Batfam x BatsisPuppeteer!Reader
The Wayne Gala is already buzzing by the time Bruce ushers everyone inside, all glittering chandeliers and champagne flutes and the kind of polished, high-society noise that swirls like perfume and makes the room feel twice as full, and Dick Grayson is doing his usual thing smiling, waving, dazzling the crowd with that easy charm that comes as naturally to him as breathing but out of the corner of his eye he keeps checking on her.
She’s standing just behind Bruce, hands tucked in her sleeves, gaze lowered but watchful, like she’s memorizing everyone’s footsteps before deciding where it’s safe to place her own. And beside her feet, slightly crowding her dress, are at least five dolls the fancy ones today, all delicate lace and porcelain blankness forming a silent little ring around her like a mobile security detail.
Dick gives her a small wave, gentle and nonintrusive, and she gives him a tiny nod, which in her language means, I saw you, thank you.
But as the crowd thickens, the noise swells, the talking grows louder, brighter, sharper she starts to shrink inward. Her hands tighten in her sleeves. Her shoulders rise a little. She steps closer to the wall, letting the dolls shift around her like a shield.
She’s overwhelmed. Not panicking, not distressed, but letting herself compress into that tiny quiet ball she hides in when things get too much.
And Dick excuses himself mid-conversation so fast the poor Gotham socialite he was talking to is left blinking at the air.
He weaves through the guests, navigating the sea of glitter and ego with the ease of someone who’s been trained in much deadlier chaos than wealthy people making small talk, until he reaches her. She’s staring at the floor now, expression soft and blank, and the dolls stand at attention like tiny sentries.
“Hey, kiddo,” Dick says softly, crouching down just a little so he’s at her eye level, his voice warm and quiet in a way that cuts through the noise without adding to it. “You doing okay?”
She shifts, barely, but doesn’t answer.
Instead and this kills him in the sweetest way she nudges one of her dolls forward. A delicate little thing in a blue dress with lace-trimmed sleeves, its hand slightly outstretched as if someone had posed it reaching up.
Then he smiles, slow and soft.
“Oh,” he says quietly, “she needs someone to hold her hand?”
The kid nods — tiny, tiny movement — and Dick pretends with the dedication of a Broadway performer that he believes the doll is the one asking for comfort.
“Of course,” he says, taking the doll’s porcelain hand between his fingers with absurd gentleness, like he might hurt it if he squeezes too hard. “We can do that.”
But the moment he stands, still holding the doll’s hand, he lets his other hand drift down half-offered, not grabbing, open and safe.
Then her sleeve-covered fingers brush against his palm.
He doesn’t look at her when she takes his hand; he just squeezes lightly, steady and warm, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Let’s take a little walk, yeah?” Dick murmurs, guiding her toward a quieter corner of the ballroom where the music is softer and the air doesn’t feel so crowded. Her dolls follow in their strange, slow parade, little shoes tapping softly against marble, forming a trail behind them like obedient ducklings.
Once they’re tucked into a calm alcove, away from the crush of people, she finally lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Dick doesn’t make her talk he never pushes but he crouches again so he can look up at her instead of looming over like the rest of the room.
“You did great,” he says, voice still quiet but bright with pride. “Gala crowds can suck. Even for grown-ups.”
She blinks at him, eyes softening, and something small relaxes in her posture.
The doll in his other hand is still there, hanging between them like a little shared secret.
Dick chuckles under his breath and lifts it slightly.
“You want her back? She did a good job. Very brave of her.”
And the kid barely smiling, but definitely smiling gently takes the doll from his hand, cradling it against her chest.
Dick stands and pats her shoulder lightly.
“Whenever you need me,” he says, “just send one of your crew. They know how to find me.”
She nods again, small but sure.
And as the two of them rejoin the gala one holding a porcelain doll, the other holding the hand of a quiet kid who trusts him Dick feels the dolls following behind them with a strange little sense of approval.
