Archive of Our Own ^beta

Selina eyed her target from the roof of the building opposite. It was dark; streetlamps were few and far between in Gotham, the nearest being on the corner twenty metres away. That wasn’t a problem though, as she knew the dark would hide her from any wandering eyes that may ruin her plan. She had been observing this particular jewellery shop for a while now—it was relatively new and the owners were naïve enough to rely on only a cheap burglar alarm for security. It was going to be easy. Child’s play.

She smirked and crawled silently down the fire escape, clinging to the shadows. She swung from the last platform and landed in a crouch on the damp floor, then scurried across the deserted road, her breath condensing in front of her face as she ran. She waited a moment under the doorway, then lifted her leg and kicked the door down, taking a satisfied moment to listen to the alarm screech into the night. She stepped into the shop and hopped up onto the till, shifting and shuffling back until she was comfortable.

Now what she had to do now was sit back, relax and wait.

Despite their reputation for being aloof and closed off, the batclan were probably the easiest heroes to summon. All you had to do was go into a Gotham alley at night and scream. Or, in her case, try to ‘steal’ diamonds.

She sneered slightly and glanced around the glass cabinets, unimpressed at the size and quality of the rocks around her. As if she would settle for less than the best.

As if by magic, no less than one minute later, Batman glided into the shop, taking a moment to glance around at the untouched necklaces and earrings, until finally focusing on her, tilting his head in a way that she had learnt from observing his conversations with Nightwing meant amusement.

“I know,” he said, his voice more Bruce than Batman, “I missed date night last week. In my defence, it couldn’t be helped—family emergency.”

She huffed and crossed her arms, knowing the gesture lifted her breasts up slightly, “what? What couldn’t be helped? We haven’t had any time together for months. A girl needs some attention every now and again, you know.”

“Attention, huh? That’s why you broke into a shop.”

“I haven’t touched anything in this dump. I have standards, you know.”

“Oh,” he smirked, walking over to her and placing his hands on her hips, leaning his weight against her, pushing her legs apart, “I know.”

She chuckled gently at his antics before wrapping her arms around his back and kissing him. He made a pleased noise, but pulled back after a few seconds.

“I have patrol tonight,” he at least sounded apologetic.

“Tomorrow, then?” She suggested, leaning down to kiss his jaw.

“Your place, six o’clock? We can order in.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head, “we can’t. I just got a new kitten and if I’m home she refuses to not be on my lap. Adorable, but a mood killer.”

She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could tell he was frowning from the way his lips pinched at the sides. He had some of her dark lipstick on his lower lip, she noticed, but decided it was too cute to mention. She’ll let Alfred have his fun asking questions later.

“You cannot come to the mansion while Damian is home,” he said firmly, “he will hurt and insult you.”

She raised an eyebrow, “he’s a ten year old boy.”

“He’s the reason Red Robin is out of commission for five weeks with a broken arm,” he countered.

Her eyebrows were both raised now, “you weren’t kidding when you said family emergency, huh?”

He sighed resignedly, “he hates everyone, beside Dick. And Alfred, of course. Oh, and his damn pets. They’re everywhere. We have a Batcow now, because of him.”

She took a moment to process that, before perking up in excitement as an idea came to her.

“But that’s just purrfect,” she grinned, unable to resist the pun, “he can look after my cats, we can have uninterrupted adult times in the mansion!”

He thought about it for a few seconds, rubbing small circles on her thighs with his thumbs. He licked his lips, and she mirrored him subconsciously.

“That … could work. I’ll have to get Nightwing to ask him, though,” he smiled.

“You have to stop using Dick as a buffer between you two,” she commented dryly.

He pouted a bit, but didn’t object. Then the sound of a siren rang in the distance, and their time was up. Bruce stepped away and straightened his cape while she slid down from the till, re-adjusting the front of her suit from where it had bunched up slightly.

“My place, tomorrow, six, no children and no cats,” he pecked her on the lips once more, then ran out of the shop to face whatever trouble Gotham had brought now.

She took a moment to smile to herself, then bent down and picked the door up, leaning it against its frame behind her as she stepped out onto the street, shivering in the brisk air. Hopefully no one would notice and try to steal anything—Bruce wouldn’t talk to her for a month if they did.

*

“For the twelfth time, Grayson, no,” Damian scowled, and his next kick was a bit closer to Dick’s face than necessary.

“Please, Little D, you’ll be doing me—“ –Bruce’s damn libido— “—a big favour. I’ll pay you twenty bucks. I’ll let you patrol Crime Alley by yourself every night next week if you do!” Dick flipped over his little brother and swung his leg at the back of his knees, trying to trip him over, but Damian anticipated the move and jumped out of the way in time, spinning to face him again.

Damian paused, screwing his face up in consideration, because of course the promise of a free reign on criminals without being reminded that they didn’t fight to inflict pain was what appealed to him. Why couldn’t the kid like cartoons or football or something normal?

“How long will my services be required?” Damian finally asked. Dick grinned, knowing that meant he was agreeing to help. Bruce so owed him one.

“Until noon-ish tomorrow, tops,” Dick walked over to where they had put their water bottles, and Damian followed, panting slightly from then work out.

