Parents' Evening — Damian Wayne
Synopsis;
There are many things Gotham’s vigilantes can handle — rooftop chases, crime lords, near-apocalypses — but nothing tests their patience quite like parents’ evening.
Between Damian’s thinly veiled contempt for his science teacher, Alfred composure, and one very proud (and very tired) Batmom, it’s shaping up to be the most eventful night of the semester.
Warnings: Nothing really springs to mind and it's not really proofread so the worst is probably that it's a little messy. It's mostly platonic, fluffy, and domestic in a sense.
Word Count: 6K (6089)
Pairing: Damian Wayne x Batmom!Reader + Alfred Pennyworth — briefly Bruce Wayne x Wife!Reader
(A/N: for the sake of the story, Jason attended Gotham academy. Canonically, it's moreso insinuated that Jason remained mostly in public school — when he did attend — often being suspended/expelled from GA during his time involved with Bruce.)
(A/N 2: for those curious about their requests, I'm still working on them, don't worry. I'm doing quick edits for one and another I'm close to finishing before editing so, don't worry, I'm still working through your requests, I just like to occasionally break it up with different stories so I'm not swamping my head with the same characters constantly which usually results in your requests looking messy.)
_______________
For teachers, it was the final endurance trial of the semester — a marathon of polite smiles, lukewarm coffee, and careful phrasing like “spirited learner” and “unique approach to teamwork.” For most parents, it was a chance to beam proudly, compare grades, and pretend their child’s behavioral notes were “just a phase.” For students, it was dread. A long night of sitting two rows away, trying not to make eye contact as their academic sins were laid bare in a lecture disguised as informative discussions.
Parents’ evening meant different things to different people.
For Damian Wayne, however, it was none of those things.
Parents’ evening was a logistical inconvenience — an outdated ritual of forced social niceties that could’ve been summarized in an email. He had already assessed his performance, corrected his teachers’ errors, and determined that their opinions were, statistically speaking, of minimal consequence. Still, you insisted that parents evening was all part of being a "normal child". Alfred had agreed. Which meant it was happening, whether Damian liked it or not.
And so, on a crisp Gotham evening, while Bruce Wayne found himself halfway across the city at a shareholders’ meeting that he couldn't get out of, having already postponed it a multitude of times, you and Alfred — the human, not to be confused with Alfred, the cat — stepped through the shining glass doors of Gotham Academy — ready to discuss the education of a boy who could out-debate his teachers, out-run his coach, and very likely out-fence his instructor.
You'd already talked with Damian — well, more like strongly suggested, that he remains quiet and calm. Of course, it's with the strongest delusion that surely they have no notes on how your little robin acts in nothing but an exemplary manner, but because you live within reality, you're certain Damian has argued with staff enough times that at least one teacher must have resigned by now.
And so, you made your way down the polished hallway, the rhythmic click of Alfred’s shoes echoed softly against the marble. Damian walked half a step ahead, hands clasped behind his back like a young diplomat on a state visit, his expression the picture of stoic endurance.
You smiled faintly, leaning toward him. “You know,” you murmured, “if tonight goes well — I'm certain your father and I can agree that you more than deserve a reward."
That earned you a skeptical glance. “A reward,” he repeated flatly, as if the concept itself were beneath him.
“Mhm.” You kept your tone light, amused. “A treat, especially if you behave tonight. You pick.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed in thought — the faintest hint of curiosity flickering beneath his composed exterior. “Anything?”
You gave a small shrug. “Within reason.”
Beside you, Alfred’s voice carried, dry as ever. “I should remind Master Damian that purchasing an equestrian training facility or a private island does not fall within the established definition of ‘reason.’”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped you. “You heard the man. So behave yourself, and maybe we’ll stop by that bakery you like on the way home.”
Damian said nothing, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him — just barely — before he straightened his shoulders again. “Very well. I shall endeavor not to disgrace the family name.”
“Good,” you said, smiling to yourself as you approached the first classroom door — Mrs Hargreaves, English department.
You exchanged a quick look with Alfred — an unspoken pact of mutual patience — before you both stepped inside.
—
"Mrs Wayne," Mrs Hargreaves greeted as you entered with Damian and Alfred in tow, her hands perched atop her wooden desk. "It's wonderful to see you again. And hello to you, Mr Pennyworth. I hope you are fairing well."