It’s deep into the night, the kind of hour where Wayne Manor feels cavernous and half-asleep, all its lights dimmed to soft amber glows in the hallways, and Jason is face-down on his bed, in that stubborn almost-sleep he only manages after patrols that wring him dry, the soft hum of his phone charging on the desk the only thing breaking the silence until he hears it, a tiny sound, the slow, deliberate click… click… click of something tapping on his door, and for half a second he thinks he must be dreaming, because who the hell knocks at Jason Todd’s door at two in the morning unless they want to get stabbed on accident.
He blinks awake, groggy and annoyed but also a little wary, sitting up and rubbing at his face, and the knocking happens again this time softer, like whoever’s out there knows they probably shouldn’t be here but has decided to risk their tiny life anyway and Jason drags himself out of bed, trudges across the room, and pulls the door open with every intention to yell.
But instead of a person, he finds one of her dolls standing there.
Just… standing. Perfectly still. Wearing its neatly pressed Victorian-era dress, head tilted up toward him like it’s politely asking for his attention even though its glass eyes never blink and its painted little lips don’t move. And Jason exhales a long, defeated sigh because, honestly, at this point he should’ve been expecting this because if there’s anything predictable about that quiet little puppeteer kid, it’s that her dolls act like her shadow entourage, loyal and spooky and always, always knowing exactly where she needs help.
“Alright,” Jason mutters, scrubbing a palm over the back of his neck, “what is it now—did she fall asleep on her homework again or did the doll union elect you to bother me specifically?”
The doll, of course, says nothing, but then it takes a single step backward, slow and precise, like it’s inviting him to follow.
Jason stares at it for a moment, then sighs again, softer this time because for all his grumbling, he never ignores when she needs something and he follows the doll into the hallway, the floorboards creaking under his weight while the little porcelain figure walks ahead of him with those tiny, eerie, purposeful footsteps that somehow echo far too loudly in the quiet.
The doll leads him straight to her bedroom, and the door is cracked open just enough for the warm glow of her tiny lamp to spill out. Jason pushes it gently and sees her sitting on the edge of her bed, knees pulled up, hands tucked in her sleeves the way she always does when she’s unsure or embarrassed, her hair slightly messy from tossing and turning.
She doesn’t say anything at first she rarely does—just looks up at him with those tired, quietly apologetic eyes, and Jason gets it instantly, in that older-brother instinct kind of way he never admits he has.
“You hungry?” he asks, keeping his voice low, softening around the edges without even thinking about it, and she gives the smallest nod, the kind that’s so subtle you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention but Jason always pays attention with her.
He steps inside, sweeping an eye over the few dolls sitting neatly on her shelves and the two that have somehow positioned themselves like tiny guards by her door, and he just shakes his head because of course she mobilized her creepy little squad to fetch him.
“Alright, c’mon,” he murmurs, holding a hand out more like an invitation than something he expects her to take, “let’s get you something to eat before your stomach starts growling loud enough to wake Bruce.”
She hesitates for half a second, then hops off the bed and walks beside him not quite touching, but close enough to show trust and as they step into the hallway, the dolls follow like a silent procession, waddling behind them in this strangely synchronized parade that Jason pretends not to notice because if he acknowledges how weird it is, he’ll never get used to it.
He leads her to the kitchen, flicking on just one light so it’s not too bright, rummaging around with a kind of casual expertise that comes from years of late-night snacking after patrol. He asks her a couple quiet questions simple yes/no ones she can answer with nods and ends up making her something warm and easy, something he knows she’ll eat without fuss.
She sits at the counter, legs swinging a little she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it and the dolls gather around the base of the stool like a strange little court attending their queen.
And Jason… he just watches her for a moment while she eats, her shoulders slowly relaxing, her whole expression softening the way it only does when she feels safe, and he feels that small, familiar tug of protectiveness, the one he doesn’t get with most people but has with her, maybe because she’s quiet and strange and gentle in a way the world usually crushes.
