#baby reader

Bruce carefully brushed the edge of the blanket away from your face. You scrunched your tiny nose, disturbed, then settled back down without issue. The billionaire had found you abandoned outside the garage doors of the Gotham Fire Station, left there by some overwhelmed mother no doubt. Unfortunately, that particular station was closed on the weekends, because of course this damned city couldn't staff a fire station 24/7, and if he hadn't found you on patrol, you would have frozen to death on the ground.

"They were in danger!" Bruce insisted firmly, but kept his voice soft so as not to frighten you. "Look — they don't have black hair or blue eyes. You can tell I didn't do it on purpose."

"Why not take the baby to the GCPD, then? Or a hospital?" Jason piped up, unamused. "B, cut the bullshit. You can't keep 'em."

"I brought them here first to ensure they didn't need any immediate medical attention."

"Which is something a hospital could do," Tim said.

"An overcrowded and understaffed hospital, that doesn't have the time to spare to give them direct and undivided attention?" Bruce argued. "The med ward in the Cave is just as efficient as an emergency room, if not more so."

"And the fact that you aren't down there with the baby — the baby you are not keeping," Dick chimed in, holding out his arms for you, "means that they're perfectly fine and can be transported safely somewhere else."

"They're sleeping right now," Bruce said, completely deadpan, and made no move to relinquish his hold over you. "We can't put them in a noisy car and upset them. We can drop the baby off in the morning."

"He's getting dangerously attached," Dick hissed to his brothers. "We need the big guns."

"I'll alert Pennyworth," Damian declared, already ducking out of the room. Bruce scowled, aware the battle was quickly turning against his favor. But he could play dirty, too.

He dropped his shoulders and the furrow of his brow turned slightly down, weary and forlorn. He stopped looking at his boys and instead studied all your tiny features, tracing a finger down the bridge of your nose, gently across your lashes, and over your plump little cheeks. You were absolutely adorable. He was already thinking of names for you in his mind.

"You know, I never got to raise any of you from infancy," he stated, not in any pointed manner, just as objective fact. Just quietly enough that they could think Bruce hadn't meant to say it out loud. "Not that I would've wanted to steal that experience from your birth parents. I would never. But...I don't even know what Damian looked like when he was this small."

Dick's eye twitched. The glare was still in place, but his frown was less severe. One down.

"I'm sorry, boys," he sighed, acting as though he were giving in. "The Mission has taken up so much of my time, it's hard not to wonder what I would have been like as a normal father. Just the formative things, like... like changing diapers, and doing Tummy Time, and helping you guys learn to walk."

Tim's eyes grew distant, likely thinking of his own parents and the loneliness he felt growing up in Drake Manor all by himself. He was no doubt recalling how much he wished his mom or dad had been around, to play or to talk to or just to physically be there with him, instead of off traveling the world and leaving him behind to fend for himself.

Two down.

But Jason, despite all that had happened over the years, despite the strain on his relationship with Bruce, had always been the most emotional of his children. He would not be hard to win over.

"This would be a mistake," Bruce stated, looking his second oldest right in the eyes. "They'd be happier somewhere else, somewhere normal. Maybe...maybe one of you could hold them and I can go start the car? I can feel myself starting to get attached, and that's not fair to you, boys. I didn't mean to stress you all out. I wasn't thinking."

Jason huffed, lowering his feet from where they'd been propped up on the coffee table, and stood from the couch to come take you from Bruce. His arms carefully held you to his broad chest, your weight settling against him pleasantly.

He made the mistake of watching you scrunch your face and whine softly, itty bitty hands poking out from your blanket and gripping onto his shirt sleeve with all the strength your small body could muster.

Jason's expression dropped immediately, and he practically melted as he tucked you closer.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

Damian and Alfred walked into the living room to find Bruce, Jason, Dick, and Tim all cooing and fawning over you, and the war was lost.

The world that greeted you was a symphony of harsh, unfamiliar sensations. The air was thin and cold, a stark contrast to the warm, viscous fluid that had sustained you within your pearlescent egg. The lights of the Batcave’s med-bay were painfully bright, making your large, liquid-black eyes blink rapidly. You were small, no larger than a very chubby, round six-month-old human infant, your limbs soft and doughy, your skin pale and dotted with faint, opalescent scales along your shoulders and back. A thatch of fine, downy hair, the color of spun starlight, covered your head. To the humans who now surrounded you, you were the picture of alien infancy.

They did not understand. In your species, gestation within the egg could last for decades, the being inside growing vast and strong, armored and formidable. You, Y/N, had been cast out too soon, a desperate measure from a dying ship. The silence in your mind, where the comforting psychic hum of your brood-ship and kin should have been, was a deafening void. You were the only one. The sole survivor.

You sat on the cold steel examination table, the remnants of your shell scattered around you like shards of a fractured moon. For warmth and a feeble imitation of the connection you’d lost, you sucked rhythmically on a pacifier Batman had procured from some hidden emergency stash, your wide, saucer-like eyes taking in the three towering figures arguing over you.

Jason Todd, the Red Hood, was the first to voice the sheer absurdity of the situation. He’d removed his helmet, revealing a face etched with skepticism and a faint, lingering pain. He crossed his arms, his leather jacket creaking with the movement. “So you’re saying this… thing is… just hatched? And it’s hatched early?” he managed, his voice a low rumble.

Dick Grayson, Nightwing, shot him a sharp look, his own posture more open but no less bewildered. He was crouched slightly, trying to meet your gaze on your level. “It’s a person, not an it, Jason,” he chided softly. But his own confidence wavered as he looked back at you, a tiny, cooing creature amidst the high-tech gloom. “If… this is a premature one,” he continued, his brain clearly struggling with the scale, “what would a full-term look like? A Goliath?”

You didn’t understand their words, the guttural sounds of their language were just noise. But you were an empathic species, sensitive to the emotional currents around you. From Jason, you sensed a rough, guarded confusion, a wall of sharp edges. From Dick, a wave of genuine, if flustered, concern and a desire to protect. And from the third, silent figure—Batman—a deep, analytical calm that felt like the steady hum of a ship’s engine, layered over a profound and surprising tenderness.

Bruce Wayne, his cowl down, was running a gentle, gloved hand over a piece of your eggshell, his brow furrowed. He had been the one to find the derelict vessel, a silent, crystalline tomb orbiting a dead star. He had brought the single, intact egg back to the Cave, and he had been there when the first hairline crack had appeared. He had watched you emerge, small and confused, and his first instinct, buried deep beneath the mantle of the Bat, had been to swaddle you in a heated blanket.

Your care became the Batfamily’s most unexpected and secret mission. The Cave’s lower levels were converted into a makeshift nursery, climate-controlled to mimic the warm, humid environment of your ship. Alfred Pennyworth became your primary caretaker, his centuries of patience perfectly suited to the task. He discovered you had a voracious appetite for a nutrient-rich, honey-like gel synthesized from the Cave’s databases, and you would make soft, chirping noises of delight when he fed you with a small dropper.

It was Dick who learned how to make you laugh. He would carry you around the Cave, pointing out the various trophies—the giant penny, the T-Rex—and you would stare, mesmerized. One day, he started making funny faces, puffing out his cheeks and crossing his eyes. A sound bubbled up from your chest, a series of bright, tinkling chimes that was unmistakably laughter. From that moment on, Dick was yours, and you were his. He would spend hours with you, your chubby little hand clutching his finger with a surprising, preternatural strength.

Jason, despite his gruff exterior, was the one who made you feel safe. He claimed it was just because he was often in the Cave late at night, but everyone noticed he always seemed to be there when you stirred from a fitful sleep, plagued by nightmares of the silence. He wouldn’t say a word. He’d just sit nearby, cleaning his guns or reading, a solid, steady presence. You would calm, your empathic senses soothed by his unwavering, if grumpy, constancy. Once, he brought you a small, plush dragon, muttering something about it being “too girly” for his safehouses. You hugged it to your chest, and the look on Jason’s face was one of pure, unadulterated victory.

Tim Drake figured out you were a quick learner. He set up puzzles and simple pattern-recognition games on a tablet. You would watch, your head tilted, before solving them with an unnerving speed that made Tim’s eyes widen behind his glasses. He started calling you “little genius,” a note of awe in his voice.

And Bruce… Bruce fell the hardest. The man who built walls around his heart to keep a city safe found them utterly dismantled by a premature alien baby. He would hold you in the crook of his arm while he worked at the Batcomputer, your head resting against his chest. You loved the low, resonant vibration of his voice as he muttered about case files. Sometimes, in the deep quiet of the night, he would simply rock you, his large hand supporting your entire back, and stare at you with an expression of such profound, heartbreaking love that it would have stunned his children to see it.

You were theirs. You were the miracle they hadn't known they needed. A tiny, chubby-cheeked, prematurely-hatched alien who had, in a few short weeks, filled the dark, echoing spaces of the Batcave with the soft, chirping sounds of life and the bright, tinkling chimes of laughter. They knew, one day, they might have to face what it meant for you to grow "big and strong." But for now, you were just Y/N, their Y/N, and you were perfect.

***

Your true name was the first puzzle. J'onn J'onzz, the Martian Manhunter, had been summoned to the Cave in those first, bewildering days. His presence was a calm, steady warmth in the psychic void left by your lost kin. He had stood over the largest remaining fragment of your egg, where a intricate, crystalline plate was bolted, etched with swirling glyphs that pulsed with a faint, residual energy.

He had closed his eyes, his long fingers resting lightly on the cool surface. "I can sense the meaning," he had murmured, his voice a low, resonant hum. "It is not a sound, but a concept. A promise. 'The First Hope of a New Constellation.' It is... beautiful. And profoundly complicated for daily use."

Bruce, ever practical, had simply nodded. "We need something to call them."

It was Dick who, while cooing at you and earning a gurgle in return, had said, "Well, until we figure out the whole 'New Constellation' thing, how about we use the initials? Y/N. It's simple. It's theirs."

And so it stuck. Y/N. Your name, a placeholder that became an endearment, a sound that was always spoken with a particular tenderness in the Cave.