It's not unusual that most staff know you by now, having already done this dance with each of your other boys and their teachers. Year after year when they were enrolled, there you were, right beside Dick, then Jason, and Tim, listening to all sorts of feedback — praise, thinly veiled exhaustion, concern, slight judgements on attitudes and approaches to schoolwork.
Pleasantries are returned as the three of you take your seats opposite, the darkened oak desk sat between your miniature gaggle and her.
The outside evening light filters through tall, arched windows dressed in heavy emerald curtains, illuminating rows of dark oak desks. The scent of old paper lingers here — the ghosts of novels read and essays graded. The walls are lined with framed literary quotes and shelves sagging under the weight of well-worn classics. A small reading nook sits in one corner, complete with a threadbare leather armchair and a brass lamp that hums faintly when lit. There’s something quietly romantic about this room, as if stories themselves live in the dust motes that drift through the air. It's almost a shame it's wasted on adolescents that'd rather be anywhere but school learning how to properly structure letters and the foundations of classic gothic fiction.
"Damian is quite the examplary literate student," Hargreaves begins. "His understanding and his comprehension of how to discuss works we cover during class in depth is sublime." Before Alfred and yourself can grow all too proud, and Damian all too smug, Mrs Hargreaves continues. "Although, perhaps young Damian here becomes a teeny bit too passionate, too...overzealous...during class discussions."
"Tt," Damian quietly scoffs accompanied with a diminutive roll of his eyes. But he spots the way you subtly roll your shoulders back and posture your head a little higher — though not in a smug, uppity display.
A magazine, the type that gossip about and idolise "celebrities" with the occasional one or two scandalous pictures and updates, once compared your smile to the sun in an article — nothing but bright, radiant, and emitting such warmth it could melt ice caps — a line you’d rolled your eyes at when you first read it, though even Bruce had conceded — in his own gruff way — that they might’ve been right. Gotham’s never had much sunlight, after all, but somehow, you’d managed to bring your own.
And that same smile was always present when talking or thinking about your family — Bruce, Alfred, your sons — even if sometimes, like now, it can appear a bit more, well, perhaps the best way to describe such would be wary.
"Well, our Damian," you begin, your tone patient and laced with fond amusement, "has always had a very sharp mind. When he’s interested in something, he doesn’t do it halfway — he dives right in, dissects it, debates it, sometimes to death if you let him."
You glance at Damian, whose posture stiffens just slightly under your calm gaze. "That passion can come off a little intense, I know," you continue, turning back to Mrs. Hargreaves, "but I think it’s less about wanting to be right and more about wanting to understand. He’s... wired that way. He likes answers that make sense — and if they don’t, he’ll pick at them until they do."
"And, well," you add, smiling that sun-warm smile of yours, "there are worse things for a young boy to be than enthusiastic about literature, don’t you think?"
Alfred, ever composed, gives a quick nod beside you and you catch the faintest twitch of his lips — amusement, pride, and approval all in one.
"While I agree your son's enthusiasm is admirable, perhaps he could reign in some of that enthusiasm so the class can make it through a full lesson without an added lecture detailing the supposed failures of well renowned authors. And my own teachings." She sounded a bit disgruntled at that final note and you could only internally cringe because of course, your Damian would be arguing with teachers and outright debating their personal approaches to teaching before the whole class.
And you can only prepare yourself to hear similar comments from the rest of the staff you're lined up to see this evening.
Alfred, always the picture of composure and charmed elegance, refolds his hands resting against his knee. "I am certain that Mr and Mrs Wayne will encourage Master Damian to perhaps participate during class with restraint — a more active listener than an active lecturer."
You swear you spot a tiny twitch at her left eye, her body screaming composed yet her smile not quite reaching her eyes; a little strained, forced. "Well, I'll be sure to keep my hopes and expectations at a reasonable level."
Damian, sandwiched between Alfred and yourself, sniggers which results in a quick and discreet nudge from you, your knee knocking his. Though, you did a job well done restraining yourself from mirroring your son.
Mrs. Hargreaves clears her throat, visibly deciding to steer back toward safer ground. “That said,” she continues, flipping through a folder on her desk, “Damian’s written work is consistently exceptional. His essays demonstrate an advanced grasp of both language and analysis. His recent piece on Frankenstein was... quite frankly, university level. The way he unpacked the moral implications of creation and responsibility—” she pauses, glancing up with reluctant admiration “—was nothing short of brilliant.”