When she finishes, he cleans up without comment, then walks her back to her room with the dolls trailing in their eerie, loyal formation, and as he tucks her in because yes, he does, but he’ll deny it to the grave he mutters, “Next time, kid, just knock on my door yourself.”
She gives him this tiny, almost shy smile, the kind that flickers and fades like candlelight, and whispers, barely audible, “Didn’t wanna bother you.”
Jason just huffs, rolls his eyes, and nudges one of her dolls aside before pointing at her forehead like he’s scolding her with his whole soul.
“You can bother me whenever you want. That’s what I’m for.”
And when Jason finally leaves, the dolls quietly close the door behind him, returning to their silent watch, content knowing their girl is safe and fed and knowing Jason Todd will always answer when they come knocking at two in the morning.
The cave is quiet in that way it always is when it’s just Tim down there, bathed in monitor glow, drowning in three different case files, four tabs of encrypted communication logs, and a cup of coffee that has long since gone cold even though he keeps absentmindedly reaching for it like his brain refuses to register the betrayal of lukewarm caffeine, and he’s muttering to himself under his breath about timelines and inconsistencies and how nobody in Gotham commits crimes on a schedule like normal people.
He’s deep in it like Tim Drake deep the level where his back hurts, his eyes sting, and he has absolutely no idea when he last blinked, and he reaches blindly for the cup again, fingers brushing the handle.
Except something else touches his hand first.
A tiny, cool porcelain hand.
Very, very slowly, he turns his head.
Standing beside his chair, like it marched down the stairs with the determination of a tiny general leading a hydration revolution, is one of her dolls, dressed in a neat little navy dress with buttons painted down the front, its glassy eyes pointed up at him without blinking and in its other hand, held out with startling insistence for such a little thing, is a small paper note.
Tim squints.
Takes the note.
Unfolds it.
One word.
Written in her soft, careful handwriting:
“…She sent you to babysit me,” he whispers, and the doll, in perfect eerie silence, shifts its weight like it fully intends to judge him into drinking something that isn’t caffeine.
Tim looks at his empty coffee cup.
At the doll.
At the note again.
He sighs long, dramatic, and absolutely resigned.
“Okay, okay,” he mutters, rolling his chair back and standing up like a ninety-year-old who forgot what good posture feels like. “You win. Come on, hydration officer.”
The doll toddles after him with those soft little tap… tap… tap footsteps that sound way too loud in the cavernous cave, and Tim, for once, doesn’t even question it; he just pads over to the mini fridge, pulls out one of those huge Wayne-branded water bottles Dick keeps stocking, and twists the cap open.
The doll continues to watch.
He finishes half the bottle in one go just to prove he’s not going to die of dehydration under the watchful glare of a five-inch porcelain sentinel.
Only then does the doll slowly lower its tiny arm, like it’s decided he has met quota.
“…You’re ruthless,” Tim tells it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Has anyone ever told you that? Absolutely brutal.”
Tim swears it feels judgmental.
He refills his bottle, because apparently he’s being supervised now, and walks back to his workstation, the doll pattering behind him, and when he sits down, it positions itself right next to his keyboard like a tiny wellness consultant ready to intervene if he even thinks about reaching for coffee again.
And Tim tired, fond, a little amused, and more cared for than he’ll ever say aloud just shakes his head, closes a few tabs, and murmurs, “Tell her thanks… and tell you to go easy on me, okay? I’m fragile.”
The doll doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t acknowledge his suffering.
But somehow Tim feels understood anyway.
It’s early morning, and the Wayne Manor van is packed tighter than it should be with Tim in the driver’s seat quietly muttering about schedules and animal enclosures while checking his clipboard for the third time in ten minutes, Damian sitting stiffly in the back with his arms crossed and every inch of his posture screaming do not annoy me, Kon sprawled across the middle seat with his usual grin, quietly snacking on granola bars he definitely should not have eaten yet, and the quiet puppeteer kid sitting calmly near Damian, one hand tucked inside her sleeve, the other gently resting on a doll perched in her lap like it’s the only shield she needs from the overwhelming brightness of the day.
