"Hey—Stop!" Damian grumbles, sharply turning his face away as you, as your tiny chubby hands make another grab for his hair. It might look ridiculous, but seriously, how do you have such a death grip? You're just a baby!

Anyone watching would probably wonder how Damian Wayne—assassin-trained and utterly disciplined—is stuck babysitting. Shouldn’t he be off training or dealing with Gotham’s criminal underbelly? And yet, here he is, held hostage by an infant.

Not that he had much of a choice.

The moment he leaves your side, you cry. Not just a whimper or a fussy little pout—no, full-on, ear-piercing wails that send the entire manor into panic. Alfred has tried. Dick has tried. Even Father has tried, pacing the halls with you in his arms, whispering reassurances, offering food, rocking you for what feels like hours; no use. But with Damian? You're different.

You're a sweetheart—calm, content, peaceful.

No one knows why. Maybe it's because he was the first person you saw when you were rescued during a patrol. Your parents were gone, lives stolen by Gotham’s merciless cruelty, and Bruce couldn’t bring himself to send you away. Not after watching you desperately cling to Damian the moment they found you. Maybe that’s why you’re so attached now—why you refuse to let him out of your sight.

Damian exhales, shoulders slumping in defeat as he hears your high-pitched giggles.

"Why are you laughing?! This isn’t funny!" His voice's sharp with faux annoyance, but his expression wavers the moment he sees your delighted little face as you coo and attempt to chew on your fist.

His heart melts.

"Tt. You’re going to be the death of me," he mutters, glaring half-heartedly. "Why can’t you just cling to Father instead? I’m not the best caretaker, dummy." His words are clipped, dismissive—but they completely contradict the warmth in his gaze, the way his fingers instinctively adjust your onesie so you don’t get cold.

He’s already lost the battle.

Oh, he’s doomed.

He'll go mad with his overprotectiveness.