“Fine,” Damian huffed, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, “I’ll look after your friend’s stupid cats. How hard could it possibly be?”

*

Dick drove Damian to Selina’s apartment early that evening, idly flicking through the stations on the radio, trying to find a song he liked. Damian had his headphones in and was glaring out the window. He was stroking Alfred, who was in his lap looking very displeased at being in a car. Damian had insisted in bringing him along, saying that Alfred needed friends who were the same species as he was. Dick had been hesitant to bring him, unsure of how Selina’s cats would react to him, but Selina had assured him they loved making friends with other cats and would enjoy having a new playmate. Hopefully Damian wouldn’t get any scratches breaking up cat-fights.

“Who is this friend, anyway?” Damian asked, pulling an earphone out.

“Um, she’s from work,” technically not a lie, though Catwoman and Officer Grayson had never crossed paths, and he doubted they’d be on the same side if they did.

“Hmpf,” Damian sniffed, obviously not caring. Dick hid a smile, knowing that Damian really just wanted an excuse to talk without sounding like he had any interest in Dick’s life. Like father, like son.

“She has ten cats, one of which is a kitten. I’ve seen pictures: she’s cute,” Dick commented.

“Tt. What does an animal’s appearance have anything to do with it? Its temperament is what makes a loyal counterpart,” Damian replied with an air of superiority.

“That attitude is going to make you so popular with the ladies,” Dick smirked. Damian made a repulsed face and opened his mouth to complain, but Dick spoke over him. “Oh, look, we’re here. Hold on tight to Alfred—I don’t want to chase after him if he bolts.”

Dick parked on the curb even though it was a no-parking zone. If he got a ticket he’d make Bruce pay for it out of spite for making him trick Damian into this. He stepped out of the car, and Damian grudgingly followed him out a few seconds later, tightly clutching Alfred to his chest.

“I still don’t see why I can’t bring Titus,” Damian complained.

Dick sighed. That had been the one thing he put his foot down on. Titus hated all cats bar Alfred, and would try catch them every time Dick took him on a walk outside the manor’s grounds. There had been one memorable day where his arm had almost been ripped out of its socket because of how hard Titus had lunged at an alley cat. Dick had tripped and fallen into a puddle. Damian hadn’t even looked apologetic.

“Sometimes I feel as though you act deliberately obtuse to things just to irritate me,” Dick commented, walking into the building and making his way to the lift, knowing Damian would have to follow him.

Damian didn’t quite keep his face impassive, the side of his mouth tugging slightly into a smirk. He was improving though: usually he was about as subtle as a brick.

The lift ride was short and spent in a companionable silence. When they reached Selina’s floor Dick had to check the numbers on the doors to know which way to go—he hoped it wasn’t too obvious he’d never gotten into the apartment via any other way than the fire escape. Bruce had lent him his key, and Dick was going to have to trust that Damian wouldn’t lose it.

Finally finding the right door, they let themselves in and switched the lights on. Selina had hidden all the photos she had, as well as some of the more … impressive pieces of art that a normal Gothamite wouldn’t be able to afford. It was a good-sized flat for so near to the centre of Gotham, and Selina obviously took good care of it. Three of her cats, including the kitten, were there to meet them at the door, and Alfred instantly wriggled free of Damian’s grip so he could fall to the floor and get close to them.

“Alright, all you have to do is put ten plates of cat food out before you go to sleep and ten plates of cat food out when you wake up. The spare room’s at the end of the hall, next to the bathroom … and, um, I think she said she had plenty of food and stuff in the fridge,” Dick listed. Damian was hardly listening to him anyway, and had crouched on the floor encouraging all the cats to come near him. “I’m patrolling all night tonight, but Tim’s obviously off field work because you broke his arm,” Dick gave him a hard look which Damian completely ignored, “Batgirl and Black Bat are out tonight, but only for the first shift—they have plans with Babs tomorrow morning … And Batman, of course, heh, we all know how busy he is,” he added quickly. “Just … you can call if you need any help, okay?”

Damian had since been almost smothered by all of the cats, and their meowing was deafening. He managed to get his head up enough to turn and glare in Dick’s direction, “this shall be simple. I will not require any assistance.”

Dick tried not to roll his eyes, “just in case?”

“Fine,” Damian snapped. “You may leave now.”

Dick grinned.

“Bye, Little D!” He crooned, blowing obnoxious kisses in Damian’s direction.

“Goodbye, Grayson,” Damian intoned, and he had so learnt that tone from Alfred.

Dick laughed as he left. Maybe this was a good idea after all.

*

“Good evening, Ms Kyle,” Alfred greeted her with a knowing smile. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that you and Sir have a free house tonight.”

“Really?” Selina smiled, eyes twinkling. “What a lucky coincidence.”

*

Grayson finally left. Why did he always insist in unnecessarily prolonged goodbyes? It was a sentimental habit. Damian couldn’t bring himself to be too annoyed though, since he was surrounded on all sides by overly-friendly felines. He could admit to himself he was glad he agreed to cat-sit, as these truly were fine animals. He should probably be scoping out the place for all possible entrances, but, he decided, that could wait for now. A ginger cat with a white belly had managed to perch itself soundly on top of Damian’s head, and was nuzzling his short hair; trying to stand now would be excellent balance training, but may also consequence in the animal startling and clawing into his head, which would be unfortunate.