As the weeks bled into months, it became abundantly clear that your development was not on a human timeline. You did not crawl, nor did you attempt to walk. Your growth was glacial, a slow, steady hardening of your opalescent scales and a slight increase in the density of your starlight hair. You remained that same chubby, round size, a perpetual infant in form, but your eyes—those vast, dark pools—seemed to absorb and understand more with each passing day.

Your needs, however, were constant and simple. You required a specific nutrient gel, a carefully controlled humidity, and above all else, warmth and company. The silence, the emptiness, was your greatest fear, a chilling reminder of the ship where you were the only heartbeat left.

And oh, how the Batfamily rose to the occasion. The demand for your warmth created a demand for theirs, and it was a demand every single one of them was desperate to fulfill.

You became the most sought-after commodity in Gotham's most shadowy circle.

Alfred was your anchor. His old, steady hands were a source of immense comfort. He would often be found in the study, a book of classic Earth poetry in one hand, and you cradled in the crook of his other arm, your head lolling contentedly against his chest as the rhythmic, soothing cadence of Tennyson or Wordsworth lulled you into a doze.

Dick was your favorite jungle gym. He would lie on the thick training mats of the Cave, and you would be placed on his chest. With a strength that belied your soft appearance, you would clutch the fabric of his shirt, pulling yourself up to pat his face with your small, damp hands, chirping happily. He would laugh, a bright, free sound, and blow raspberries on your stomach, sending you into peals of those crystalline, chiming giggles that were the Cave's most treasured sound.

Jason's transformation was the most profound. The man who built his persona on being an unapproachable, violent specter would, upon entering the Cave, immediately shed his leather jacket and guns. He'd scrub his hands clean of grime and gun oil, and then he'd approach you. He never said much, but he had a particular way of holding you, supporting your back with one broad hand while your head rested in the crook of his elbow, that made you sigh with utter contentment. He was a furnace of body heat, and you would often fall asleep against him within minutes, your pacifier slipping slightly. He would sit for hours, perfectly still, as if guarding the most vulnerable and precious piece of intel in the world.

Tim discovered you had a fascination with the glow of his computer screens. He rigged up a baby sling that allowed him to carry you against his chest while he worked. You would watch the lines of code scroll by, your dark eyes reflecting the green light, one tiny hand often reaching up to clumsily pat the screen. He’d talk to you, explaining the intricacies of a firewall or a new tracking algorithm, and you would listen, utterly enthralled by the sound of his voice and the dancing lights.

But it was Bruce who provided the ultimate sanctuary. His sheer size and the deep, resonant warmth that radiated from him were a balm to your empathic soul. Late at night, when the nightmares of silence threatened, it was his shadow that fell over your crib. He would lift you out, swaddle you tightly in a blanket still warm from the dedicated incubator, and settle into the large chair before the Batcomputer. With one hand, he would work, his focus absolute. With the other, he would hold you securely against the Kevlar-reinforced bat symbol on his chest. The steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat and the low vibration of his voice as he issued quiet commands became your new lullaby. In his arms, the void of space didn't seem so vast or so cold.

You were Y/N. You were the "First Hope" they couldn't quite pronounce, the premature baby who grew so slowly. And in demanding warmth and company, you had somehow managed to thaw the frozen, guarded hearts of a family of vigilantes, making them all, from the butler to the Dark Knight himself, desperate for the simple, profound joy of holding you.

***

The first you made sound was small, barely a whisper of air, but in the quiet of the Cave's newly designated "nesting nook," it might as well have been a thunderclap.

Stephanie Brown, aka Spoiler, had entered the scene with her typical whirlwind energy. She'd heard the legends, of course—the cryptic texts from Tim, the uncharacteristically soft looks on Jason's face, the fact that Bruce Wayne had apparently commissioned a custom, climate-controlled crib. But seeing you was different.

You were sitting propped against a mountain of pillows, looking even rounder and more cherubic than she'd imagined. Your large, dark eyes followed her with open curiosity. Grinning, Steph had dropped to her knees in front of you, presenting her offering: a ridiculously bright pink, floppy-eared bunny plushie.

"Look what I got for you, little star!" she chirped, wiggling it in front of you. "Every baby needs a bunny. Even alien ones."

You stared at the bunny, your head tilting. Your little hand, fingers still soft and dimpled, reached out and closed around one of its long, floppy ears. You brought it to your face, rubbing the soft fabric against your cheek, a low, contented hum vibrating in your chest. It was a familiar gesture, one of comfort and assessment.

Then, you looked up at Stephanie, your eyes locking onto hers. Your lips, usually occupied with your pacifier, parted. You took a soft, preparatory breath.

"Ba?"

The world stopped.

Stephanie froze, the grin wiped clean from her face, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated shock. Her eyes widened, her jaw went slightly slack. The plush bunny dangled forgotten in her hand.

From across the Cave, where he was running diagnostics on the Batmobile, Dick Grayson's head snapped up so fast it was a miracle he didn't get whiplash. "What was that?" he breathed, already starting to move toward you.

Tim, who had been observing from the computer bank, slowly removed his glasses, as if not trusting his own ears.

But it was Bruce, who had been silently observing from the shadows near the case files, who was the most affected. He didn't move, but his entire posture shifted. The usual grim set of his shoulders softened infinitesimally, and his eyes, fixed on you, held a light so tender it was almost painful to witness.

Stephanie finally found her voice, a choked, ecstatic whisper. "Did you... did you just say 'ba'? For bunny?" She looked from you to the men now converging on your nest. "She said 'ba'! He said 'ba'! They said 'ba'!"

A slow, proud smile spread across your face, your dark eyes crinkling at the corners. You seemed to understand the commotion you had caused. You squeezed the bunny's ear tighter and repeated, a little more confidently, "Ba!"

Dick reached you first, scooping you up in a fluid motion and spinning you around, laughing. "That's right! Ba! It's a bunny! You brilliant little thing!" He peppered your face with kisses, and you squealed with delight, the chiming laughter mixing with his own.

Tim was right behind him, a wide, genuine smile on his face. "First vocalization. We need to log this. This is a huge developmental milestone." He was already pulling out his phone, likely to update a file he'd secretly labeled "Project: Y/N."

Even Jason, who had been leaning against the T-Rex, pretending not to care, was smirking, a look of smug approval on his face, as if he'd known you were a genius all along.

Stephanie was beaming, her chest swelling with pride. "I taught them their first word! Me! Take that, Drake!" she crowed, punching Tim playfully in the arm.

You, nestled safely in Dick's arms, looked out at the circle of adoring, astonished faces. You hugged your new "ba" tightly, its softness a perfect comfort. You had reached out, not just with your hands, but with your voice, and the family you had found had echoed back with a joy that was louder than any silence. It was just a sound, a simple, two-letter sound, but in the heart of the Batcave, it felt like a universe of meaning.

***

The world was a warm, buoyant sea. Alfred, with his infinite patience, had prepared your bath in a large, shallow basin, the water temperature precisely calibrated to mimic the comforting warmth of your lost egg. He’d even added a few drops of a gentle, unscented oil that made the water feel silken against your skin.

As he lowered you into the water, your initial reaction was a startled stillness, your large, dark eyes wide. But then, the sensation registered. The warmth enveloped your chubby limbs, supporting your weight, hugging you from all sides. It was the closest thing to being home you had ever felt on this strange, noisy planet.

A soft gasp escaped you, your pacifier bobbing on its clip. Then, a delighted, "Ooh!"

It was a sound of pure, unadulterated wonder. Your eyes, which usually held a solemn, ancient depth, now sparkled with infantile joy. You looked up at Alfred, your expression one of awe, as if he had just performed the greatest magic in the universe.

A rare, deeply fond smile touched Alfred’s lips. "I take it the temperature is to your satisfaction, Master/Mistress Y/N?" he murmured, his voice a soft rumble that blended perfectly with the gentle slosh of the water.

The bath was a spectacle, and it never failed to draw an audience. Dick, having heard the coo from the training mats, appeared at the entrance to the med-bay, a towel already slung over his shoulder. "Was that our little star? Making happy sounds?"

You responded by slapping your palms flat on the surface of the water. A small splash erupted, droplets catching the light. Another, more emphatic "Ooh!" followed, this one directed at Dick.

"That's right! Splash!" Dick laughed, crouching down by the basin. "You're a natural."

Jason, on his way to the locker room, paused. The sight of you, so small and absurdly happy in a tub, surrounded by steam and the gentle old butler, was a bizarre slice of domesticity in the heart of the Batcave. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, but the usual hard line of his mouth had softened. He didn't say a word, just watched as you discovered the properties of water.

It was when Alfred took a soft, sudsy sponge and began to gently wash your back that your cooing reached a crescendo. The feeling of the warm, soapy water trickling over the delicate, opalescent scales along your shoulders was exquisite. You squirmed with pleasure, your little body wriggling in the water, a series of happy, chirping "Oohs!" and "Aahs!" pouring forth like a tiny, bubbling fountain.

You reached a damp hand out, not for a toy, but for Alfred's wrist, your tiny fingers curling around his thumb with that surprising, innate strength. You held on, looking from his kind face to Dick's grinning one, your own face a perfect picture of bliss.

From the shadows of the computer bank, Bruce watched the entire scene. He saw the way the water droplets clung to your starlight hair like diamonds. He saw the absolute trust in your grasp on Alfred's thumb. He heard your soft, wondrous coos, a sound so innocent and full of life that it seemed to cleanse the very air of the Cave's inherent darkness.

In that moment, you weren't the "First Hope of a New Constellation." You weren't a premature alien from a dead ship. You were just Y/N, discovering the simple, profound joy of a warm bath, surrounded by a family who found their own hearts warmed just by watching you. Your happy coos were a better balm for their weary souls than any victory over Gotham's rogues could ever be.

***

Your first big discovery happened during one of your supervised "tummy time" sessions on the thick, padded mat in the middle of the Cave. Dick was with you, gently rolling a soft, glowing ball back and forth to encourage your motor skills. You were propped up on your elbows, your attention fully captured by the mesmerizing light, your chubby legs kicking idly in the air behind you.

Then, the glowing ball rolled a little too far to the left. You twisted your torso, a small grunt of effort escaping around your pacifier. In doing so, your field of vision shifted, and you caught sight of them.

