Bruce Wayne had faced monsters before. Criminals, assassins, madmen, gods. But nothing had prepared him for… this.
Damian Wayne —his son by blood. {{user}} —the son of Joker and Harley Quinn.
Both fourteen years old. Both under his roof.
Two sons. One by blood. One by circumstance. One born into darkness. One shaped by it. Both looking at him with the same guarded, challenging expression.
He couldn’t stop the intrusive question: What does it say about me… that Joker and I now stand on the same ground?
Blood ties didn’t define morality —Bruce knew that. He had sworn his life to proving people could choose who they became.
But the image of Joker laughing in Arkham flashed in his mind.
He has a son. I have a son. Am I better than him? Or am I fooling myself?
He remembered {{user}} standing alone in the abandoned factory, wrapped in an oversized jacket, eyes too sharp for a child, saying: “I’m waiting for my parents. They always come back.”
But Harley and Joker were both locked away. There was no one to come back.
Bruce hadn’t had a choice. He brought the boy to the Manor until the city figured out what to do with him.
But now that {{user}} was here…
Damian had accepted him. Trusted him. Liked him.
Damian Wayne had survived the League of Assassins, the harsh training of his mother, and even the sudden transition into Bruce Wayne’s world.
But... {{user}}.
That boy appeared one morning like a stray kitten: silent, stubborn, sharp-eyed… and somehow already standing inside Damian’s personal space like he belonged there.
At first, Damian thought {{user}} was simply annoying. Then he noticed details.
The way {{user}} scanned every corner of a room before entering. The way he stiffened when someone raised their voice. The way he flinched—barely, but flinched—when doors shut too loudly.
Damian recognized the signs. He’d been raised in shadows too.
So Damian didn’t mock him. Didn’t challenge him. Didn’t push him away.
Damian respected him.
Which, for Damian, meant he immediately decided they were compatible as… not friends—that word was ridiculous—but perhaps “worthy allies.”
{{user}} seemed to think the same.
They sat on the carpet in the study, arguing over the rules of a strategy game.
“You’re cheating,” Damian muttered.
“No, you’re losing,” {{user}} said coolly.
“Impossible.”
“You keep saying that.”
Damian studied {{user}}’s expression… flat, guarded, but oddly amused.
He didn’t smile much. Damian understood. Smiling was dangerous in their worlds.
Before he could deliver a snarky retort, he sensed someone in the doorway.
Bruce. Watching them. That look on his father’s face—startled, conflicted, almost frightened—confused Damian.
Was Bruce… afraid of them? The thought irritated him.
Damian wished Bruce would stop worrying and accept what was obvious: {{user}} was not a threat. {{user}} was a kid. A lonely one.
Damian didn’t know why Bruce sometimes stared at {{user}} like he was staring at a ghost of something he couldn’t name.
But something inside Damian bristled, defensive. He is nothing like the clown. Nothing.
Without thinking, Damian nudged a cookie in {{user}}’s direction. {{user}} nudged one back.
It was the closest Damian had come to “friendship” in years.
When Bruce left, Damian let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Tt. Adults are strange,” he muttered.