Alfred was currently doing the cat equivalent of glaring at the kitten—she was cute, he confessed to himself—which was playfully swiping at him.  Damian could hear him purring, however, so he wasn’t worried a fight would start.

After about ten minutes of introducing himself to the new animals, naming them in his head and doting on them, he stood up slowly, removing the reluctant ginger cat—whom he had dubbed ‘Babs’—and placing it on the sofa. He did a quick sweep of the apartment, cataloguing all escape routes and hidey-holes, but found nothing of much interest—the master bedroom was locked, but he figured he wouldn’t like a stranger being allowed in his room either. There were no personal items on display, and he wondered what kind of person Grayson had managed to befriend: he had a natural kindness and openness that drew all kinds of people to him, and he genuinely seemed to enjoy meeting new people—a foolhardy trait, in Damian’s opinion. It would sure enough come back to bite him eventually. Not that he was concerned or worried about him in anyway.

While it was a large flat there wasn’t really enough room for him to practice fighting without the risk of accidentally breaking any furniture. Damian chose to settle down next to Babs, a tabby cat with one ear he named ‘Jay’, Alfred and the kitten—‘Cass’—on the sofa and watch television.

He managed to find an action movie with maximum violence and minimum plot, which he quickly got absorbed by. The stuntmen weren’t as amateur as most he saw, but he still got to scoff at the improbability and ill-form of the fight scenes. Most of the cats came and went throughout the duration of the film, but towards the end they started to get a bit antsy—a quick glance at the clock told him it was eight o’clock. He could probably get away with feeding them now; he had no idea what time Grayson’s friend usually went to bed and he woke up early.

He had to climb onto the counter to open the cupboards in the kitchen—thank God Drake wasn’t there to ridicule him—but when he finally opened the correct one he frowned. There were only ten packs of cat food left. Not enough for Alfred and certainly not enough for in the morning. He did not want to go shopping as soon as he woke up, so he decided it would be practical to go out and buy some more now.  Grayson’s friend could pay him back.

He stuffed his trainers onto his feet and pocketed the keys into his coat’s pocket along with his wallet. He turned back to stare firmly at the cats, half of whom were looking at him curiously, the others either grooming themselves or napping.

“Be good,” he said, feeling slightly ridiculous, and left.

*

It only took him about ten minutes to walk to the nearest corner shop he had spotted on the drive there and walk back, a box of the best cat food they sold in hand. He placed the plastic bag down on the counter, then immediately turned to start dishing out the plates of food, to the cats’ loud merriment. He placed all the bowls on the floor, and the cats swarmed to them. He sighed affectionately, bending down to stroke Alfred’s head. Honestly, you’d think they never got feed—at least two of them were pushing overweight, though that may have been fur.

He frowned when he noticed one bowl was being left alone, and a quick count told him he was missing one. He turned around to look for it and—

—and saw Cass The Kitten hungrily chewing the plastic bag.

Damian gaped. The kitten had managed to swallow down one handle and was working on ripping apart the main sack. Damian made and alarmed noise and lunged forward, grabbing her and lifting her by the scruff of her neck. He pinched the end of the thin white plastic and tried to pull some of it out of her mouth, but she managed to bite it off.

“You idiot! What is wrong with you, you stupid animal?” Damian yelled, putting Cass down and running his fingers through his hair. Grayson’s friend’s kitten was going to choke to death because of his negligence and Grayson was going to be angry at him and it would be his fault—

“Calm down,” he hissed to himself, “you’re being ridiculous.”

He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and dialled Nightwing’s comm. He would know what to do.

*

The first few hours of Nightwing’s patrol were fairly quiet, only a few muggings and one attempted stabbing, as things usually were in the early evening. He ran into Black Bat and they played tag for a bit, but they couldn’t be distracted for too long. The beginning of the night always seemed like a warm-up for whatever troubles the dark of the night would bring.

Unfortunately for Dick, the troubles this night were all too personal. And trigger-happy.

Jason Todd—the Red Hood—had been improving lately, if one could call only killing every-other low-life he came across improving. He was still angry at Bruce and life in general, but he was no longer fixated with it. On good days, Dick could run into him and they would team up, bantering and watching each other’s six like old times.

This was obviously a bad day.

Dick ducked other of the way of a spray of bullets, cursing at the lack of cover in this particular alley where they had stumbled across each other, both trying to stop a druggie deal to a pair of teenagers. All three were long gone now, since they had been fighting for about ten minutes. How much ammo did Jason carry with him?

Dick threw an escrima stick at Jason’s hand, knocking the gun out of it. He was just about to leap at him when suddenly Damian was talking in his ear.

“Grayson,” Damian breathed. He’d say Damian sounded panicked, but panicking was something Damian didn’t do, ever, “Grayson, that alien you dated, she was descendant from felines, correct?”

“Yes—wait, what? Why?” He must have misheard Damian or something—never had Damian shown any interest in his personal life beforehand. He held his hands out in a ‘T’ for a time out to Jason, who threw his hands up into the air in annoyance.

“Did she ever try to eat plastic bags?” Damain questioned desperately.