There, at the other end of your body, were two round, pale, surprisingly wiggly things. They were topped with ten tiny, perfect toes that curled and uncurled with a mind of their own.

Your entire body went still. The pacifier fell from your open mouth, dangling from its clip. Your large, dark eyes, which had been fixed on the ball, now widened to an impossible degree, their dark pools reflecting the shocking image of your own feet.

A soft, startled gasp was sucked in. Then, a loud, profoundly confused, "Eh?!"

It wasn't a coo. It wasn't a chirp. It was the vocal embodiment of a paradigm shift. The sound was so full of sheer, unadulterated astonishment that Dick froze mid-reach for the ball.

"Y/N? What's wrong, buddy?" he asked, his voice laced with immediate concern.

You paid him no mind. Your entire world had narrowed to the two fascinating appendages. You strained your neck, trying to get a better look. You wobbled, your balance precarious. One of your feet gave a particularly vigorous wiggle.

"Eh?!" you squeaked again, the pitch higher this time, tinged with a dawning sense of wonder and ownership. You were realizing, on a fundamental level, that these things were yours.

A slow chuckle came from the workbench. Jason was there, ostensibly cleaning a disassembled part of his helmet, but he'd been watching. "Took you long enough, pipsqueak," he rumbled, a fond smirk playing on his lips.

Your brow, what little there was of it, furrowed in concentration. With a tremendous effort, you managed to roll fully onto your back. You brought your hands down, grabbing at the soft, white socks Alfred had put on you earlier. With a determined tug, you pulled one off.

The sight of your bare foot was even more astounding. The tiny toes, the pale pink sole. You reached down, your fingers clumsily brushing against your own skin.

The touch sent a jolt through your system. You gasped, pulling your hand back as if shocked, then immediately reached out to touch it again.

"Eh! Eh!" you babbled, now completely enthralled. You had discovered your feet. It was, without a doubt, the most fascinating scientific breakthrough of your young life.

By now, Tim had wandered over, a smile tugging at his lips. He pulled out his phone, not to log data this time, but to take a covert video. "Bruce is going to want to see this," he muttered.

Dick, his concern melted into utter delight, lay down on the mat beside you. "Those are your feet, Y/N! Your feet! You use them for kicking!" He demonstrated by wiggling his own booted feet in the air.

You watched him, then looked back at your own wiggling toes. A slow, gummy smile spread across your face, eclipsing the earlier confusion. A soft, chiming giggle escaped you. You had feet. You had wonderful, wiggly, ticklish feet. It was a discovery of cosmic importance, and you celebrated by grabbing one foot in both hands and trying, with immense determination, to put your own toe in your mouth.

The sight of you, a chubby, premature alien baby, utterly captivated by a body part every human took for granted, filled the Cave with a warmth that had nothing to do with the climate controls. It was a reminder of the pure, uncomplicated joy of discovery, a joy they had all forgotten until you, Y/N, had rediscovered it for them, one astonished "Eh?!" at a time.

***

It was a quiet, rare moment of peace in the Batcave. You were nestled in the crook of Bruce’s arm as he sat before the Batcomputer, the steady click of the keyboard and his low, even breathing a familiar lullaby. The air, usually sterile and filtered, carried a faint, unfamiliar scent—perhaps a new type of cleaning solution Alfred was trialing, or a unique mineral dust from a sample Batman had brought back.

To your newly developed and incredibly sensitive system, it was an irritant.

A tiny, almost imperceptible tickle began somewhere deep inside your small nose. Your large, dark eyes, which had been half-lidded in contentment, blinked open. Your button nose wrinkled, your head giving a little, jerky shake. You let out a soft, questioning squeak, a sound that immediately drew Bruce’s attention away from the screen. He looked down, his brow furrowing in that particular way that signaled his shift from Dark Knight to concerned guardian.

The tickle intensified. Your face scrunched up, your entire body tensing in his arm. Your lips parted, and you drew in a sharp, hiccupping little breath.

And then it happened.

It wasn't a loud, booming sneeze. It was a miniature explosion of sound and motion—a high-pitched, forceful "A-choo!" that was far bigger than your small body suggested it could produce. A fine, opalescent mist, like crushed pearls, puffed out with the sneeze, catching the light from the computer screens. The force of it made your entire chubby frame jolt, your little hands, which had been resting on his chest, flying up in surprise.

For a single, suspended second, there was absolute silence. You were stunned, your wide eyes looking utterly bewildered by the violent, involuntary reaction your body had just performed. You looked up at Bruce, a silent question in your gaze: What was that?

Bruce was frozen. The file on Metahuman trafficking was forgotten. Every line of his body was rigid with a sudden, primal alarm. His mind, a supercomputer trained for worst-case scenarios, instantly ran through a terrifying checklist: Biological agent? Alien pathogen? System failure? His grip on you tightened protectively, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The sound, however, had echoed.

From the training area, Dick’s head snapped around. "Was that a sneeze?" he called out, his voice a mixture of delight and concern.

Tim, who had been researching alien biology at an adjacent terminal, spun in his chair, his eyes wide. "Sneeze reflex confirmed! That's a huge sign of pulmonary and neurological adaptation to Earth's environment!" he announced, the scientist in him overriding everything else.

But it was the reaction from the shadows near the Batmobile that broke the tension. A loud, snorting laugh erupted from Jason, who was leaning against the tire. "Holy hell," he choked out, wiping his eye. "The big bad Bat, scared shitless by a baby sneeze. I've seen him take on Darkseid with less panic on his face."

Bruce’s posture slowly relaxed, the imminent threat assessment fading into sheer, undiluted relief, followed by a wave of soft embarrassment. He looked down at you, your bewildered expression slowly melting into a wobbly, post-sneeze pout, your lower lip trembling.

"Gesundheit, little one," Bruce murmured, his voice unusually thick. He used the edge of the blanket to gently wipe the opalescent mist from your nose and his own armor, his movements slow and reverent.

You sniffled, nuzzling your face into the hard plate of his chest, seeking comfort from the strange and startling experience. The tiny, surprised "A-choo!" had been more than just a biological reflex. It was a reminder of your fragility, your ongoing adaptation to this world, and it had, for a single, heart-stopping moment, united the entire Batfamily in a shared spike of fear, wonder, and overwhelming affection for the tiny, sneezing alien in their midst.

***

The heart of Wayne Manor, especially in the evenings, was not the Batcave with its brooding shadows and cutting-edge technology, but the warm, sprawling kitchen where Alfred Pennyworth held court. It was here that you discovered one of your greatest earthly joys, a spectacle that never failed to send you into paroxysms of delight: Alfred chopping vegetables.

He had set up a secure high-chair for you near the large, central island, far enough from the stove for safety, but with a perfect, unobstructed view of his workspace. You would sit there, pacifier bobbing, your chubby hands resting on the tray, your dark eyes fixed on him with the intensity of a theater-goer awaiting the opening act.

Alfred would begin, his movements a study in practiced, economical grace. He would select a carrot, its vibrant orange a stark contrast to the dark wood of the cutting board. He’d take up his chef’s knife, the steel winking in the soft kitchen light.

The first thwack as the knife cleanly severed the carrot’s tip was your cue.

A soft giggle would escape you, a tiny, bubbling sound. Your eyes would crinkle.

Alfred, without missing a beat, would continue. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The carrot was swiftly transformed into a neat pile of perfect coins.

Your giggles would escalate, building in volume and pitch. The sound was infectious, a cascade of pure, unadulterated joy. Your little body would begin to shake with mirth, your doughy hands slapping the high-chair tray in a rhythmic accompaniment to the chopping.

By the time Alfred moved on to a celery stalk, the crisp, snap-crunch sound would push you over the edge. You would throw your head back, your starlight hair ruffling, and let out a full-bellied, chiming laugh that echoed off the copper pots and pans. Your face would flush a warm, rosy pink, from the soft apples of your cheeks all the way to the tips of your ears. You’d laugh so hard you’d sometimes snort, which would only make you laugh harder, gasping for breath between peals of glee.

“It would appear, Master/Mistress Y/N, that you find my culinary preparations to be a source of high comedy,” Alfred would remark dryly, though the corners of his eyes were etched with deep fondness. He’d deliberately slow his movements, creating a dramatic pause before a particularly forceful thwack on an onion, just to hear your shriek of laughter.

This was often how the others would find you. Dick, drawn by the sound of your happiness, would lean in the doorway, a wide grin splitting his face. “There’s our happy little tomato,” he’d coo, and the sight of your red, laughing face would only make you squeal louder.

Jason, on his way to raid the fridge, would pause, shaking his head. “You’re losing your touch, Alfie. The kid thinks your knife skills are a joke.”

“On the contrary, Master Jason,” Alfred would reply, deftly dicing a potato with blinding speed, the rapid-fire thump-thump-thump sending you into a helpless, breathless giggling fit. “I believe it is the percussive nature they find so amusing. It is, I am told, a sign of sophisticated comedic taste.”

Even Bruce, drawn upstairs by the unfamiliar sound of such unrestrained joy in his home, would linger in the hallway, just out of sight. He would listen to the symphony of Alfred’s knife, your chiming laughter, and the warm banter of his family, and for a few moments, the weight of Gotham would feel a little lighter. Your absolute, red-in-the-face delight in the simple, rhythmic act of cutting vegetables was a magic more powerful than any he had ever encountered. It was a reminder that joy could be found in the most mundane of places, and that the heart of his family beat strongest here, in the warm kitchen, accompanied by the sound of a knife and the helpless, happy laughter of a tiny, premature alien.

***

Of all the caregivers in your ever-expanding circle, Stephanie Brown brought a unique brand of cheerful, chaotic energy to your routine. And nowhere was this more apparent than during the daily ritual of getting you dressed.

It began innocently enough. Stephanie, having won the privilege through a complex system of rock-paper-scissors and dramatic pleading, would lay out a tiny, impossibly soft outfit on the changing table. It might be a miniature pair of overalls with a duck on the pocket, or a tiny sweatsuit the color of blueberries. She’d approach you with a confident grin. "Alright, Y/N, ready to be the most stylish little alien in the galaxy?"

The first part was always deceptively easy. The onesie, the little shirt—these were manageable. Your arms, while chubby, were relatively cooperative. You’d watch her with curious, wide eyes, even helping by sticking an arm through a sleeve when prompted.

