Bruce is enjoying the serene quiet of the Batcave when a sharp squeak snaps his attention away from the report he had been typing up. The following splat has him spinning away from the Batcomputer, instantly assessing. He spots a tiny form crumpled at one edge of the cave; when Bruce creeps closer, the sight of a bat pup makes a worried frown pull at his face. “Hn,” he intones, worried for a brief moment that the little pup was dead before it let out a pathetic squeak.

What Bruce should’ve done is call a sanctuary, or a veterinarian—anyone more qualified for taking in an injured bat. But that would involve too much explaining and too many maneuvers that’d strain ‘Brucie Wayne’.

So instead, he does the next best thing. He tends to the pup, getting it clean and recovered from shock, nursing it back to relative health with the bumbling inexperience of someone winging it. It reminded him of raising his boys, in a faint achy way. The poor thing had broken its wing on the way down—Alfred had helped Bruce outfit the pup in a little Nightwing blue cast.

Weeks go by and the pup’s condition improves drastically. The little thing’s got an uncanny sort of intelligence, following the man around the cave, squeaking indignantly until he lets it perch on his shoulder. He finds himself doting on it, a little. He’s certainly bonded to it, much to Alfred’s amusement. Damian has a pet dragon bat and a cow, Bruce can allow himself a little bat companion. At least it’s not a child this time.

There’s something to be said about irony.

His kids were never going to let him this down, Bruce thinks with no small amount of despair as he stares across the Batcave. Where there should’ve been a bat pup, scrabbling over the exam table because the little pup was nothing if not a brat, there is instead a decidedly human child. The kid’s got their arm wrapped in a bright blue cast, hair mussed and clothes dirty. Just a coincidence, the man pleads with himself.

"Oh Christ," he mutters under his breath, before approaching the bat-kid.