You can’t help the little surge of pride that rises in your chest at that. Beside you, Alfred’s expression softens, just enough to betray his own quiet satisfaction.
Mrs. Hargreaves continues, her voice a touch lighter now. “His command of vocabulary is remarkable for someone his age, and his structuring — immaculate. Every argument, every quotation, perfectly supported. It’s a pleasure to read and mark his work.”
Damian, of course, looks entirely unsurprised by the praise.
“Even,” she adds after a small, pointed pause, “when he writes responses to my feedback on the margins of his graded essays and returns them to me. Corrected.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence. Then Alfred gives a polite, knowing cough.
You fold your hands neatly in your lap, your tone gentle but amused. “Well... at least you can be certain he’s...regarding...your feedback with much thought.”
Mrs. Hargreaves’ mouth twitches into something halfway between a smile and a grimace. “Yes. Vigorously.”
That earns the faintest huff of laughter from you, and even Alfred allows himself a quiet exhale that’s almost a chuckle.
“Well, Mrs. Hargreaves,” you say, rising from your seat, “thank you for your time. We’ll make sure Damian channels that enthusiasm a little more... constructively.”
“Please do,” she says, though there’s a note of reluctant fondness in her tone now. “He truly is a remarkable student.”
As you step back into the hall, you catch Damian’s eye and give him a look that lands somewhere between I’m proud of you and we’ll talk about those margin notes later.
“Come along,” Alfred murmurs, straightening his jacket. “One class down, several more to go.”
You sigh, the smile returning to your lips as you glance at the list in your hand. “Right. Where to next, my curriculum critic?" You ask teasingly at your son.
"Preferably home," he mutters, though he's quick to straighten up when he catches your raised eyebrow and slightly pursed lips. He finally relents with a sigh. "Mathematics with Mr Graves."
—
The conversations with Mr. Graves, followed by Ms. Patel — Damian’s history teacher — went as smoothly as you could’ve hoped. Naturally, they shared similar grievances about his *spirited* participation in class, but there was still plenty of praise to sing about your boy.
And it came as no surprise that Ms. Morin had no negatives at all to share about Damian in her art class. Well, perhaps Alfred and you had been a little surprised — but pleasantly so, you suppose.
But the evening wasn’t over just yet.
Because now, you found yourselves seated opposite Mr. Rivera in the science lab — Antony Rivera, fellow Gotham Academy alumnus who, like yourself, attended through a scholarship rather than family wealth or parental influence over the school board. He’d been two years above you back then, but all the scholarship students tended to stick together — study groups, shared bus rides, late nights swapping notes before exams.
He’s equal parts brilliant and scatterbrained — passionate about his subject to a fault and still approaches science like a kid in a candy store. He believes curiosity should never be punished, and mistakes are simply part of discovery.
His enthusiasm and genuine care for students make him one of the most beloved teachers at the Academy — though, if you asked around, a few colleagues might quietly describe him as *exhausting.* He’s charismatic without trying, the kind of man who remembers every student’s name, every parent’s face, and still occasionally calls you by your old school nickname — which, admittedly, is a tad inappropriate now.
Mr. Antony Rivera is the kind of teacher students adore yet live in mild fear of during experiments, the kind mothers fawn over and fathers quietly despise — because somehow, every interaction leaves their wives smiling a little too brightly.
Tall and lean, with that easy, natural sort of charm that comes from confidence rather than vanity, Rivera carries himself like someone who’s never quite lost his boyish spark. His dark hair has just begun to silver at the temples — in a way that, frustratingly, only seems to make the mothers swoon more — and there are almost always faint smudges of chalk or graphite on his hands or shirt sleeves from the day’s lessons.
And no man despises him more than Bruce Wayne. Because while other women may flirt harmlessly with the charming science teacher, Antony Rivera’s eyes have only ever followed one woman — the one he’s harbored a quiet, stubborn crush on since their own school days.
If anything, time had only made Rivera’s fondness deepen — mellowed it, perhaps, but never erased it. What had once been a harmless teenage crush had aged into something wistful, lingering just beneath his easy smile. To him, you weren’t just “Mrs. Wayne,” and by god, that name paired with yours tasted ever so slightly bitter on his tongue. You were the girl who used to beat him at chemistry quizzes and share your lunch when he’d forgotten his own.
So every time your paths crossed — at school fundraisers, science fairs, or nights like this — he’d light up with that same boyish grin, his voice dipping just a touch warmer when he spoke to you. You, of course, never cared to notice. You’d always seen Antony Rivera as what he was: a kind, passionate teacher and an old friend from a long time ago.