The battle commenced at the leg holes.

It was as if your lower limbs had a consciousness of their own, one deeply and philosophically opposed to the concept of structured legwear. The moment Stephanie would gently grasp one of your doughy, perfectly round feet to guide it into a pant leg, your entire lower body would transform into a wiggling, uncooperative force of nature.

Your legs, which had so recently been a source of astonished discovery, now became your primary weapons of defiance. They would stiffen, becoming rigid little pillars that refused to bend. Or they would turn to jelly, flopping bonelessly off the side of the table. Most effectively, they would engage in a rapid, cross-legged scissor motion, effectively sealing off the pant legs like a drawbridge.

"Okay, okay, I see how it is," Steph would mutter, a bead of sweat appearing on her temple. She’d try the left leg. You’d kick with the right. She’d manage to get the right leg halfway in, and you’d curl your toes, creating a tiny, stubborn foot-claw that caught on the fabric and refused to go further.

A soft, determined grunt would escape you. This wasn't a cry of distress; it was the sound of intense concentration. You were, in your mind, engaged in a heroic struggle for leg-based freedom.

"Come on, you little octopus!" Stephanie would laugh, using one hand to gently pin your wriggling torso while the other attempted to outmaneuver your frantic kicks. "Your legs need pants! It's the law! Batman's orders!"

The spectacle never failed to draw a crowd. Tim would wander past the doorway, sipping from a mug of coffee. "Having trouble with the gravitational rebellion, Brown?"

"Shut up, Drake! They're slippery!" she'd retort, just as you managed to kick the half-on pants completely off and into her face.

Dick would lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, offering unhelpful but enthusiastic advice. "Have you tried distracting them with a song? A rousing chorus of 'The Wheels on the Bus' usually works!"

From further down the hall, Jason's voice would boom, laced with amusement. "Sounds like the pipsqueak's winning, Blondie. Tapping out yet?"

Through it all, you'd continue your wiggling, a small, serious expression on your face, utterly committed to the battle. Finally, after a Herculean effort involving tickles, raspberries blown on your stomach (which made you shriek with laughter and momentarily forget to fight), and strategic bribery with a teething ring, Stephanie would emerge victorious. The pants would be on, albeit sometimes a little crooked, and the tiny socks would be wrestled onto your kicking feet.

She'd sweep you up, both of you breathing heavily, your hair slightly mussed. You'd look up at her, your earlier determination replaced by a gummy, triumphant smile, as if the whole battle had been a delightful game—which, to you, it absolutely was. And Stephanie, flushed and laughing, would hug you close, knowing that winning the daily Battle of the Pants was a victory sweeter than any she'd ever known on the streets of Gotham.

***

The "Battle of the Pants," as it came to be known, was a daily test of wills that Stephanie did not always win. There were afternoons where the struggle was simply too great, your wiggling too profound, and the risk of you working yourself into a frustrated, red-faced meltdown too high. On those days, strategic retreat was the only option.

"Fine! Fine! You win!" Stephanie would finally declare, throwing her hands up in mock surrender as you lay on the changing pad, kicking your victorious, bare legs in the air. "Rule Gotham in your diapered glory, you little tyrant!"

And so, a new norm was established. For large portions of the day, you were simply… pantless.

It became your default state within the secure, climate-controlled walls of the Cave and the Manor’s living quarters. Your outfits consisted of a soft, often brightly colored onesie or a tiny t-shirt, pulled up just above your padded bottom, leaving your chubby, pale legs and feet completely free. This state of undress seemed to be your personal preference, a sartorial declaration of comfort and hard-won freedom.

The photographic evidence of this era was extensive and deeply embarrassing for your future, more dignified self.

There you were, in a dozen different pictures on Dick’s phone, your bare bottom planted firmly on a plush blanket in the middle of the Batcave. In one, you were intently studying a Bat-a-rang he’d deactivated for you, your serious expression comically offset by your exposed, padded posterior. In another, you were caught mid-chortle, head thrown back, a blur of kicking, sockless feet.

Tim’s forensic-level documentation was even more thorough. His files contained time-stamped images of you sitting in your diaper, propped against the T-Rex’s foot, or lying on your stomach on the Batcomputer’s keyboard, your bare legs bent at the knee, feet waving lazily as you gibbered at the scrolling screens.

Jason, surprisingly, was the worst offender. He found the whole situation hysterical. He’d snap pictures of you in your most commanding, pantless moments: sitting in Alfred’s lap as the butler read, your bare legs sticking straight out; or being held by a stoic Bruce, your diaper-clad bottom prominently displayed against the black of his Kevlar-clad arm. Jason had one particular favorite he’d set as his lock screen: you, fast asleep on his chest, one chubby hand fisted in his shirt, your mouth slightly open, and your padded backside facing the camera. It was a blackmail picture for the ages.

Even Bruce was not immune. In a photo only Alfred possessed, the Dark Knight of Gotham could be seen sitting on the floor of the library, his cape pooled around him. You were perched in the space between his bent legs, leaning back against his chest, perfectly content in just your onesie and diaper, listening to the low rumble of his voice as he read from a heavy, leather-bound book.

You were utterly unselfconscious about it. This was simply how you were most comfortable. Your padded bottom became a familiar, accepted part of the landscape, a symbol of your victory in the war against restrictive legwear. To the Batfamily, it was just another endearing, hilarious part of you. The archives of Wayne Manor were now filled with countless images of their beloved, premature alien baby, a being who might one day grow "big and strong," captured for eternity in a state of happy, victorious pantlessness.

***

The first loss of your pacifier was a catastrophe of cosmic proportions.

It had happened during a particularly vigorous cuddle session with Dick. He’d been zooming you through the air like a little rocket ship, and in a moment of zero-gravity glee, the prized silicone nub, tethered by its clip, had somehow come free and launched into the shadowy depths of the Cave. It had vanished, swallowed by the gloom under the main computer console.

For a moment, there was silence. Your mouth, so recently occupied, worked soundlessly. Your brow furrowed. You patted your chest, then your mouth, searching for the familiar comfort. It was gone. The void where it should have been was an immediate, intolerable wrongness.

A low, distressed whimper escaped you. Then, the whimper escalated into a full-throated, heartbroken wail.

But this was not a cry of sadness. This was a cry of war.

Your large, dark eyes, swimming with indignant tears, narrowed. Your soft, doughy face set into a mask of furious determination. You had lost your most vital possession, and someone, everyone, was going to pay.

Dick was the first casualty. He reached for you, cooing, "It's okay, little star, we'll find it—oof!"

You launched yourself at him, not with malice, but with a frantic, desperate energy. Your chubby hands, usually so gentle, latched onto the front of his uniform, pulling with a surprising, preternatural strength. You buried your face against his chest, but not for comfort—it was a tactical maneuver, rubbing your tear-and-snot-streaked face against the blue symbol of the Nightwing, your wails muffled but undiminished in volume.

"Whoa, okay, you're upset," Dick said, trying to soothe you, but you were a tiny, writhing ball of grief.

Then you saw Jason, who had the audacity to be smirking from the sidelines. With a furious squeal, you pushed away from Dick and made a wobbly, crawling beeline for him. Jason, expecting a request for a lift, crouched down. Instead, you grabbed a fistful of his leather jacket and, in your distress, tried to haul yourself up, your damp face smushing against the cold zipper. "Hey, c'mon, pipsqueak, it's just a—ah! My hair!" You had latched onto a handful of his dark locks, pulling with the single-minded focus of a mountaineer seeking a handhold.

Tim, ever the pragmatist, had already gotten on his hands and knees with a flashlight to search. This made him the perfect target. You abandoned Jason and crawled at an impressive speed towards the glowing light. You didn't want the light; you wanted the person who wasn't fixing the problem now. You climbed onto his back, your padded bottom plopping down between his shoulder blades, and began to pat his head with your wet hands, not in affection, but in a frantic, rhythmic demand for action.

The Cave was in chaos. Dick was trying to detach you from Tim's back, Jason was trying to rescue his hair, and Tim was trying to search while being used as a throne by a distressed, pacifier-less alien.

The final boss entered the fray. Bruce, drawn by the cacophony, emerged from the shadows. His presence was usually a calming force, but today, it was a beacon for your wrath. You let out a particularly piercing shriek, rolled off of Tim, and crawled directly toward the dark, imposing figure.

You didn't stop at his feet. You clawed at his leg, demanding to be picked up, and the moment you were in his arms, the true "attack" began. You weren't seeking comfort; you were registering a formal complaint. Your little fists beat a frantic, ineffective tattoo against the hard bat symbol on his chest. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, but instead of nuzzling, you gnawed gently on the collar of his cape, your angry, wet sobs echoing right in his ear. It was a full-sensory assault of pure, undiluted infantile fury.

It was Alfred who saved the day, emerging from the shadows with a spare, sterilized pacifier. The moment the familiar silicone nub touched your lips, the siege ended.

The wails cut off into a series of wet, hiccupping sighs. Your tense little body went limp against Bruce's chest. You sucked rhythmically, your eyes fluttering closed, the storm vanishing as quickly as it had arrived.

The Batfamily stood in a stunned circle, disheveled and slightly damp. Dick's uniform was smeared, Jason's hair was a mess, Tim's back had a damp spot, and Bruce's cape was now sporting tiny, tooth-shaped impressions.

You, the perpetrator, were already drifting to sleep in Bruce's arms, pacifier secure, having successfully "attacked" everyone in your path and emerged victorious. It was your first true display of temper, and they had all fallen before it. They looked at each other, then at the peaceful, sleeping form in Bruce's arms, and collectively decided that finding a dozen backup pacifiers was now a top-priority mission.

***

The world, for you, was a vast landscape of textures and sensations, all of which needed to be thoroughly investigated by the most reliable instruments at your disposal: your gums. Your favorite object of study was a soft, rubbery, brightly colored ball, a gift from Dick that was just the right size for your chubby hands to clutch and, more importantly, to mouth.

You were sitting in the center of a play mat, a fortress of plush toys and sensory blocks, with the ball held firmly in both hands. You brought it to your face, your large, dark eyes crossing slightly to focus on its vibrant surface. You opened your mouth, a small, serious expression on your face, and clamped down on the yielding rubber with your toothless gums.

