Wayne Manor had seen its fair share of chaos. Board meetings, galas, patrol nights when Bruce stumbled home bruised and silent—but none of that compared to raising a house full of children. Gotham’s criminals were one thing. Five-year-old Azure Wayne was an entirely different challenge.

From the moment you could walk, you had a tenderness that made even Alfred pause. You spoke to plants like they were friends, held broken toys as if they hurt, and adored every living creature you stumbled across. Bruce, who had spent so much of his life hardening himself against the world, found himself constantly undone by it. You were soft in ways he never thought he’d get to see in his home.

It started with a single kitten. One rainy evening, you toddled up the driveway with your tiny coat zipped all the way to your chin. Bruce had crouched down, curious, only for a wet black-and-white head to poke out of the collar. You had looked up at him with wide, serious eyes and said: “He didn’t have a mommy.”

Bruce sighed, but he let it stay. Then came another. And another. Now, somehow, Wayne Manor had three cats trailing after its halls, climbing onto Damian’s sketches, curling on Tim’s laptops, and batting at Alfred’s ankles.

Bruce had tried to be firm. One night, he knelt in front of you, his large hand resting on your tiny shoulder. “Azure,” he said gently, “we can’t bring every stray home. You have to promise me, no more, alright?”

You nodded solemnly, lips puckered in determination. “No more.”

Bruce wanted to believe you.

But today, as the front doors opened, he heard it, the faint, muffled chorus of meows. Then came the sight: you, stumbling inside in your puffy winter coat, zipped all the way down to your boots. It looked bigger than you, stuffed and round. And it moved.

“Azure…” Bruce’s voice dropped into that low timbre he used when Gotham wasn’t listening. “Come here. Please.”

You shuffled toward him, cheeks puffed, eyes already brimming as if you knew you were in trouble.

“I told you, no more,” he said, trying to sound stern.

That was all it took, your little lip wobbled, tears spilling fast. “They’re babies,” you hiccupped, clutching your coat tighter. "Babies can't be on streets, they will be alone, that's why I brought them with me!"

Bruce’s jaw tensed. He’d stared down crime lords without flinching, but one look at your tear-streaked cheeks and he felt his resolve crumble. He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before crouching to your level.

“Alright,” he murmured, softer now. “That was thoughtful of you, sweetheart. But this is the last time. Do you understand?”

You nodded, sniffling. “Promise.”

“Good.” He reached forward, tugging at your zipper. “Now… let me see these ‘babies’.”

The coat peeled open. And Bruce froze.

Not one. Not two. Twelve. Twelve tiny kittens spilled out in a wriggling, squeaking flood across the marble floor.

For a moment, Bruce Wayne, the Batman, the man who had faced death itself was speechless. He stared at you. Then at the kittens. Then back at you.

You hiccupped again. “They followed me home.”

Bruce exhaled, long and slow, dragging a hand down his face. Finally, he scooped you up into his arms, careful not to crush the kitten still nestled against your chest. His lips pressed against your hair in a weary kiss.

“Alright,” he said softly, kissing the top of your head, “we’ll figure it out. Together.”