Everyone else, however, noticed *everything.*
Other mothers exchanged not-so-subtle looks, their envy disguised as politeness; their husbands pretended not to be elated that, with his attention on you, their wives had little chance of actually ending up in his bed. Alfred, ever the gentleman, carried himself with immaculate civility, though his gaze often lingered on Rivera for a beat longer than courtesy required — as if quietly deciding whether to remind Bruce about this particular man’s existence later.
And then there was Damian.
Damian had clocked the man’s interest the *moment* it existed. He’d noticed the way Rivera’s eyes softened when you entered a room, the way he laughed a little too easily at your remarks, and how he’d once adjusted his lab coat when greeting you — like that somehow made him more presentable.
He remembered when he first brought it up to his brothers after Bruce and you had been called in earlier that day for… oh, who even remembers for what. Dick had already left by the time Rivera got there, but Jason and Tim… they’d suffered plenty having to watch the man drool over you. And Bruce — well, Bruce’s jaw had clenched so tightly it was a miracle the man could still speak afterward.
“Should’a seen Bruce’s face when they first had to meet him at one of my parent evenings,” Jason had started, the vivid memory still enough to make him snicker. “Mr. R definitely got lucky walkin’ away without a broken jaw.”
Tim nodded, equally amused. “I don’t even *have* him anymore, and he still somehow ends up catching Mom for a chat when she’s supposed to be there for one of *my* things.”
From that day onward, Damian’s feelings toward his science teacher could only be described as… homicidally protective.
He scowled through every class, answered every question with surgical precision, and corrected Rivera’s equations before the man could finish writing them. Once, he even “accidentally” overheated a Bunsen burner while Rivera stood too close — a mishap Alfred had quietly described as “strategic.”
Regardless, to you, Antony Rivera was harmless — a familiar face from the past, nothing more. To Damian, however, he was a walking threat to domestic stability.
Which entirely explained why, in this moment, he was sitting stiffly between his mother and the closest thing he had to an actual affectionate grandfather — scowling so deeply at the man across the table that even Alfred had started to side-eye him in mild concern.
Antony — Mr Rivera — had welcomed you all in with a smile, even if he did gulp slightly at the way his student glowered at him as if his demise was being internally plotted in the young boys head. And he'd nervously adjusted his tie when you all took your seats, loosening the professional noose. Hell, Damian had sworn he swung open his door all too eager to be in the presence of his ummi.
You offer a polite smile, one that could thaw Gotham’s winter chill. Alfred is sat as calm and composed as ever.
“Mr. Rivera,” you return the warm welcome with an acknowledgement, voice pleasant. “It’s been a while. You look well.”
“I could say the same,” he replies, grin softening just a touch too much and his voice dropping a tad as he says your name — first name, not Mrs Wayne. “You haven’t changed a bit since—” He stops himself mid-sentence, catching sight of Damian’s narrowing eyes and Alfred’s subtle lift of an eyebrow. “—since the last fundraiser, I mean. You look… radiant.”
You blink, amused but polite. “That’s very kind of you.”
Damian clears his throat pointedly. “Perhaps, Mr. Rivera, we might focus on my *academic* performance rather than my mother’s aesthetic condition.”
“Right!” Rivera laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Of course, yes. Damian. Let’s talk about Damian.”
He flips through a few pages on his tablet, still smiling as though he hasn’t just been caught mid-flirt. “Now, I’ll start by saying Damian is one of the brightest students I’ve had in years. His grasp of chemical theory, molecular composition, and biological processes is outstanding — honestly, graduate-level at points. He doesn’t just memorize; he *understands*.”
You nod, pride softening your expression. “That’s wonderful to hear. He’s always been quite curious.”
“Curious is one word for it,” Rivera says with a short laugh. “Determined might be another. Though…” He hesitates, glancing down at his notes. “He can be a bit, ah — *assertive* in the lab.”
Alfred hums lightly. “Assertive?”
Rivera chuckles, a little sheepish. “Let’s just say, he’s… very sure of himself. Once, he corrected my formula mid-lesson — in front of thirty other students. He was right, of course, but…”
“I was *saving* the class from embarrassment,” Damian interjects flatly.
