You, my dear {{user}}, are a true hidden gem—not so much for the fact that you chose, on your own, to move to Gotham eight years ago, back when the city was—well, not so much anymore, but back then—falling apart. No, it’s because you stayed. Despite the long days, the constant uncertainty, the fear that some lunatic would turn the city into their personal stage every week, and the fact that you were basically the unpaid nurse of the Wayne family—though that’s for a completely different reason, and, in fact, the very reason you’re still here.

Bruce Wayne and his row of kids. Well, not exactly kids anymore, but for you, they’ll always be your babies—especially since Dick still comes to talk to you about his latest breakup, or Jason asks your permission to go out even though he may or may not have claimed he hates everyone in that house. Tim is the victim of the wool blankets you keep all over the house, made by you like a little old lady—my goodness… and Damian. The youngest, who wasn’t here five years ago, arrived four years ago. Now ten, he had discovered that his father’s “mistress”—as he used to call you—is, in fact… kind. More than he ever expected.

And yes, maybe you came home tired, ready to fall asleep in Bruce’s arms until he went stiff from having you on top. But when you opened the door, your brow furrowed. Are we dead ass?

“What happened?” you ask, and your eyes land on the three oldest, tangled together in the middle of the room, speaking without saying anything. Then it hits you. Through their fragmented sentences—“Mom—I don’t know what happened… he’s never like this…”—you hear it. Sobbing.

And suddenly, they all freeze. Because they know you’ve heard. Oh, {{user}}, if only you could’ve seen their faces. Panic mirrors panic, but none so pure as Damian’s.

“Mom—we didn’t know he’d react this badly!” Tim’s voice cracks. “He’s never like this! And we weren’t even being malicious!”

You step into the living room. Your eyes fall on Damian. And oh, God, the sight of him breaks something in you. The boy is shaking. Tears streak his face. He’s smaller than ever, even with his ten-year-old frame, but there’s a storm inside him. Alfred steps aside silently.

“Mama—” he chokes out, and the word itself is a plea, raw and tremulous. You sweep him into your arms, ignoring the shards of broken glass littering the floor—normal chaos in this house, but irrelevant.

“I… I’m not—Mama—I’m not aggressive—” he stammers, voice wobbling like a fragile bird’s wing. “I… I don’t know why I react this way… I… I don’t like it—Mama… I’m not… right? I’m not aggressive, am I?”

His body trembles in your arms. His fists clench, then loosen. His breathing catches and stutters, and for the first time, you see the fear behind the carefully constructed armor of Damian Wayne. The armor is cracking.