A sensation of pure, satisfying pressure radiated through your jaw. It felt good. It felt right. A low, vibrating hum of contentment started in your chest and worked its way up your throat. It wasn't a coo or a giggle, but a sound of deep, focused effort and satisfaction.

"Unnnngo!"

The sound was guttural, almost primal, muffled slightly by the ball in your mouth. It was a declaration of purpose. *This is my ball. I am gumming it. It is good.*

The sound, so bizarre and earnest, immediately drew attention.

Tim, who was observing you for his "Y/N Developmental Milestones" log, looked up from his tablet, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Subject has vocalized a new phoneme cluster," he murmured to himself, typing furiously. "Designation: 'Ungo.' Context: intense gnawing."

Dick, who had been doing one-handed push-ups nearby, collapsed onto his stomach to watch you, his face alight with delight. "That's it, Y/N! Tell that ball who's boss! Ungo!"

You, encouraged by the attention, gummed down harder, your little jaw working with immense concentration. You pulled the ball out with a soft pop, examined the drool-slicked surface critically, and then chomped down on a different spot.

"Unnnngo!" you declared again, this time with even more conviction, a tiny dribble of drool escaping the corner of your mouth.

From his armchair, where he was supposedly reading a mission report, Bruce lowered the file. His stern expression softened into something unbearably fond. He watched the intense, serious way you were "ungo"-ing your ball, your entire being focused on this single, vital task. It was a level of dedication he rarely saw outside of his own crusade.

Jason wandered through, heading to the locker room. He paused, taking in the scene: you, gumming the ball with the ferocity of a tiny, angry bear cub, Dick egging you on from the floor, and Tim scientifically documenting the whole thing.

"He's finally lost it," Jason said, shaking his head. But he didn't leave. He leaned against the T-Rex's leg, arms crossed, watching you with a smirk. "Go on, then. Give it the business."

You, sensing a wider audience, paused in your gumming. You held the ball aloft in one hand, your face flushed with effort, and looked directly at Jason.

"Ungo!" you announced, as if presenting a profound philosophical thesis.

A short, sharp bark of laughter escaped Jason before he could stop it. "Yeah, yeah. Ungo. Scary."

You beamed, a gummy, triumphant smile, taking his laughter as the highest form of praise. You then returned to your work, chomping on the ball with renewed vigor, your satisfied "Unnnngo!" filling the Cave once more. It was a nonsense word, a sound born of pure physical sensation, but to the Batfamily, it had instantly become part of their language—the official term for the serious, drooly business of being perfectly, contentedly Y/N.

***

The atmosphere in the Batcave shifted palpably when Damian Wayne returned. After a months-long deployment with the Teen Titans, his entrance was not a grand affair, but a quiet, efficient return to the fold. He descended the stairs, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his posture rigid with the familiar aloofness he wore like armor. He expected the usual: a curt nod from his father, a boisterous greeting from Grayson, perhaps a snide remark from Todd.

He did not expect you.

You were sitting in the center of your play mat, gumming thoughtfully on the edge of a stuffed dinosaur, when this new presence entered your world. You paused, your dark, liquid eyes locking onto him. He was different from the others. He wasn't as tall as Bruce, nor as broad as Jason. He carried himself with a sharp, contained energy, a stillness that was both intriguing and magnetizing.

Damian, for his part, glanced at you once, dismissed you as another one of Grayson's sentimental acquisitions, and made to walk past towards the locker room.

That was when you made your decision.

A soft, determined coo escaped you. You dropped the dinosaur, pushed yourself onto your hands and knees, and with a speed that surprised everyone, including yourself, you began to crawl directly towards him.

Damian stopped, feeling a small, insistent pressure on his boot. He looked down. You had reached him, one chubby hand patting the reinforced toe of his combat footwear, your head tilted so far back to look up at him that you nearly toppled over. Your eyes were wide, not with fear, but with pure, unadulterated admiration.

"Tt," Damian clicked his tongue, a habit of annoyance. "What is this, Grayson?"

Dick beamed. "Damian, meet Y/N! They're... a long story."

But you were not interested in stories. You were interested in Damian. With a grunt of effort, you used his boot as a leverage point to pull yourself into a wobbly standing position, your tiny hands clutching the fabric of his pants. You stared up at him, a slow, gummy smile spreading across your face that reached your eyes, making them crinkle at the corners.

Then, you raised your arms in the universal infant demand: Up.

Damian stared, nonplussed. "I do not have time for this."

You, undeterred, let out an impatient squeak and bounced on your padded bottom, your arms still raised.

"Just pick them up, Demon Brat," Jason called from the Batcomputer, not even looking up. "Resistance is futile. Trust me."

With a long-suffering sigh, Damian bent down and awkwardly scooped you up. The moment you were settled in the crook of his arm, you let out a sigh of profound contentment. You immediately nestled your head against his chest, one hand coming up to curiously pat the hard, sculpted plastron of his Robin uniform.

And that was the end of Damian's uninterrupted existence.

From that moment on, you were his shadow, his barnacle, his most devoted and relentless admirer. If he was sharpening his swords at the whetstone, you were there, sitting on a nearby blanket, gumming a rubber practice shuriken and watching his every move with rapt attention. If he was attempting to meditate in the gardens of Wayne Manor, you would crawl through the grass to plop yourself directly into his lap, patting his face until he acknowledged you. If he was trying to have a serious conversation with his father about League of Assassins activity, you would be in his arms, babbling your own commentary and trying to stick your pacifier in his mouth.

He never had a single moment to himself. And the most astonishing part was that he stopped truly minding.

He complained, of course. Vociferously. "Must it cling to me so incessantly?" "Father, control your... creature." "Grayson, remove it, I am attempting to focus."

But his actions betrayed him. He was the one who learned the precise temperature your nutrient gel needed to be to your liking. He was the one who, after noticing you shiver once, had Alfred procure a miniature, black-and-green weighted blanket. He was the one who, when you had a nightmare, would appear at your crib not with soft words, but with a quiet, protective presence that somehow soothed you more effectively than any lullaby.

You had looked at the most guarded, prickly member of the Batfamily and had seen, with the unerring instinct of the truly pure of heart, your favorite person. And in doing so, you had bypassed all his defenses, climbed over his walls, and nestled directly into the small, carefully guarded space where his heart resided. He would never admit it, but the sight of your gummy, unreserved smile when he entered a room was a victory greater than any he had ever won on the battlefield. You were his tiny, premature, alien charge, and he was, despite all his protests, utterly and completely yours.

***

The day Stephanie Brown achieved the impossible would be forever memorialized in the annals of Wayne family history. It had required tactical genius, a full bottle of baby-safe detangler spray used as a distraction, and the strategic deployment of a brand-new, crinkly-stuffed bat toy. But after a grueling twenty-minute campaign that left both her and you slightly breathless and flushed, she had done it.

She had successfully dressed you in the complete, miniature Robin costume.

It was a perfect replica, scaled down to fit your chubby, round form. The tunic was a vibrant, heroic red, the tights a deep black, and the cape—oh, the cape—was a splash of brilliant yellow that draped over your shoulders. A tiny, green felt "R" was stitched proudly over your heart. To complete the ensemble, she had even managed to wrangle the tiny, pixie-eared domino mask over your eyes, though you kept scrunching your nose, trying to dislodge it.

Stephanie stood back, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow, a triumphant grin splitting her face. "Behold!" she announced to the otherwise empty Cave. "The littlest Robin!"

You, now fully costumed, seemed to understand the significance of the moment. You stopped fussing with the mask and instead looked down at your own chest, patting the green "R" with a soft, curious hand. You then looked up at Stephanie and gave a happy, gummy coo.

That was the moment Dick Grayson walked in.

He froze mid-stride, his coffee mug hovering an inch from his lips. His eyes widened, his jaw went slack. A sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeak escaped him. "Oh. My. God."

He dropped his mug. It shattered on the Cave floor, but he didn't even flinch. He was already on his knees in front of you, his hands pressed to his heart. "Steph... you... it's... look at them!" he managed, his voice thick with emotion. He was the original Boy Wonder, and seeing you, this tiny, premature alien, dressed in the colors he'd made iconic, undid him completely. Tears welled in his eyes. "You're perfect," he whispered, pulling out his phone and taking a rapid-fire series of pictures.

The commotion drew Tim from his research. He took one look at you, and his analytical mind short-circuited. "The fabric ratio is... the scaling is... it's... so... small," he stammered, his own phone joining Dick's in a flurry of shutter clicks. "This requires archival. Immediately."

Jason's entrance was heralded by a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned," he chuckled, striding over. He crouched down, a rare, soft look on his face. "Ain't you a sight, pipsqueak? The deadliest little bird in all of Gotham." He reached out and gently tugged on the end of your tiny yellow cape, and you responded by grabbing his finger with both of your costumed hands.

But the true pinnacle of the sensation came when Bruce and Damian returned from a rooftop patrol.

They descended the stairs, their capes swirling, discussing the apprehension of Victor Zsasz. The conversation died in their throats.

The entire Batfamily was clustered around the med-bay table, cooing and taking pictures. And in the center of it all, perched like a tiny, chubby-cheeked vigilante, was you in the full Robin regalia.

Bruce stopped dead. The grim line of his mouth softened, then twitched, then broke into a genuine, breathtaking smile. He didn't say a word. He simply walked over, his heavy boots silent on the stone floor, and looked down at you. His gloved hand, large enough to cradle your entire head, came up and gently brushed your cheek. The pride in his eyes was a tangible force.

Damian, however, was the real spectacle. He stared, his usual composure utterly shattered. A faint, uncharacteristic blush crept up his neck. He saw you, sitting there in *his* colors, the symbol he wore with such pride rendered in miniature on your chest. He saw the way you looked at him, your eyes bright behind the little mask, as if seeking his approval.

"Tt," he said, but it lacked all its usual bite. He stepped forward, ignoring everyone else. He scrutinized the costume, the stitch work, the fit. Then, he gave a single, slow nod. "Adequate."

For Damian, that was the equivalent of a weeping, joyful soliloquy.