“… What?” He was pretty sure he was gaping.

“The kitten has chewed and ingested part of a plastic bag and I’m afraid she might choke. What do I do?”  Dick had seen and heard a lot of weird shit in his life, but every now and again something like this would come along and he’d be unpleasantly surprised that, yes, in fact, he still had the ability to be stunned.

“I—I don’t know. I just … what? Okay, okay, what I’m going to do is call Tim. He’ll know what to do. Okay ... Is—is the kitten okay?” Dick asked, slightly in shock.

“What the fuck is happening, Dick? I got better things to do than listen to your drama,” Jason huffed, reloading his gun.

“Shut up and call Tim, I know you have his number,” Dick glared. Jason flipped him off, but then got his phone out of his pocket and started tapping on it.

“The animal is … eating its proper dinner, now. It doesn’t seem displeased in any way?”  Damian said uncertainty.

“Okay, I’m gonna call you back when I find out what to do. Um, just keep an eye on her, yeah? Nightwing out,” Dick said. He heard the line disconnect, then turned his attention back to Jason.

“—Yeah, it’s me. Dick is getting wound up about something to do with a cat or something, I dunno, he said to call you since you’re like the biggest fucking know-it-all in Gotham—“

“Thank you, Jason,” Dick snapped, grabbing the phone out of his hands.

“—Oh, Jason, your kind words of praise mean so much to me—“ Tim was complaining.

“Tim, it’s Dick. Selina’s kitten has chewed on a plastic bag and Damian is really concerned. Is that normal?” Dick cut in. Jason muttered something like ‘you’re welcome, arsehole’.

“Damian being concern about something that isn’t him? That’s very unusual,” Tim said.

“Tim,” Dick scolded.

“Alright, alright, yeesh, who pissed in your cereal? The results I’m getting say it’s not unusual for a kitten to chew on things, and apparently the oils in plastic bags taste nice to them, for some reason. As long as it hasn’t swallowed a lot, it should probably be okay. Get the demon spawn to keep an eye on it, look for any signs of impaired breathing or choking,” Tim answered.

Dick sighed with relief. He did not want to explain to Selina that one of her cats died, ever. They were like children to her.

“Thanks, Tim. Enjoy your night off,” Dick ended the call to the sound of Tim saying goodbye back grouchily. He was really sour about not being allowed out on patrol, instead having to play as a mini Oracle; apparently he had been in the middle of an investigation and wasn’t happy about passing off all his work to Batman when it was only half-completed.

Dick threw the phone back to Jason, who caught it lazily.

“Crisis adverted,” Dick assured him, even though he knew he didn’t care.

“I’m so relieved. Can we go back to me beating you up? That was fun,” Jason said hopefully, getting into a defensive stance.

“How about we go fill Damian in in person? Selina’s apartment isn’t far from here, you could meet her kitties,” Dick offered, only half joking.

“Pass,” Jason snorted. “You go deal with that brat by yourself.”

“He’s not a brat,” Dick protested.

“Not to you, much,” Jason amended.

“That’s because I actually make an effort with him,” Dick pointed out.

“Whatever, this is getting boring. You’d think it’d be easy for a guy in a mask to pick a fight in Gotham, but no,” Jason shoved his gun back into its holster and straightened his leather jacket, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon, Dickybird.” He took a running jump onto the nearest fire escape, pulling himself up with an impressive display of upper-body strength. He was out of sight in seconds.

Dick considered trying to stop him from leaving, but decided it would be more trouble than it was worth. He really did hate fighting Jason, and tried to avoid it at all costs—the problem was it was hard to reason with him, as he had always been stubborn. Dick decided to let him go this time, choosing instead to make his way to Selina’s apartment, hopefully in time to save Damian from having a nervous breakdown.

*

Tim rubbed his eyes with his good hand, as they were getting sore from staring at the glaring white light of the computer screen. He still had the tab open for his search on cats, and smiled when he saw the website he was on had a link to a cat video on YouTube. He glanced at the monitors quickly, and, after seeing no changes, clicked on the link. Maybe being off for a couple of nights wouldn’t be so boring.

He laughed silently at the video. A cat was soaking wet, glaring at the camera while a small child happily washed it, oblivious to the cat’s irritation. The video finished and the next one started playing automatically, this time showing a kitten attempting to play with an old dog.

“Master Timothy, could you please explain to me how this video is aiding you in ending crime in Gotham,” Alfred asked, from right behind him.

“Holy shit!” Tim almost jumped out of his seat, hitting his casted arm on the table and causing a jolt of pain to run up to his shoulder. Ow. And, damn, embarrassing. Was it possible to bribe Alfred?

“Language,” Alfred chided, leaning over Tim to place a cup of steaming tea down on the desk.

“Sorry,” Tim said quickly. “And, um, the video, well, things are quiet and Dick had me searching up about cats for Damian and I got distracted.”

“That’s perfectly understandable on a slow night like this,” Alfred replied, and if Tim wasn’t so good at reading expressions he would have missed the way his eyes crinkled at the sides slightly and mouth smirk a little. “As it appears, most of the rest of the family are enjoying the company of cats tonight.”

Tim blinked, thrown slightly at Alfred’s emphasis. It sounded like he was suggesting something scandalous … Oh God.