The moment the van doors open at the zoo, the kid freezes for half a second. Not scared, exactly just alert, watching the flow of people like her dolls are performing reconnaissance and relaying the signals to her silently. And indeed, as soon as she steps out, a small parade of her dolls six, maybe seven, maybe more if you count the ones hidden in her bag toddles along behind her in perfect formation, each footstep clicking delicately against the pavement as though they, too, are evaluating the crowds for potential threats.
Damian’s eyes narrow at the procession. “…What is this?” he asks, voice sharp, but there’s a tiny edge of reluctant fascination underneath, because he’s never seen anyone organize a protective detail quite like this especially not in porcelain. Tim leans forward from the driver’s seat, glancing back at him, trying and failing not to smirk. “She… always travels with them,” he says gently, tapping a clipboard for emphasis. “Consider it… proactive security.”
Kon’s already crouched behind a low bush, whispering to one of the dolls. “Hey little guy, you mind giving me directions to the monkeys?” The doll, of course, does nothing but tilt its head as if silently judging Kon’s life choices. He grins anyway.
The kid doesn’t speak she rarely does but she walks steadily, dolls following, and Damian, for some reason, ends up just a step behind her, scanning the crowds with the kind of intense vigilance that makes even Tim tense up a little. He mutters, “Keep up, kid. Don’t let anyone step on your… army,” and she simply nods, tiny and still, not saying a word, letting her dolls handle the communication instead.
By the time they reach the reptile house, chaos begins to bloom naturally: Kon has distracted a staff member with an offhand comment about feeding the Komodo dragons chocolate (which, fortunately, is impossible), Damian is glaring at a toddler who wandered too close to the kid’s protective doll formation, and Tim is quietly trying to maintain order, gesturing subtly to make sure she doesn’t get crowded while still taking notes on which animals are in which exhibits in case someone needs a tracker later.
The kid pauses in front of the reptile glass, tilting her head, and one of her dolls steps up to mirror her exact pose, tiny fingers pressed to the edge of the display as if she has dispatched a clone to investigate further. Damian clears his throat, annoyed but not moving, while Kon leans in next to Tim and whispers, “I think they’re communicating.” Tim simply rolls his eyes. “It’s a silent doll network, Kon. Yes, I’ve seen it.”
Lunch arrives in the zoo’s cafeteria, which is too crowded and too loud, but she carefully lines up a few dolls on the bench beside her, each doll occupying its own space, acting like a miniature shield wall. Damian sighs audibly, resting his forehead in one hand. “I swear, if one of them gets knocked over…” Tim raises an eyebrow and gently directs the kid toward a quieter corner, placing his hand briefly over hers as guidance. She doesn’t protest, dolls following her silently, and Kon trails behind, eating a sandwich with one hand while waving at imaginary zoo patrons with the other.
By the end of the day, they’ve visited the reptiles, the birds, and the owls, and she’s stayed remarkably calm, dolls perfectly attentive, her quiet vigilance never faltering, while Damian has relaxed into the role of silent guardian, Tim has done most of the logistical work, and Kon has… well, Kon has probably taught one of her dolls how to wave at the penguins, which she tolerates with a slight tilt of her head and the tiniest, imperceptible smile.
The ride home is quiet, the kid curled up with her dolls in her lap, all of them exhausted but intact. Damian is brooding silently across from her, one eye on the little troop and another on the road, silently approving of their protective efficiency. Tim leans back, taking a long sip of water, satisfied that no one got lost, no animals were offended, and the kid is happy. Kon, of course, is asleep sprawled across the seat, one granola bar in hand and a doll awkwardly tucked under his arm like a bizarre security blanket.