You, basking in the overwhelming attention, decided to give a performance worthy of your new title. You raised a fist in the air, clutching Jason's finger, and let out a determined, "Unnnngo!"

The Cave erupted. Dick was laughing and crying simultaneously. Tim was muttering about "vocalization correlation to heroic intent." Jason was howling. Bruce's shoulders were shaking with silent mirth. Even Damian allowed a small, grudging smile to touch his lips.

Stephanie stood back, arms crossed, glowing with triumph. She had not just won the Battle of the Pants; she had won the war. For the rest of the day, you were the undisputed center of the universe, a tiny, red-green-and-yellow sensation who had, with one impossibly cute costume, reduced the entire Batfamily to a pile of utterly besotted, gushing fools.

***

The discovery thay you could eat was not a gentle one. It was a cataclysm of porcelain and culinary devastation.

Alfred, in a rare moment of distraction brought on by a complex update to the Cave's security systems, had left his masterpiece on the kitchen counter to cool: a magnificent, golden-crusted chicken and vegetable casserole, large enough to feed the entire, perpetually hungry Wayne household. He had turned his back for what he swore was only five minutes.

It was in that five-minute window that your latent abilities manifested.

They had all, in their careful, scientific observations of you, made a critical assumption. Your primary, seemingly *only* source of sustenance was the nutrient-rich, honey-like gel synthesized specifically for your alien biology. The concept of solid human food had never been broached. You showed no interest in it, your saucer-like eyes passing over steaks and sandwiches with the same indifference you showed the Batcomputer's code.

They were wrong.

Driven by an instinct you had never before felt, a deep, primal pull from the savory, herb-infused aroma wafting from the counter, you acted. How a being of your size and presumed mobility managed to get from the floor to the countertop remained a mystery later hotly debated. Jason would later insist you had used a series of strategically placed chairs and drawers like a tiny, chubby-faced commando. Dick theorized a single, powerful, previously unseen leap.

However you did it, you were found in the heart of the crime scene.

It was Cassandra Cain, the quietest of them all, who first sensed the disturbance in the domestic force. She entered the kitchen and froze, her body reading a story of shocking upheaval.

The large ceramic casserole dish was empty. Not just empty, but licked clean, gleaming under the kitchen lights as if it had just come out of the dishwasher. A single, tiny, opalescent handprint was smudged on its rim. And in the center of the counter, sitting in a nest of a few stray peas and crumbs of crust, were you.

You were a vision of pure, unadulterated bliss. Your usual pale skin was flushed a warm, contented pink. Your starlight hair was dusted with breadcrumbs. Your tiny, black onesie—the one with the little bat symbol—was strained taut over a stomach that was now perfectly, impossibly spherical. You looked like a little, overfilled beach ball with limbs. In your lap sat the mangled carcass of a cooked carrot, which you were gumming with a look of profound, philosophical satisfaction. A low, continuous hum of pleasure vibrated through your round little body.

Cassandra didn't shout. She simply pointed, her eyes wide with a mixture of alarm and awe.

The subsequent gathering in the kitchen had the solemn, stunned air of a disaster response team.

"By the gods," Alfred breathed, picking up the spotless dish as if it were a holy relic. "The entire thing. It was meant for eight."

Dick was the first to break, a strangled laugh escaping him. "Oh my god. Look at their stomach. It's so round."

Jason let out a low whistle of respect. "The pipsqueak has a hollow leg. A whole casserole. I'm impressed, I'm not gonna lie."

Tim was already on his tablet. "The caloric intake alone... the digestive enzymes required to break down that much complex protein and fiber... this rewrites everything we thought we knew about their biology!"

Bruce said nothing. He moved forward, his brow furrowed not in anger, but in deep, clinical concern. He gently picked you up. You were significantly heavier, a warm, drowsy, and densely packed weight in his arms. You let out a soft, burp-like sigh, a tiny puff of air that smelled distinctly of thyme and roasted chicken, and your head lolled against his chest, your eyes fluttering closed in a food-induced stupor.

Damian, who had been summoned by the commotion, took one look at your distended middle and the empty dish. "Tt. It would seem the creature has the appetite of a Kalabrian Flesh-Eater. Do not drop it, Father. The resulting impact could be... messy."

For the rest of the evening, you were the center of a worried, fascinated vigil. You didn't cry, you didn't fuss. You simply slept, a deep, comatose sleep, your full belly rising and falling rhythmically. They took turns holding you, marveling at the firm, warm curve of your stomach, a living testament to your shocking, casserole-devouring prowess.

It was your first foray into human food, and you hadn't just sampled it. You had conquered it. And the Batfamily realized, with a mixture of terror and awe, that they now had to baby-proof not just the sharp corners and the stairs, but the entire pantry.

The silence in the Cave was a heavy, watchful thing, broken only by the soft hum of servers and your own deep, rhythmic breathing. You were a dormant volcano of digesting casserole, a warm, impossibly round weight in Bruce’s arms. The family stood in a loose, concerned circle, their scientific curiosity and paternal worry warring with the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Then, it happened.

It began deep within your compact, overstuffed frame, a low, subterranean rumble that Bruce felt more than heard, a vibration through the Kevlar plating on his chest. Your tiny body tensed, your flushed face scrunching up in concentration. Your mouth, which had been a soft, slack line, pursed.

And then you burped.

It was not a delicate, infantile puff of air. It was a deep, resonant, and shockingly loud BRRRAAAP that echoed off the stone walls and high ceiling of the Batcave with the force of a small cannon shot. It was a belch of epic proportions, a guttural declaration of victory from the depths of your satisfied stomach. A faint, savory cloud of thyme, chicken, and Alfred's secret casserole recipe wafted into the air.

The force of it made your entire body jolt, your head snapping forward before lolling back against Bruce’s arm, a look of profound, blissful relief smoothing your previously furrowed brow. A single, tiny pea, dislodged from some internal crevice, flew from your lips and landed with a soft plink on the floor.

For a full three seconds, there was dead silence, the echo of your burp hanging in the air.

Jason was the first to break. He doubled over, a roar of laughter exploding from him so hard he had to brace his hands on his knees. Tears streamed from his eyes. "OH MY GOD! THAT WAS THE GREATEST THING I'VE EVER HEARD!"

Dick’s concerned expression shattered into helpless giggles, his hands flying to his mouth. "That came from you?!" he wheezed. "That was legendary!"

Tim, who had been mid-calculation on his tablet, simply stared, his mouth agape. The device was forgotten in his hand. "The... the thoracic pressure required for a vocalization of that amplitude... the diaphragmatic control..."

From the shadows near the Batmobile, Cassandra let out a rare, sharp, delighted laugh, a sound like shattering glass that was over almost as soon as it began.

Alfred, who had been surveying the empty casserole dish with a sort of tragic reverence, slowly turned. He raised a single, impeccably groomed eyebrow. "I shall take that as a compliment to the recipe, Master Y/N."

But the pinnacle of the reaction was Damian. He had been observing with his usual critical detachment. As the mighty burp reverberated through the Cave, his eyes widened in something that looked suspiciously like respect. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Adequate," he stated, his tone implying this was the highest praise he could bestow upon a bodily function.

Bruce, who had taken the full, unfiltered force of the burp right in his face, didn't flinch. He looked down at you, at your now perfectly peaceful, sleeping form, and the rarest of sounds escaped him: a low, warm, genuine chuckle that rumbled in his chest. He gently adjusted his grip, his thumb stroking your crumb-dusted hair.

You, the perpetrator, were already sinking back into a deep, dreamless sleep, utterly spent and completely satisfied. You had not only eaten a casserole meant for eight, you had announced your digestive triumph with the force of a seismic event. In that one, mighty burp, you had solidified your place not as a fragile alien specimen, but as a true, full-fledged, and gloriously messy member of the chaotic, loving Wayne family.

***

The moment of your first word was perfectly, beautifully ordinary. Damian was seated on the floor of the library, meticulously cleaning the components of his katana. You were nestled in the circle of his legs, your back against his chest, contentedly gumming the hilt of a practice tanto he had deemed safe for you. The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It was quiet, peaceful.

Dick was loitering by the doorway, trying to be subtle about taking a picture of the scene. Bruce was at his desk, pretending to read a corporate merger proposal, his gaze continually drifting over to you and his son. They had all, in their own ways, been waiting for this moment, secretly hoping, secretly betting. Dick had his money on "Baba." Bruce privately hoped for a clear "Alfred." Jason had loudly, and crudely, suggested what your first word would likely be.

No one expected what came next.

You pulled the practice tanto from your mouth, your attention caught by the way the light gleamed on Damian's hair. You reached a damp, chubby hand up and patted his cheek. He didn't pull away, merely glancing down at you with that familiar, slightly exasperated fondness. "What is it, Y/N?"

You looked at him, your large, dark eyes filled with a pure, uncomplicated adoration. Your little face screwed up with effort, your lips pursing. You took a soft, preparatory breath.

And then you squeaked it, clear as a bell, filled with utter delight.

"Dami!"

The word hung in the sunlit air, small and perfect.

The entire world froze.

Damian’s hands, which had been moving with fluid, practiced grace over his sword, stilled completely. His breath caught in his throat. The oily cloth slipped from his numb fingers. He looked down at you, his usual mask of aloof superiority utterly shattered, replaced by a look of raw, unguarded shock. A faint, unmistakable blush crept from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears.

From the doorway, there was a sharp gasp, followed by the sound of Dick Grayson fumbling his phone. It clattered to the floor, but he didn't notice. He had his hands pressed over his heart, his eyes shimmering with tears. "They said it," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Oh my god, they said his name."

At the desk, Bruce Wayne slowly lowered his papers. The corporate merger was forgotten. A smile, so wide and genuine it felt unfamiliar on his face, spread across his features. He didn't say a word. He just watched his son, watching you.

You, pleased with the sound you had made and the dramatic reaction it elicited, beamed your gummy smile up at Damian. You patted his cheek again, more insistently this time.

"Dami!" you repeated, louder, more confident, as if calling your favorite person to attention.

That broke the spell.

A sound, something between a choked cough and a strangled laugh, escaped Damian. He was visibly flustered, a state none of them had ever truly witnessed. He looked from your beaming face to Dick's tearful one, to his father's smiling one, and then back to you.

