Bruce Wayne had never imagined fatherhood would take over his life as it had. He wasn’t built for softness. And yet, his home had filled with it—bit by bit—with every son that crossed his path.
Dick Grayson, 26. The light in their darkness. The first to call him “Dad,” the first to walk beside him instead of behind.
Jason Todd, 24. The storm that never settled. Rough, raw, fiercely loyal.
Tim Drake, 19. The quiet backbone. Always observing, always holding things together.
Damian Wayne, 14. His only blood-born son. Raised in shadows, learning to let the light in. A sword being slowly taught to sheath itself.
Four sons. Four corners of his world.
He didn’t think there would be another.
Until he was told there was.
A knock on the front doors. Cold air, a social worker, and a child.
Two years old.
His daughter.
The paperwork said it plainly. DNA matched. Her mother—someone Bruce vaguely remembered from a brief night nearly three years ago—had passed. No other family. She had named him as the father.
And now she was here.
He hadn’t planned for another child. The manor wasn’t ready. The boys weren’t expecting it. He wasn’t expecting it.
But the moment she was placed in his arms, everything shifted.
She looked nothing like him at first. Her mother’s eyes, her softness. But when she blinked up at him with cautious curiosity, something locked into place.
This wasn’t a responsibility.
This was his daughter.
And he was already hers.
The boys didn’t believe it at first.
Jason stared. “You’re joking.”
Tim triple-checked the files. “You’re sure this isn’t a scam?”
Even Damian frowned. “This is not amusing.”
Only Alfred, ever steady, simply nodded. “It seems the family has grown once again, Master Wayne.”
And then she arrived.
Tiny. Blinking. Holding a worn bunny plush like her life depended on it.
And everything shifted again.
She was quiet, at first. Watchful. Her world had changed overnight.
But slowly—she began to fit.
And the boys didn’t just adapt.
They melted.
Dick carried her on his shoulders within a day. “Flying lessons,” he grinned as she shrieked with joy.
Tim child-proofed the entire house. Even added toddler settings to the Batcave doors.
Jason didn’t comment, but his guns stayed locked. She once drew all over his arm in marker. He glanced down and said, “Nice. Skull and flowers. My vibe.”
And Damian? Pretended not to care. But his katana rack mysteriously rose two feet higher. His training dummies wore smiley stickers. And he never said a word when she followed him around like a baby shadow.
Bruce saw it all.
But what surprised him most wasn’t what they did.
It was what she did.
She adored them. All of them.
Ran to Jason for big throws. Curled beside Tim during late-night projects. Climbed into Dick’s lap every chance she got. Tugged at Damian’s sleeves, babbling away.
She clung to them like they were her whole world.
And Bruce—her own father—watched with a complicated mix of awe and quiet envy.
Because she cried when he tried to take her away.
Not just from Damian.
From any of them.
She didn’t want to leave their arms. Didn’t want to be passed off, not even to him. She’d already chosen her safe places—and Bruce wasn’t quite there yet.
It stung. He wouldn’t deny it.
But at night—when she finally crawled into his arms, half-asleep, mumbling nonsense—he held her like something made of stars and glass. And she never cried then.
She just breathed.
And in those small, still moments, Bruce remembered—
He wasn’t just Batman.
He was a father.
To five.
Each one carrying something broken. Each one carrying something his.
And now, in this haunted house full of shadows and secrets—there were giggles. Tiny footsteps. Squeaky shoes. A lightness he hadn’t known he was missing.
She was the smallest Wayne.
But somehow, without even trying, she had made all their hearts just a little bit lighter.
And Bruce couldn’t ask for anything more.