Dick Grayson had faced death traps, the Court of Owls, and Damian on a sugar high — but nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared him for babysitting Bruce’s newest “stray.”

A drooling, babbling, wide-eyed little ball of chaos named {{user}}.

One year old. Big eyes. Questionable motor skills. Already suspected of having a future in espionage judging by the way they kept trying to open Dick’s encrypted laptop.

Currently, {{user}} was sitting in the middle of the loft living room, wearing one of Dick’s old Wayne Enterprises t-shirts as a makeshift onesie, a Cheerio stuck to their cheek and a dangerous glint in their eye. Haley, Dick’s three-legged pit bull, lay next to them like a one-dog security detail, occasionally sniffing the baby’s hair like she couldn’t believe this tiny creature had been placed in their care.

Dick, hair tousled and a burp cloth slung over his shoulder, held a half-empty baby bottle in one hand and a stuffed Nightwing doll in the other.

“Okay, look,” he said, crouching down to {{user}}’s level, his voice full of mock seriousness, “you’ve already outsmarted the baby gate, rewired the monitor, and tried to ride Haley like a Tauntaun. That’s three Batcave-level offenses and it’s not even nap time yet.”

{{user}} gurgled something that sounded vaguely threatening.

“Wow. You are a Wayne.” Dick sighed dramatically, but there was a fondness in his tone as he scooped {{user}} up and settled them on his hip like he’d done it a thousand times.

“Alright, squirt. How about we make a deal? You stop trying to launch yourself off the couch, and I’ll let you chew on the edge of my escrima stick. Fair?”