"Tt," he managed, the sound utterly devoid of its usual force. It was a soft, breathy exhalation. He reached up and gently captured your tiny, patting hand in his own, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. He didn't scold you. He didn't correct you. He simply held your hand, his blush deepening.

It was a surrender. A capitulation of the highest order.

Your first word hadn't been "mama" or "dada." It hadn't been "ball" or "light." It was the nickname of the most guarded, prickly member of the family. You had looked at the Boy Wonder, the Demon's Head, the son of Batman, and had chosen to name him yours.

And in that single, sun-drenched moment, with your tiny hand in his, Damian Wayne knew he was utterly, completely, and forever conquered.

***

The educational children's program, a colorful, saccharine-sweet concoction of singing animals and dancing hearts, had become your latest obsession. It was Dick's fault, really; he'd put it on one rainy afternoon to keep you entertained, and you had been utterly captivated. The central theme, repeated in a dozen catchy tunes, was a simple, powerful one: love.

For days, you watched it on a loop, your large eyes fixed on the screen, absorbing the concept. Love was a warm hug. Love was sharing. Love was a happy feeling in your heart. You would watch the characters sing "I love you!" and you would pat your own chest with a soft, thoughtful expression, as if trying to locate the feeling within yourself.

The Batfamily thought it was adorable. They didn't realize you were conducting serious academic research.

The breakthrough happened in the Cave's library. Damian was, as had become his sacred duty, helping you with a set of large, soft building blocks. He was patiently showing you how to stack them, his movements uncharacteristically gentle. You were watching him, not the blocks, your gaze tracing the serious line of his brow, the focused set of his mouth.

In the background, the program was playing on a tablet, the familiar finale song beginning. The chorus of cartoon voices sang out, "I love you! Yes, I do! I love you!"

Something clicked. The abstract concept you had been studying suddenly had a face, a name, a feeling. It was the warm, safe feeling you got when he held you. It was the happy, bubbly feeling when he walked into the room. It was the name you had spoken first.

You dropped the block you were holding. You looked up at Damian, your expression one of pure, dawning epiphany. Your little chest swelled with the magnitude of your discovery.

You chirped it, your voice clear and bright as a bell, filled with absolute certainty.

"Wuv! Wuv Dami!"

The world didn't just freeze this time; it shattered and reformed around those three syllables.

Damian, who was in the process of placing a block on a tower, jerked his hand back as if shocked. The block tumbled to the floor, forgotten. Every ounce of blood in his body seemed to rush to his face, painting his cheeks and ears a brilliant, burning crimson. His eyes, wide and stunned, locked onto you. His lips parted, but no sound came out. It was the single most profound silence of his life.

From the doorway where he had been secretly filming the block-building session, Dick let out a choked sob. He lowered the camera, his shoulders shaking. He mouthed the words "Oh, my heart," unable to form sound.

Bruce, who had been observing from his armchair, slowly closed the book in his lap. The emotion that crossed his face was so raw and powerful it was almost painful to witness. It was a look of witnessing a miracle.

You, beaming with the joy of your successful communication, didn't wait for a response. You crawled the short distance into Damian's lap, placing both your hands on his chest, right over his rapidly beating heart. You looked up at him, your dark eyes shining.

"Wuv Dami!" you repeated, insistently, as if making sure he understood this fundamental, universe-altering truth.

That was what broke him.

Damian Wayne, heir to the Demon, the formidable Robin, did not "tt." He did not scoff. He let out a shaky, shuddering breath. His hands, which had been frozen at his sides, came up and enveloped you, pulling you tightly against him in a hug so fierce it was almost desperate. He buried his face in your starlight hair, his shoulders trembling slightly.

He held you like that for a long moment, and when he finally pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously bright. He looked at you, his voice husky and thick with an emotion he would never name to anyone else.

"The feeling..." he managed, his voice barely a whisper, "...is mutual, Y/N."

It was the closest he would ever come to saying it back, but in that moment, holding you in the library, with your declaration of "wuv" echoing in the silent, stunned space, it was more than enough. You had not just learned what love was; you had given it, freely and completely, to the person who needed to hear it most. And in doing so, you had claimed another piece of the Batfamily's collective soul, forever.

***

The leap from "Dami" to "Damian" was a linguistic mountain, and you scaled it with the same determined, wobbly focus you applied to stacking blocks or gumming your favorite ball. "Dami" had been a burst of pure affection, a easy, melodic name for your favorite person. But you were growing, your mind absorbing the nuances of the language around you. You heard the others say it with the full, formal weight: "Damian."

You liked the sound of it. It had a sharp, important beginning and a strong, clear end. It sounded like him.

So, you practiced. It became a quiet mantra during your most focused activities.

Sitting in your highchair, carefully squishing a handful of nutrient gel, your brow would furrow. "Dami... ahn," you would murmur to yourself, the second syllable a soft, experimental puff of air.

Gumming your plush dragon in the corner of the Cave while Damian trained, you would watch his precise, powerful movements and mimic his intensity. "Dami-AHN," you'd grunt around the rubbery toy, the sound muffled but filled with effort.

The family noticed, of course. They held their breath, exchanging silent, hopeful glances, never pushing, only listening to your quiet, determined rehearsals.

The triumphant moment arrived in the most ordinary of settings. Damian was attempting to read a dense, leather-bound tactical manual, with you nestled against his side on the study's large sofa. You were unusually still, your head resting against his arm, your gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the Persian rug. A deep, contemplative silence had fallen over you both.

Then, you shifted. You tilted your head back to look up at his profile, at the sharp line of his jaw and the focused intensity in his eyes. You reached up a single, tiny finger and booped him squarely on the nose.

He glanced down, a flicker of annoyance quickly melting into fondness. "What is it, Y/N?"

You took a deep breath, your little chest puffing out. The practice, the focus, it all coalesced. You didn't squeak it. You didn't chirp it. You announced it, with perfect, deliberate clarity.

"Dami-ahn!"

The second syllable was no longer a puff of air. It was a solid, resonant "ahn," spoken with the full weight of your being. You had mastered his name.

Damian's book slipped from his grasp, thudding softly onto the cushion. He stared at you, his usual composure utterly vaporized. The sound of his full name in your small, clear voice was a physical blow, striking him right in the center of his chest. It was a recognition, an acknowledgment of his whole self, not just the affectionate nickname he secretly cherished.

From the hallway, where he had undoubtedly been lurking, Dick let out a watery gasp. "They got it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "They said his whole name."

Bruce, standing at the threshold, didn't even try to hide his smile. It was a quiet, proud smile, the kind reserved for witnessing a true and hard-won achievement.

But your attention was solely on Damian. You looked immensely pleased with yourself, a proud, gummy smile gracing your features. You patted his chest, right over the sudden, frantic beating of his heart.

"Dami-ahn," you repeated, softer this time, as if simply savoring the sound of it, confirming your mastery.

A sound, rough and unfamiliar, escaped Damian's throat. It was part laugh, part sob, wholly overwhelmed. His arms, which had been resting at his sides, wrapped around you and lifted you, holding you up at eye level. His emerald eyes, usually so sharp and critical, were shimmering with unshed tears.

"Y/N," he said, your name a reverent whisper on his lips. It was all he could manage. But in that single word, in the way he held you aloft like the most precious treasure, he said everything. You had conquered the mountain, and your reward was the look of absolute, stunned, and utter adoration on the face of your favorite person in the entire universe.

***

The mastery of "Damian" had been a cerebral triumph, a victory of careful listening and precise vocalization. Your next great linguistic conquest, however, was one of pure, unadulterated affection, and its target was the unwavering center of your universe: Alfred Pennyworth.

You watched him constantly. While others played with you or held you, Alfred was the steady, quiet force that kept your world turning. He was the source of the warm, nutrient-rich gel, the keeper of the softest blankets, the one whose gentle hands could soothe any fuss with a efficiency that bordered on magic. His name was spoken around you with a tone of deep respect—"Alfred." You heard the sharp "f" sound at the end, a crisp, clean finish.

You decided to practice on his most prominent feature.

One afternoon, as he was feeding you, his kind, wrinkled face close to yours, you reached up a curious hand. Your fingers, still soft and dimpled, landed squarely on his forehead, right where his distinguished hairline met a network of wise lines.

You frowned in concentration, your gaze fixed on the spot you were touching. Your little lips pursed, preparing for a new kind of sound. It wasn't a chirp or a coo. It was an experiment in airflow.

"Pfffff," you breathed out, a soft, wet sound that fluttered against his skin.

Alfred paused, the spoonful of gel hovering in mid-air. A single, impeccably groomed eyebrow arched upwards. "I beg your pardon, Master/ Mistress Y/N?"

You giggled, delighted by the sound and the reaction. You did it again, this time aiming for his cheek. "Pffffft!"

It became a game. Every time Alfred was near, you would zero in on him, your face a mask of intense focus, and let loose a soft, breathy "Pfffft." You'd target his hands as he changed your clothes, his nose as he read to you, even the polished toe of his shoe as he walked past. The family found it hysterical. Jason started calling you "the little leaky tire." Dick would encourage you with cries of "Get him, Y/N! Pfffft!"

Alfred, to his eternal credit, took it all in stride. He would merely nod solemnly and say, "Indeed, sir. A most astute observation," as if you were commenting on the state of the geopolitical landscape rather than blowing raspberries on his person.

The breakthrough came during your evening bath. The warm water always put you in a particularly experimental mood. Alfred was kneeling beside the tub, his sleeves rolled up, carefully supporting your back as you splashed. You were watching him, your eyes tracing the familiar, beloved lines of his face. He smiled at you, a true, warm smile that reached his eyes.

"Are we quite comfortable, my dear?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble.

Your heart swelled with a feeling you couldn't yet name with words, but knew with every fiber of your being. It was love, trust, and the deepest sense of home. You looked at him, your expression utterly sincere, and you attempted to give him the greatest gift you could conceive of: his name.

It started with a wide, open-mouthed effort. "Ahl..." you began, the sound deep in your throat. Then came the focus, the pursed lips, the controlled exhalation that had become your signature. "...pffff!"