“Oh God, no, I do not want to think about Bruce and—why would you do that? I said I was sorry! Ugh, you’re supposed to be above that … sort of thing!” Tim moaned, trying unsuccessfully to cover both of his ears with one arm.

“I have no idea what you are implying, young sir. I take my job very seriously. Something you should strive to do also,” Alfred finished poignantly. “Good evening, Master Tim, and get back to work.”

“How am I supposed to think about anything else now?” Tim muttered as Alfred walked away, but he closed out of YouTube and started scanning the monitors again.

Alfred was just that good.

*

“I wonder how Damian is doing?” Selina asked.

Bruce rolled them over so he was lying on top of her.

“You need to work on your pillow talk,” he laughed against her collar bone.

She didn’t think of much outside the bed for a long time.

*

When Damian heard a knock on the door, he almost put the Flash to shame at how quickly he ran from the kitchen to it, vaulting over the sofa as he went, and flung it open.

Grayson was standing there mask-less wearing a large overcoat that covered all but his black boots, grinning slightly. He had a fresh bruise on his left cheekbone, and his hair was damp from sweat.

“I have good news, little bro,” he said cheerfully, pulling him into a hug. “Tim said the kitten is going to be fine. We don’t have to worry about death via angry mumma cat.”

Damian managed to escape from Grayson’s arms in time to see him looking wide-eyed and panicked.

Grayson continued hurriedly, “not that my friend sees herself as one of the cats … not at all! She honestly, er, is more of a dog person, but her landlord doesn’t allow pets over a certain size, so she, she thought it’d be funny to screw him over by getting so many small animals it’d be, like, the size of one big dog. Hilarious, right?” He laughed awkwardly.

Damian frowned, having lost track of what Grayson had been prattling on about. He decided he didn’t care, as he was more elated with the fact Cass would be okay.

“Why didn’t you call me to say this? It would have been more efficient—“—he could have spent less time worrying—“—and spare you the journey,” Damian asked.

Grayson shrugged, “I wanted to check in, see if you were okay.”

“Tt. You mean you wanted to make sure I wasn’t failing at my task,” Damian protested, unwilling to accept that Grayson would care that much.

Grayson frowned, “of course I trust you to do this, Dami.”

Damian made a face at the ridiculous nickname, “don’t call me that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you like it really,” Grayson cooed, knowing he was riling Damian up, “I’m going to get an ice pack from the kitchen quick, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Damian frowned, looking more analytically at Grayson’s body. He wasn’t limping in anyway, but he did seem to be leaning further back than normal.

“You took a hit to a kidney?” Damian guessed, following Grayson into the kitchen, stepping over a pair of cats who were snuggling in the middle of the hallway.

“Ran into the Red Hood earlier,” Grayson explained, looking troubled. He got an instant ice pack out of the cupboard under the sink and removed his coat so he could press it against his left kidney through his costume.

“He’s not your duty,” Damian said, trying for a reaction.

“No,” Grayson agreed. “He isn’t. He’s my brother. Our brother.”

There wasn’t anything Damian could answer to that that Grayson would want to hear, so he remained silent. He poured Grayson a glass of water, which he accepted with a smile. They sat in silence for a while, Damian absent-mindedly petting Alfred, who would dig his claws in whenever Damian tried to stop. Cass The Kitten jumped up onto the counter and then climbed onto Grayson’s shoulder, clawing at Grayson’s unruly hair—he needed to get it cut. There was dried blood clumping some of the ends together; Damian wondered whether or not it was his.

“I gotta get out there again,” Grayson sighed, throwing the ice pack into the bin.

“You needn’t’ve come in the first place,” Damian retorted, placing Alfred on the floor to follow Grayson to the door.

“I know,” Grayson smirked. “It’s getting late, you should go to sleep.”

“You can’t tell me what to—“ Damian yawned, cutting himself off. Thankfully Grayson mostly saved him from embarrassment by not laughing, though he did raise his eyebrows.

“What?” Damian snapped, daring him to comment.

Grayson just shook his head and leant down to hug him, which wasn’t so bad. Damian refused to hug back though out of spite.

“Sweet dreams, Little D. Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” Grayson let himself out quickly, grinning at having the final word. And people thought he was the sensible Robin.

Damian rolled his eyes and glanced at his phone. It was getting late. And he was going to get to patrol alone for the next week; he needed all the energy he could get in order to prove himself.

Most of Grayson’s friend’s cats had left for the night or fallen asleep. Alfred and Cass The Kitten were still awake, and they refused to leave the guest room as he got ready for bed. He decided no harm would be done by letting them sleep in with him, so he allowed them to snuggle in close to him once he shifted into a comfortable position.

He was lying on the side so he could face the window—the curtains were open so he could see the streetlights illuminating the skyline. He closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of sirens, shouts, car engines, and purring.

*

Across the city, in Wayne Manor, Selina was fast asleep in Bruce’s arms. Bruce gently ran his fingers along a scar on her side, kissed her cheek, and closed his eyes.

*

Steph and Cass usually met up for the last hour of their patrol so they could make up for each other’s tiredness—and, of course, so they would both be together so it would be quicker to find a place for a snack at the end of the night.

