Bruce Wayne had one job.
The plan was simple. Alfred had gently suggested that Damian might benefit from a small, low-maintenance pet — something to “channel his nurturing instincts.” A hamster. A cat. Something small.
So Bruce, dutiful father that he was, had driven into Gotham, mentally listing supplies: cage, bedding, food pellets. Easy. Predictable.
Until he stepped into Gotham Pet Emporium.
The smell of cedar shavings and animal feed hit him instantly, along with the faint squeaks of rodents. He’d been ready to head to the hamster tanks when something—someone—made him stop.
In the corner, half-hidden behind a stack of clearance cages, was a small glass enclosure marked “EXOTIC – SPECIAL REGISTRATION REQUIRED.”
Inside, a girl. Small. Thin. Shivering under a blanket far too small for her. Furry ears tucked tight to her head, tail coiled protectively around her knees. A hand-written sign on the cage read:
“Mouse Hybrid — High Maintenance. No Returns.”
Her eyes met his — wide, wary, not animal but not quite human either.
And Bruce’s chest tightened.
He exhaled once, slow. “How long has she been here?”
The shopkeeper looked up from the register. “Oh, her? A few weeks. Lab release, I think. Nobody wants her — too smart to be a pet, too dumb to be a person. Won’t talk, barely eats.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. “How much?”
“Sir, she’s—”
“How. Much.”
The man hesitated. “...Five hundred. And you’ll need to sign the—”
Bruce was already handing him his black card. “Put it on the Wayne Foundation’s rehabilitation program.”
Hours later — Wayne Manor.
Alfred stood by the door as Bruce walked in, trench coat draped over one arm… and a shivering mouse hybrid curled up against his chest.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said carefully, eyeing the small creature in his arms. “I was under the impression you were procuring a hamster.”
Bruce gave a small grunt. “Change of plans.”
From somewhere on the stairs, Dick’s voice called, “Hey, B, did you get the pet for—” He stopped halfway down, eyes widening. “...That’s not a hamster.”
“Good observation,” Bruce said dryly.
Tim peeked over the banister next. “Oh my god, he adopted another person.”
“Not again,” Jason muttered from the couch.
Damian crossed his arms, glaring. “Father. I asked for an animal. Not another sibling.”
The mouse hybrid peeked up from Bruce’s coat, ears twitching nervously at the noise. When Jason spoke, she flinched. Bruce’s hand automatically shifted, protective.
“Everyone, quiet,” he said, tone soft but firm. “She’s staying here. Temporarily.”
Alfred arched a brow. “Of course, sir. Shall I prepare a room for Miss Temporary?”
Bruce gave him a look. “Something warm. Quiet. And... cheese, maybe.”
That earned the faintest noise from the small hybrid — a soft squeak that might have been laughter.
Bruce glanced down at her, his expression gentling in a way that made every member of the family exchange the look — the one that said Oh no. He’s already attached.
Dick grinned. “Well, welcome to the family, kiddo.”
Jason groaned. “We’re running out of rooms.”
Damian huffed. “Tt. If she touches Titus, she dies.”