. Hums lullabies. Lets the moment stretch and breathe.
And he whispers, voice thick with love:
“You were so brave.”
A little shiver goes through the pile.
“You took care of each other so well.”
Jason sniffles louder. Tim clutches his hoodie tighter. Damian’s eyes flutter.
“Daddy’s so proud of you.”
No one says anything.
No one needs to.
They don’t want to let go.
And Bruce doesn’t make them.
He just holds them tighter and keeps humming, cradling his whole world in his arms.
---
The Manor is silent now.
Outside, the rain has settled into a soft, steady drizzle. The fire in the hearth is low and warm, casting flickers of orange over the bundled pile of blankets and bodies on the couch.
They're all asleep.
Dick, arm flopped protectively over Duke.
Tim, slack against Bruce’s chest, finally still.
Jason, breathing slowly and even, a little pink around the nose.
Damian, paci still tucked in, one hand curled in Bruce’s hoodie like a baby koala.
All five of them. Out cold. Safe.
Bruce gently, carefully, extricates himself.
It takes skill, a slow untangle of limbs and blankets and sniffly noises, but eventually he’s free. He tucks the blankets tighter around the boys. Lowers the lights. Presses one last kiss to Jason’s curls before crossing to the hidden panel in the wall.
It slides open with a soft click.
He descends into the cave barefoot.
No cape. No cowl. Just Dad-mode Bruce Wayne, moving through the shadows with purpose. He sits down in front of the Batcomputer and opens a new encrypted file.
PROJECT: BABY CAVE
He pauses.
Takes a breath.
And starts to type:
If one sibling regresses:
* Activate protocol.
* Calm environment, weighted blankets, bottle or stim toy deployment.
* Monitor vitals. Contact Bruce Wayne if instability persists.
If two or more regress:
* Immediate extraction recommended.
* Cease mission. Retreat to safehouse or Manor.
* Initiate cuddle pile protocols.
If three or more regress:
* ALERT: Contact Bruce Wayne immediately.
* DO NOT DELAY.
* You are not equipped to handle this alone.
If four or more regress:
* ABANDON ALL MISSIONS.
* Leave the field.
* Evacuate. Shut down. Call for backup.
* Nothing matters more than this.
They are your babies. GO HOME.
---
Bruce stares at the screen for a long moment.
Then hits SAVE.
The screen goes dark.
He heads back upstairs.
The fire crackles low. The storm has nearly passed.
His boys are still there, where he left them, dreaming and tangled and safe.
Bruce climbs back into the middle of the cuddle pile, sliding under the weighted blanket, letting Damian instinctively curl back onto his chest.
They don’t even stir.
He exhales.
And lets himself sleep.