“Do you have any ideas for food?” Cass asked as they fired their grappling hooks.

“I’m thinking I haven’t had ice cream in an alarmingly long time,” Steph grinned, loving the feeling of the wind blowing through her hair.

“Good,” Cass agreed, and they adjusted their trajectory so they were heading towards their favourite dive bar that stayed open late and did legendary brownie sundaes.

“You girls finishing up?” Dick’s voice buzzed through her comm.

“Yes,” Cass answered for her, and, whoa, it sounded weird hearing her both in her ear as well as right next to her.

“Babs said you’d be staying with her tonight, could you possibly swing by Selina’s apartment and look in quickly? Make sure it’s not on fire or whatever, it’s on the way,” Dick asked.

Steph snorted. “You are, like, the quintessential overprotective father.”

“Steph means … it is nice that you care. We can check on Damian for you,” Cass amended.

“The Hell Spawn is fine, N. We have important things to be doing,” Steph protested, because it’s not as if Damian would do the same for her.

“What, eating ice cream?” Dick teased.

“It’s rude to eavesdrop,” Steph glowered.

“As if I didn’t know anyway,” Dick snorted.

“Very important,” Steph repeated.

“We will do it after ice cream,” Cass promised. Steph grinned, happy to see she still had her priorities straight.

“Of course. I’d hate to think that our brother’s safety would interrupt with your snack time,” Dick said sardonically, but Steph knew he was just messing around.

“You don’t … sarcasm as well as Alfred,” Cass commented.

“Nobody does,” Dick laughed.

“That little bitch still calls me ‘Fat Girl’, you know,” Steph whined for the sake of it.

“You literally just called him ‘Hell Spawn’,” Dick said.

“Yeah, but—“ Steph started, but Cass talked over her.

“Goodnight, Nightwing. See you at home,” Cass ended the connection. She wasn’t looking at her, but Steph knew she was judging her.

“I’m actually not wrong with my description. He is though: I’m not fat. Like, at all,” she felt the need to justify herself.

“He’s ten,” Cass said, like that meant anything in this fucked-up city.

“We’re almost there,” Steph answered, deliberately changing the subject. She knew Cass was calling her petty.

 Cass didn’t answer her, so she said, “I’ll pay.”

She saw Cass’ mask ripple into the shape of a smile, and knew she had been forgiven. Free ice cream was magical like that.

*

“Okay, maybe swinging through the air just after ice cream wasn’t our best idea,” Steph said, twenty minutes and one large, triple chocolate brownie ice cream with whipped cream and flakes on top later. Cass nodded, and then winced at the motion.

“And the sight of the brat ain’t gonna be too nice on my stomach either, just sayin’,” Steph added, because she knew it would annoy Cass and also because she couldn’t throw up if she was talking. Hopefully.

Steph was pretty sure Cass was rolling her eyes under her mask.

“Here,” Cass said, sticking a perfect landing on top of a block of flats.

“Doesn’t look as glamourous as you’d think a world-class thief would live in,” Steph observed.

“Seventh floor, south-facing,” Cass said, then fired her grappling and started abseiling down the side of the building. Steph followed a few seconds after, trying to steady her stomach.

She heard Cass chuckling gently underneath her, “Steph, look.”

“What?” She said, and jumped down one last time before getting level with Cass, who was looking through a window. Steph looked inside, blinked, then almost let go of the hook, which would have been embarrassing. But still, she had a legitimate reason to be shock, because, dare she say it, Damian looked … cute. Adorable, even.

He was fast asleep, and she was surprised to see that even he couldn’t frown in his sleep. Alfred was tucked under his arm, and a small dark kitten was comfortably seated on Damian’s head.

“Where’s my camera?” She stage-whispered.

“I have never seen him so … peaceful,” Cass said gently.

Steph hummed in agreement, then turned on her comm.

“Hey, Tim?” Steph asked.

There was a pause of static, then: “you okay, Bat Girl?”

“Yeah,” Steph smiled. “You can tell big bro not to worry about little bro.”

“Will do. You girls coming home?” Tim asked.

 “On our way,” Steph promised, ending the transition. She waved at Cass, who had been half-listening, half-staring at Damian, and they swung back to their bikes.

“It’s been a good night,” Cass said.

“Yeah, it has,” Steph agreed. “Race you home?”

Cass won. Again.

*

Damian was woken to the unpleasant sensation of having a cat lick his face. Why did they have to have such ruff tongues?

“Get off,” Damian mumbled groggily, turning his face to press it into the pillow, dislodging the culprit animal.

The cat meowed whiningly, right in his ear. Damian opened one eye to see Jason The One-Eared Tabby looking at him expectantly. With a glance at the alarm clock he saw it was almost eight o’clock. That was unusual—he normally didn’t allow himself such laziness. He turned and sat up deliberately fast, startling the cat; however, this did not have the desired effect as Jason The One-Eared Tabby dug his claws into Damian’s pyjama shirt and skin underneath in an attempt to remain balanced.

“Alqaraf!” Shit, Damian hissed, surprised at the sting. He pushed the cat off the bed, earning a hiss back.

He rolled out of bed and made his way to the kitchen, taking a moment to remember the way. Grayson’s friend presumably wasn’t sentimental, as there were no pictures on the wall for him to recognise.

