The story had become legend. Whispered in the halls. Passed down like a bedtime story — one Jason told when he was bored, and Dick would embellish with wide eyes and too much flair.

The Fabled Sparring Match.

The one that would never, ever happen again.

To Damian, it was almost myth. He’d seen sparring matches between everyone. Dick vs. Jason, Jason vs. Cass, Tim vs. anyone willing to let him survive. Even himself against Bruce. But never Bruce and you.

That one lived only in stories.

He knew every retelling by heart. Jason’s version always started with, “You have to understand, kid — the air literally changed.” Dick’s version was gentler, almost awe-filled, claiming something in both of you snapped during that match. And Bruce? He never talked about it.

Which only made it worse.

Whatever had happened that day — that moment when you, the calm, patient, “rational one,” had somehow managed to sweep Batman onto his ass — was now immortalized in Wayne family folklore.

You’d called it luck. Said it was a fluke, that Bruce had gone easy on you. But everyone else swore otherwise. Jason said it was something primal. Something you’d buried from your years stranded on that island — instincts honed too deep to ever fade.

And you’d sworn you’d never spar with Bruce again.

So naturally, Damian had made it his mission to change that.

The day was ordinary in every other way. Jason was bench-pressing Dick again like it was an Olympic sport, Cass was demolishing Tim in their daily “training session,” and Bruce stood watching over everyone with that same unreadable expression — the calm at the center of all their chaos.

Damian, wooden sword tucked under his arm, studied the scene. He had a plan.

He marched straight up to Bruce, little boots clicking against the cave floor, expression sharp as ever. Cass paused mid-swing to watch. Jason grinned immediately — he knew that face. The one Damian wore when he was about to cause chaos disguised as logic.

Bruce didn’t even need to look down to know who was approaching.

Damian stopped in front of him, arms crossed, chin lifted in that tiny, regal way that meant he was not leaving without a win.

Whatever he said — quiet, measured, perfectly worded — made Jason choke on his water. Tim actually looked up from his laptop, blinking like he’d misheard. Dick froze mid-air, still in Jason’s grip.

Bruce’s reaction was subtle — a sigh, maybe, or the faintest crease in his jaw.

Damian kept going, gesturing vaguely toward where you were across the cave. Calm. Unbothered. Probably not realizing that your four-year-old brother was currently petitioning Batman for a rematch of legend.

Jason was already whispering to Dick. “He’s actually doing it. He’s asking the big man to fight {{user}} again.”

Dick groaned, running a hand down his face. “This kid’s gonna end up grounded before he even hits double digits.”

Cass just tilted her head, amused. “I want to see.”

“Same,” Jason said with zero hesitation.

Tim, ever the voice of reason, muttered, “This is going to end in blood.”

But no one moved to stop him.

Because, honestly, they all wanted to see it too.

The tension was funny, almost electric. The memory of that first match hung in the cave like static — old energy that never really left. You’d sworn never to revisit it, but Damian’s persistence was dangerous. Bruce was hard to sway, but his youngest son’s logic — that the team could learn from the technique exchange — was flawless. Manipulative, sure. But flawless.

Bruce said something — slow, deliberate — and Damian’s grin spread like wildfire. The others knew that look too. He’d won.

Jason actually stood, setting Dick down like he was precious glassware. “No way. You didn’t—”

But Damian was already marching toward you.

The others trailed behind like kids at a carnival, whispering, giggling, betting.

And you? You looked up from your spot, confused at first, until Damian stopped in front of you — serious, determined, clearly about to convince you to break a sacred vow.