And in the soft hum of the van engine, with the dolls lined up in neat rows on the seat and the quiet puppeteer kid finally resting her head against her favorite one, Tim allows himself a small smile, Damian finally exhales, and Kon snores blissfully all under the unspoken, silent surveillance of an entire army of porcelain soldiers who follow their child master wherever she goes, quietly making sure the Batfam doesn’t screw anything up.
The city streets are alive with afternoon sun, a gentle warmth that softens the hard edges of Gotham, and yet, even in the brightness, she walks carefully, tiny hands clasped around a doll or two, eyes scanning the colorful displays in the boutique as if memorizing every detail, arranging them in her mind so that later, when they go home, her dolls will have perfectly coordinated wardrobes just like soldiers marching in formation.
Bruce walks a step behind her, hands casually tucked behind his back, observing her small, careful movements, noticing the slight fatigue in her step long before she says anything, and while he never touches anyone casually especially a child so reserved and guarded he allows himself the smallest measure of patience, staying close but silent, letting her explore while his presence silently communicates that he is there, always watching, always protecting.
They stop outside a rack of tiny, intricately made doll clothes, and she leans forward to examine a jacket for one of her porcelain soldiers, her fingers tracing the seams with delicate precision, and Bruce sees the subtle wobble in her knees, the faint crease in her small forehead. He waits another moment, letting her finish arranging her hands over the garments, then finally says softly, “…Your feet look tired.”
She shakes her head quickly, cheeks flushed, but the slightest tremor in her hands betrays her exhaustion. Without another word, Bruce bends slightly, the motion careful and practiced, and gently lifts her into his arms, cradling her against his chest, one arm under her back, the other supporting her legs. The dolls shift nervously around her in a miniature defensive perimeter, but she doesn’t flinch; instead, she stiffens ever so slightly, the tiniest hint of fear mingling with surprise.
Her voice is barely audible, a whisper only he could hear: “I… I’m heavy.”
“Not at all,” Bruce murmurs, his tone calm and unshakable, almost like a promise, and he continues walking through the store, careful to avoid obstacles, careful to let her dolls march alongside in perfect formation, the miniature feet clicking softly against the polished floor.
And then the moment comes. A soft, almost inaudible tear slips down her cheek, and she presses her face against his chest, fingers tightening on his jacket. Bruce notices immediately, pausing mid-step, and he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask why because he already knows.
The memory is there, buried deep: the cruel words of parents who called her cursed, who never touched her, who never let her feel safe or loved. She has never been held like this, never experienced warmth without fear. And yet, in the quiet strength of his arms, she begins to understand maybe she can.
He tilts his head slightly, murmuring softly, “…It’s alright. You’re safe,” his voice low, steady, the kind of voice that doesn’t demand a response, doesn’t even require her to look up, but simply exists as a shield around her.
She sniffles quietly, still buried against him, and the dolls, sensing her unease, huddle closer, forming a protective little barrier around her even as they march beside him. Bruce continues walking, the pace slow and deliberate, letting her feel the motion of being carried, letting her process that this this simple act is not punishment, not fear, not judgment, but care.
When they finally reach the checkout counter for her carefully chosen doll clothes, Bruce gently sets her down, placing her feet softly on the ground, and she hesitates, almost afraid to move, until she catches her reflection in the glass of a nearby display flushed cheeks, tear-streaked face, eyes wide and startled, and yet something else too: the faintest spark of trust, of belonging, of being seen in a way she never had before.
She reaches for her dolls, clutching them close, still trembling slightly, and Bruce says nothing, just watches, allowing her to regain her composure at her own pace. And in the quiet, almost imperceptible movement of her tiny shoulders relaxing, the careful alignment of her dolls resuming formation, Bruce allows himself a thought he would never voice aloud: that perhaps finally someone who called her cursed had been wrong, and maybe, just maybe, she was worthy of being carried, of being loved, and of being safe.