This appeared to be about meal time for the animals as most were milling around the kitchen area. Babs was the first to notice him, and stopped licking herself so she could meow happily at him; this caused all of the other cats to look up at him and join in on the noise.

Damian really wasn’t awake enough for this ruckus. Even Alfred, the traitor, was adding to the volume. Pennyworth was usually the one to feed the animals in the morning, so he had no idea just how demanding the felines could be. If Damian was up at this time he was either training, researching a case, or hadn’t gone to bed yet—never for such simple domestic chores. It was … an experience.

Damian sighed, considered trying to shush the incessant noise, but decided that adding his voice wouldn’t help the matter. He hoped Grayson’s friend’s neighbours were deep sleepers.

He hopped up onto the counter, sliding an extremely fluffy white cat with a screwed up face out of the way. He got the food packets out of the box, and poured them into the bowls he had left out from last night, as he hadn’t seen the point in washing them. Finally, the noise stopped, and he was relieved to see that Cass was in fact eating the correct substance. Small victories, right? Grayson talked about them all the time.

He washed his hands, deciding to make his own breakfast then since he was already in the kitchen. Looking through draws, he found where the cereal was kept. At the front were repulsive sugary store-brands, which he pushed aside with a grimace. At the very back he saw some cornflakes, which he grabbed for happily. However, when he pulled it out of the cupboard, he noticed it was a lot heavier than it should be, and when he stood he heard something inside it shake.

Frowning, he opened the box, opened the plastic packaging and saw …

A gun.

He blinked in surprise. It wasn’t usual for people to own guns in Gotham, but it was strange to keep them hidden so strategically. Normally, if people were paranoid enough to own a gun they were paranoid enough to keep one on them in their clothing. Trying to think back to what Grayson had said about his friend and realised Grayson had said awfully little, and had seemed awkward talking about her. Grayson was only ever awkward when he lied—he always felt so guilty when he did it.

Why? Who was this ‘friend’? Damian took a deep breath, and started to think through this riddle logically, trying to organise what he did know. The friend was a woman; someone who could afford an apartment on the nicer side; someone who liked, or, at least, trusted Grayson; someone who Grayson was prepared to do a favour for; someone who loved cats; someone who … wait. Cats? Could it be …?

Damian examined the gun in his hand more carefully, and saw that the grip was expensively personalised to be a dark purple. He placed it on the side and ran out the room and down the hall. He stopped outside the master bedroom—he hesitated a moment, knowing he would regret this if he was wrong, but then kicked the door in anyway.

The room was spacious, with two large windows and walls painted a light purple. In the centre of the room was a large four-poster bed, and haphazardly piled on that bed were pictures, expensive paintings, shoes, coats, and all personal things missing from the rest of the apartment. Damian stepped forward and picked up the nearest picture frame. The photograph was of two women, arms around each other and grinning. They both had spikey, short-ish hair, one strawberry-blonde, one black. The prior looked vaguely familiar in a way to Damian, but he would know the latter anywhere.

Selina Kyle. Catwoman. His father’s lover. Ugh, it was nauseating to think of.

That was one mystery solved, but, more importantly, perhaps, was why on earth did Grayson ask him to cat-sit for Catwoman herself? And why hadn’t he been told who the true owner was?

He could figure it out himself, in time. But he wasn’t his Father, or Drake. He didn’t have the patience, especially right now.

He put the picture back on the bed—next to a pair on orange goggles—and got his phone out of his pocket. He would make Grayson talk.

*

Dick was woken by his phone’s obnoxious ringtone, which Steph had probably chosen for him. He hadn’t changed it back because he had figured it’d motivate him to answer quicker, just to stop the noise, but he was regretting it now. He was so comfy, so warm in his bed at the manor, and still so exhausted from patrol all night before. He reluctantly forced an eye open and groped for his mobile, and saw the name Little D on the screen. Dick sat up, knowing that Damian would only call him if it was important (like, for example, cats eating plastic bags).

With a yawn he accepted the call, “g’d mornin’.”

“Grayson,” Damian said in a steely voice, “what am I doing in Catwoman’s apartment?”

That woke him up. How the hell did he figure it out?

“What?” Dick laughed nervously, “It’s not Selina’s— it’s my friend’s.”

“Of course, your ‘friend’,” Damian mocked. “Your friend with a gun in the cereal. Your friend with hidden pictures of Catwoman and her associates, including father. Your friend with pieces of Catwoman’s costume. Your friend with a painting worth two million dollars that was stolen a few months ago—“

“—okay, yes, I get the idea, Dami. You are indeed cat-sitting for Catwoman. Gold star to you for figuring it out,” Dick cut in.

He heard Damian inhale deeply on the other end.

“Why did you lie?” Oh God, he sounded hurt. Why did Bruce have to put him in these situations?

“Dami … why don’t I send Bruce over to pick you up early? He’ll explain it to you properly, okay? I’m sorry,” Dick said. He didn’t feel bad at all for throwing Bruce under the bus.

“Fine,” Damian sniffed, “and don’t waste your breath apologizing. I don’t care.”

