Chapter Text
When Bruce woke that morning—muscles aching, ribs sore, the phantom pain of a night that had gone on far too long—he wasn’t expecting to see a missed call on his phone.
Bruce Wayne missed calls all the time. It was practically expected. His contact list was a meticulously curated mess: socialites, donors, board members, politicians, people he barely tolerated and people he outright despised. Every number had a purpose. Every name was a mask he knew how to wear. He kept them saved so he could decide—within a fraction of a second—how to respond, how to act, how much of Bruce Wayne to give.
He even had numbers saved for people who had never given him theirs. Paranoia, Tim had once called it, fond and exasperated all at once. Bruce preferred prepared. Still, he’d let Tim automate the spam filters, wipe him from every call list imaginable. It was another small miracle of his son’s genius.
Which meant this number shouldn’t exist.
It wasn’t saved. No name, no association. Just an unfamiliar area code—Midwestern Illinois.
Bruce frowned at the screen.
Why would someone from Illinois be calling him?
With a low grunt, he pushed himself out of bed and began the long walk through the manor, joints popping in quiet protest. He felt old. Older than he should have. Nights spent crouched on rooftops, bones rattling under armor, weren’t doing him any favors. He made his way down, past the hidden entrance, descending into the Cave.
The Batcave greeted him with its usual hum—machinery, distant water, the faint chittering of bats overhead. He crossed the platform to the Batcomputer, remembering with a fond twist of his mouth the day Dick had named everything, insisting a proper hero headquarters needed clichés. Bruce had pretended to complain. He’d secretly loved it.
He lowered himself into the chair, exhaling slowly, and began tracing the number.
It didn’t take long.
Evelyn Carter. Social worker. Illinois.
Bruce pulled up everything he could—education, family, employment history, case files where available. Her work was… clinical. Efficient. No excessive compassion, no glaring misconduct. Reasonable. That almost unsettled him more.
He stared down at the phone again.
Why would a social worker from Illinois be calling him?
Footsteps echoed softly against the stone.
“Hello, Damian,” Bruce said without looking up.
Damian stopped at his side, posture rigid and precise, every inch the disciplined child he’d been trained to be. Bruce finally turned, studying him—sharp eyes, set jaw, a boy forced to grow up far too quickly. Guilt stirred, familiar and heavy. He could have given him a different life. A quieter one.
His baby.
“A social worker, Father?” Damian asked, gaze already scanning the screen. “Is she suspicious?”
Bruce shook his head faintly. “No. She called me. I missed it.”
Damian hummed, eyes narrowing. “She resides in Illinois. Why would she contact you?”
“I don’t know yet,” Bruce admitted. “I was deciding whether or not to call her back.”
He left the thought open, letting Damian work through it. His son did, brows knitting as he considered possibilities.
“There is nothing here that would prompt investigation,” Damian said slowly. “No accusations, no reports of abuse—because there are none.” He paused. “She could suspect something regardless. Or…” His mouth thinned. “…a placement.”
Bruce rested a hand on Damian’s shoulder, grounding them both. “If it’s the latter, I can find reasons to decline. No child needs to be dragged into this life.”
Damian snorted softly. “That is extraordinarily hypocritical, Father.”
Bruce sighed. “Yes. I know.” He glanced back at the screen. “Still, I’d rather no one else have to carry this burden—no matter how much I wish I could keep them safe.” He hesitated. “Would you sit with me while I call her back?”
Damian nodded and took a seat, spine straight, hands folded with almost military precision.
Bruce dialed.
The ringing echoed through the Cave, bouncing off stone and steel. Somewhere above, bats shifted and murmured. The call was picked up quickly.
“This is Evelyn Carter.”
Bruce slipped seamlessly into the familiar ease of Bruce Wayne. “Hi there! Bruce Wayne—please, just Bruce. I saw you called earlier. Sorry I missed it, I was exhausted after a gala last night.”
“Mr. Wayne,” she said flatly. “Yes. I called because I have a child I would like to place with you.”
Bruce blinked. “I’ll have to stop you there. I don’t believe I’m fit to take in any more chi—”
“Bruce Wayne,” she interrupted, tone sharp. “Known for taking in strays. Extremely wealthy. Large estate capable of housing multiple people. Time, resources, connections.”
Bruce glanced sideways at Damian.
“Y-yes, that’s me,” he said carefully, “however—”
“You are the last option,” she cut in again. “The last chance this child has before he’s removed from the system entirely. He’s been transferred repeatedly. Illinois is finished with him.”
Silence fell thick and heavy.
A child who had burned through every program in an entire state. Bruce felt something twist in his chest. How violent must they think he was? How broken?
He looked at Damian. His son’s eyes were sharp, attentive—but not fearful.
“Alright,” Bruce said slowly. “Is there a way we can meet face-to-face instead of discussing this over the phone?”
Another pause. Then a tired, irritated sigh.
“I have more than just his case, Mr. Wayne. He is not my priority. Nor are you. Yes or no.”
Cold. Dismissive.
Bruce opened his mouth—only for the phone to be gently, decisively removed from his hand.
“Yes,” Damian said, voice perfectly controlled. “We will take him.”
He ended the call.
Bruce stared. “Damian—what was that? You were the one arguing against bringing another child into this family.”
Damian scoffed. “Clearly, he is not being treated properly. He will be better off here.”
Bruce didn’t argue.
Instead, he smiled—and pulled his son into a hug. Damian stiffened instinctively, then slowly relaxed against him.
“I’m proud of you,” Bruce said softly.