It wasn't "Alfred." It was "Alpffff." The 'r' was beyond you, and the 'd' was lost to the wind, but the intention was crystalline. You had combined the beginning of his name with the affectionate sound you had practiced solely on him.

You beamed up at him, so proud you could burst.

For a moment, Alfred Pennyworth, the unflappable rock of Wayne Manor, was utterly and completely disarmed. His eyes, behind his spectacles, grew suspiciously bright. The stern line of his mouth trembled, then softened into a smile of such profound, overwhelming tenderness that it transformed his entire face.

He reached into the water and lifted you, dripping and sudsy, into a warm, fluffy towel, holding you close against his crisp, white shirtfront.

"Why, thank you, Master/Mistress Y/N," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely displayed so openly. He cleared his throat. "That is the most honorable rendition of my name I believe I shall ever receive."

You nestled into his embrace, sighing contentedly, your mission accomplished. You had named your sun, your moon, your steady star. And "Alpffff" was, and would always be, perfect.

***

The air in the grand ballroom of Wayne Manor crackled with a different kind of energy than its usual galas. This wasn't for Gotham's elite; this was for family. Streamers in black and gold—Dick's idea—drifted from the high ceilings. A massive banner, painstakingly lettered by Tim to ensure perfect kerning, read "HAPPY NEW YEAR, Y/N!"

And at the center of it all, were you.

Jason Todd, smirking with a pride that rivaled any of his battlefield victories, had outdone himself. He hadn't gone for a tiny tuxedo or a frilly party dress. No, he had commissioned a perfect, miniature Gremlin suit. It was a fuzzy, greenish-brown onesie, complete with floppy ears and a mischievous, stitched-on smirk. You were sitting on the grand piano, propped against Bruce's steadying hands, a vision of chaotic, adorable perfection.

Tonight was not just New Year's Eve. It was the final, formal ratification of your adoption papers. You were, in the eyes of the law and every heart in the room, a Wayne.

"To Y/N," Bruce said, his voice unusually loud and clear, cutting through the cheerful noise. He lifted his glass of sparkling cider. He wasn't in the Batsuit, but a simple, dark suit, and the look on his face was one of unvarnished, profound joy. "The newest and brightest member of our family."

A chorus of "To Y/N!" echoed around the room. Dick was openly weeping. Tim was clapping so hard his hands were red. Cassandra was smiling her small, genuine smile. Stephanie was blowing you kisses.

But the moment that would be etched into memory forever came as the clock on the mantle began to chime midnight.

BONG.

The family turned, watching the clock, readying their cheers.

BONG.

You, however, were watching Damian. He was standing closest to the piano, trying to look aloof but failing miserably, his gaze fixed on you in your ridiculous Gremlin suit.

BONG.

As the third chime rang out, you decided to contribute to the celebration. You had been practicing. You pulled the pacifier from your mouth—a dramatic gesture that made everyone gasp—and threw your chubby arms wide, the Gremlin suit making you look like a tiny, fuzzy starfish.

You didn't yell "Happy New Year!" You didn't cheer. You let out the loudest, most triumphant, most perfectly timed sound you could muster, a roar of pure, unbridled glee for your new family, your new home, your new life.

"UNNNNGO!"

Your mighty cry echoed through the ballroom, perfectly syncopated with the final, twelfth BONG of the clock.

For a split second, there was silence. Then, the room erupted.

Jason howled with laughter, doubling over and slapping his knee. "THAT'S MY KID!" he roared. Dick was laughing and crying at the same time, clutching his stomach. Tim was wheezing, unable to breathe. Even Bruce threw his head back and laughed, a rich, booming sound that seemed to shake the very crystals in the chandelier.

Damian, his composure completely shattered, reached for you. He didn't just pick you up; he swept you into a hug, burying his face in the fuzzy green fabric of your Gremlin suit, his shoulders shaking with silent mirth.

You, pleased with the spectacular reaction to your New Year's proclamation, giggled your chiming giggle and gummed happily on Damian's chin.

Scenario 2: Nightmare Emergency

Camera Feed:

Reader, tiny and precious, waddling around with her blankie, sniffling and looking like a kicked puppy.

Jason: SHE’S CRYING MOVE

Dick: LET ME THROUGH I DO THE VOICES IN HER STORYBOOKS

Steph: NO I CUDDLED HER FOR FOUR HOURS LAST NIGHT, IT’S MY TURN

Tim: I already pre-heated the microwave bottle, SUCKERS

Damian: Stand aside. I have her dragon plushie. I am the chosen one.

Cass: Has already teleported beside Reader with cookies and fuzzy socks

Bruce (in the background): …Why do we not have a toddler emergency protocol??

Scenario 3: The Hero Assignment (but make it emotional trauma)

Dick: Whatcha makin’, peanut? 🥹

Toddler!Reader (glue in her eyelashes): My hero! Outta trash and sparkles!!

Jason: She’s totally gonna pick me. I gave her a whole leather jacket for dress-up day.

Steph: I let her put stickers on my face for two hours. I earned that title.

Tim: I literally stayed up all night helping her build that paper rocket.

Damian: She called me her “knighty wighty.” I don’t care what anyone says. I win.

Cass: already taping googly eyes onto a cardboard batmask she made together with Reader

Bruce (calm, composed): She is my daughter.

At School:

Teacher: And who is your hero, sweetheart?

Toddler!Reader (grinning, revealing one missing tooth): SUPAMAN!!!! 🦸‍♂️✨💙❤️

Whole Batfam (simultaneously): WHAT.

Jason: drops juicebox in slow motion …She picked that flying corn-fed himbo?

Tim: I— turns off all his tech devices out of heartbreak

Dick: Babe… we watched The Lego Batman Movie together. What did it mean to you??

Steph: I was glitter Batman for Halloween for her.

Damian: tearing up artwork This is a betrayal worse than Julius Caesar’s.

Cass: staring blankly at a Superman balloon floating by …it’s fine.

Bruce: …I need to call Clark. picks up phone with gritted teeth Clark. She said you're her hero.

Clark (from the other end, smug): Aww, she said that? That's so sweet! Tell her Uncle Supes loves her too!

Batfam: SCREAMING INTERNALLY

Later at home:

Jason: Hey… why is Superman your hero, sweetpea?

Toddler!Reader (mid-coloring): Cuz… he picked up my juice box when it falled 😌

Jason: clutching chest I COULD’VE DONE THAT—LET ME REDO MY AUDITION PLEASE—

Scenario 4: Trouble at School

Reader: sitting in the hall with a pout, tear in her eye and a Dora bandage on her cheek

Jason: What happened, baby bat?

Reader: I punched da big kid. He was mean to a widdle one… I wanted to be a hero… like you…

Jason: 🧍‍♂️🔫

Principal: Hello, Mr. Todd, we need to discuss—

Jason: I already paid for her lunch, bought the school, and fired the big kid’s dad. Wanna keep talking?

Reader (from his hip): I gots a popsicle 😋

Jason: She’s a hero. And heroes get popsicles.

Bonus:

"Operation: Juice Box Escape" ft. Toddler!Reader in her Feral Era 😤🧃

Setting: Wayne Manor. 8:03 PM. Post-cookie-denial incident.

Bruce: “No more cookies, sweetheart. You already had three.”

Toddler!Reader (3 y/o, betrayed, betrayed like Mufasa): …Okay.

Five Minutes Later…

Alfred (noticing the silence): Sir… have you seen the young miss?

Cut to: Security Cam Footage – Toddler!Reader, dead serious, wearing sunglasses, a glittery Dora backpack, and a tutu, marching toward the door dragging her stuffed duck by the wing.

Inside the backpack:

6 juice boxes

2 teddy bears

A tiara

Bruce’s credit card

One cookie (stolen)

Reader (muttering to herself): I runnin' ‘way. Gonna live wif Super-man. He gimme cookies.

Batfam:

Tim (on the computer): Security breach detected—WAIT THAT’S HER.

Jason: Did she just say she’s going to live with Clark?? NOT ON MY WATCH.

Dick: Get the car!! I’ll bring the plushies!!

Damian: I TOLD YOU ALL TO INSTALL TODDLER-SIZED MOTION SENSORS.

Steph: already halfway out the door My BABY is FLEEING.

Meanwhile, on the sidewalk…

Toddler!Reader: sipping a juice box and holding out her thumb like she saw in a movie I hitchin’ a wide.

Random Driver: Uh—do you need help, little—

Jason (pulls up in the Batmobile): BACK OFF, SHE HAS TWO LEGAL GUARDIANS AND A NINJA FAMILY.

Toddler!Reader (arms crossed): You no let me eat da cookie.

Jason: Baby, we’ll buy you an entire bakery, just come back inside.

Reader: I wanna live wif Super-man. He NICE. He say I strong.

Bruce (arriving, out of breath): I’LL BUY YOU THE SUN. JUST NOT CLARK. PLEASE.

Later that night:

Reader is peacefully sleeping in Jason’s hoodie, surrounded by six plushies, two Batboys snoring on the floor, and one glittery crown on her head.

Cass (whispering): She has a cookie in her pocket.

Damian: Let her keep it. She earned it.

✨ BONUS QUOTE ✨

Reader (drowsy): Next time… I bring more juice.

Bruce (tucking her in): Next time, take me with you.

So it was concerning to find that he hadn't babbled at them to wake up, both parents wandering to the boys bedroom to see him in fact asleep, drenched in sweat. “Go start the car” Shane said anxiously and lifted the boy, his skin clammy and warm and changed him quickly and put him into new clothes that were a lot lighter from his summer stuff.

A doctor's appointment and two panicking dad's revealed that little (name) had a fever, the little guy not impressed at all and was prescribed medication and cool baths.

(Name) Was slouched against his dad's, passed to whoever would carry him and would sob uncontrollably if set down even for a second so both men traded often.

“I know...” Ilya mumbled as he used an oral syringe to medicate the boy “/papa is evil, I know/” the boy did not like his medicine one but but Ilya got a tiny bit of chocolate syrup on the tip of his finger and put that in his mouth to mask the flavor and (name) seemed distracted at the chocolate flavor “/see, all is better!/” His voice gentle while Shane slept, the man exhausted as (name) was either sobbing or a blob, not wanting nap time at all.

But eventually he passed out.

Thank fuck.