Damian ended the call. Dammit. Dick launched out of his bed, pulled on a t-shirt and ran out of his room. Bruce’s room was down the hall, and even though it was still mostly dark, Dick knew the door like the back of his hand from all the nights spent there as a scared little kid still dreaming about watching his parents fall.

He knocked loudly on the door three times, but didn’t open it in fear of interrupting something … potentially scarring. It had happened once before, and he had no intention of something similar happening again.

“Who is it?” Bruce’s sleepy voice called from inside the room.

“It’s me!” Dick called back, “is it safe to come in?”

“’Safe’?” Selina voice was amused.

“Only if it’s important,” Bruce grumbled, muffled. He was probably burying his face into his pillow attempting to mentally will him away.

Dick threw the door open, slamming it on purpose just to see Bruce and Selina wince. They were wearing pyjamas, thank God, and fully huddled under the covers, and he almost felt bad for disturbing them—they haven’t gotten to spend enough time together recently.

“The cat’s out of the bag—pun intended,” Dick said gravely. “Damian figured it out, and is pissed at me for lying. I told him you’d go over and pick him up now, so you could explain to him why we tricked him.”

Bruce groaned, grabbed his pillow and threw it at Dick, who dodged it easily.

“You know you are literally asking me to give him ‘the talk’,” Bruce complained.

“So? You gave one to the rest of us. I remember it well—especially the part where you told me that kissing under the age of sixteen lead to cancer,” Dick grinned.

“You didn’t,” Selina said, eyes wide.

“I did,” Bruce confirmed. “But I doubt scare tactics will work on Damian.”

“Sorry, B. They didn’t really work on me either,” Dick smirked. “Don’t try to scare him, just talk to him. He’s really mature for his age, and won’t ask deliberately awkward questions like Jason did.”

“Thanks, Dick. Now go back to sleep, you need it,” Bruce faux-ordered, but he could hear the concern underneath.

“Sir, yes, Sir,” Dick saluted lazily. He waited till he had almost closed the door before he sang cheerfully, “and good luck!”

Bruce threw Selina’s pillow at him, much to his amusement and her protest.

*

“So,” Bruce started.

The atmosphere in the car was stiff, and Damian hadn’t said a thing since he had been picked up. Alfred was asleep on his lap, and his clothes that he had worn yesterday were covered in different colours of cat hair. He was scowling, of course, and doing everything he could not to look at Bruce.

Bruce … hated it. He wanted so much to connect with his son, to have Damian eager to talk and open up to him, to have a strong bond of trust between them. He loved his son, and he knew his son loved him, but they couldn’t ever seem to get it right. Bruce knew he was more to blame for that—he just hoped he wasn’t too little, too late.

“The reason you weren’t told who you were cat-sitting for … is because Selina spent the night at the manor. I didn’t want you to know,” Bruce admitted.

Damian snorted. At least he was listening.

“I had Dick make up a friend so that you wouldn’t get suspicious. I had him lie because … I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was being selfish,” he carried on.

Damian didn’t reply, though he did narrow his eyes at him a bit.

“Selina is very important to me, and I haven’t gotten to … spend time with her in a long while. But, your opinion is important to me as well,” Damian blinked in confusion, but he did seem to perk up a little at the words, “and I was afraid you’d … disapprove. You see, Selina and I—“

“—Were going to have sex, and it would have been impractical to have me around, I understand,” Damian said brazenly. “But what I don’t understand is why you thought it apt to manipulate me when you could have just said.”

The last part was huffed childishly, in a complete juxtaposition to what he was saying. Bruce blinked, and for the first time in years he felt well and truly shocked. Dick had said he was mature, but …

“How do you know what … that is?” Bruce questioned, incredulously.

Damian rolled his eyes, “I’m ten.”

 “… exactly,” Bruce replied.

Damian glared, “Mother summarised things for me before I left. We take down rapists and pimps every night. How could I not know? Besides, Todd gave me a dirty magazine for Christmas.”

“He what?” Bruce almost crashed into the car behind him for braking too sharply at the red light.

“Don’t be so concerned; I gave it to a boy from school in exchange for the answers to the homework,” Damian explained, in the same tone he’d use to describe making lunch.

“Why do you need to copy homework? You know it all already,” Bruce asked.

“I was busy fighting … Two-Face, I think, that time,” Damian shrugged.

The car went quite again after that—but it wasn’t as tense as it was before, he thought. While Damian didn’t look too impressed, he wasn’t scowling, and he looked more relaxed in the leather seat.

“Damian, if you’d like …” Bruce started, choosing his words carefully, “Selina and I have talked, and Dick and Alfred agree, that maybe one Sunday we could host a … family dinner, which Selina would be invited to. We could all get to know each other better.”

Damian thought it over for a few seconds, then said: “could I bring a friend along?”

Bruce smiled and, unable to resist, leaned over to ruffle Damian’s short hair, “that sounds fair to me, son.”

Damian hid his smile, and so did Bruce. Still, it was process. Alfred would be proud.

Damian turned on the radio, and they both pretend to not know the words to the horrible song. It was … it was a good moment.

“I expect to be payed twice what I was promised beforehand to compensate, however,” Damian said, and they both laughed.

*

When they got home, Dick glanced between the two of them, grinned, then fist-bumped Selina.