“Of course you were,” Rivera says good-naturedly. “And, ah, there was that one time with the miniscule, teensy tiny chemical spill—”
“That was a *miscalculation*,” Damian cuts in again, eyes flicking up sharply. “Entirely circumstantial.”
“I see,” Alfred murmurs, clearly suppressing a smile. “A most tactical miscalculation, then.”
You press your lips together, fighting the same urge. “Well, I’m sure no harm was done?”
Rivera waves it off with an easy grin. “No, no! Just a bit of excitement. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Besides, it’s good to see a student so… *proactive* in this field.”
At that, Alfred’s brow arches ever so slightly. “Proactive, indeed.”
Rivera clears his throat, shifting the topic quickly. “Overall, Damian’s work is exemplary. He leads by example, challenges his peers, and isn’t afraid to ask difficult questions. He’s got a brilliant scientific mind — one I’d encourage to keep exploring, perhaps even pursue higher-level courses next term.”
You smile warmly, genuine and full of pride. “Thank you, Antony. That means a lot.”
Damian’s jaw tightens at the use of his first name. His hand twitches near yours under the table — a silent claim of territory.
Alfred coughs into his fist, just loud enough to break the silence. “Well, Mr. Rivera, I daresay Gotham Academy is fortunate to have such… devoted faculty.”
Rivera beams, oblivious to the double meaning. “Thank you, Mr Pennyworth. I do my best.”
“I’m sure you do,” Alfred replies dryly, standing with practiced grace.
You follow, shaking Rivera’s hand once more. “We appreciate all you’ve done for Damian. Really.”
“Anytime,” Rivera says, his smile lingering a beat too long. “Always happy to help.”
As you turn to leave, Damian mutters under his breath, incomprehensible to you, “He’s insufferable.”
“Now, now,” Alfred chides softly. “No need for such hostility.”
“He stared at her for *five minutes* straight,” Damian hisses as you offered your final goodbyes to Rivera before walking to catch up with the two. “Father should have let me bring a sword.”
Alfred gives a patient sigh. “Master Bruce did insist on civility this evening.”
“Yes,” Damian replies through gritted teeth, “and it is *rapidly* deteriorating.”
—
Damian's mood seemed a little sour by the time you three finished chatting with Mrs bloom next — music teacher and drama club supervisor. She mentioned how Damian plays piano beautifully but lacks the emotion and heart, and how she's been desperately trying to get him to join any production they try to put on, but he refuses, the most he willingly participates in is the stage fighting with fists or props.
Which usually ended with someone suffering an injury at his hand.
But Damian seemed to have grown a little lighter by the time you three reached Coach Reilly's office — probably because of the distance it puts between you and Antony.
The itself office is functional, but lived-in — the kind of place that smells faintly of liniment and gym mats. A clipboard wall, trophies, and a shelf of old footballs give it personality. There’s a whistle somewhere on the desk, half-buried under paperwork. And the window looks out onto the field, where the students would run drills rain or shine. You can imagine you'd hear the echo of sneakers squeaking on gym floors through the connecting door to the locker rooms. It’s equal parts chaos and discipline, held together by sheer routine.
And at the epicenter of it all sits Coach Reilly. He's your classic stereotypical PE teacher — broad shoulders, perpetually sun-tanned face, and a voice that could probably carry across Gotham Harbor without a megaphone. His salt-and-pepper hair is cropped short, his polo shirt tucked neatly into track pants that have seen one too many semesters, and there’s a stopwatch always hanging around his neck like a badge of office.
But unlike the stereotypical barking type, Reilly’s got an easy humor about him — the kind that makes even the laziest students try a little harder. He’s firm, fair, and utterly immune to excuses, though there’s warmth behind his gruff exterior. He believes in effort over talent, teamwork over ego, and that getting muddy or bruised builds more character than a dozen classroom lectures ever could.
He’s an older faculty member — not old enough to have taught yourself, but old enough to remember teaching both Dick and Jason — which, frankly, explains the small twitch at the corner of his eye when he first spots your surname on any roster. The man’s seen things.
Still, he’s always been fond of your family — if a little wary of the chaos that tends to follow your sons like a curse. And to his credit, he treats Damian, and Tim, no differently.
So, when you step into his office, he greets you with a wide grin and a booming, “Mrs Wayne! Mr Pennyworth! And the man of the hour himself — Damian!” before gesturing toward the chairs across his desk.
"Hello, Coach Reilly," you offer warmly, Alfred mirroring.
Coach Reilly leans back in his chair, that ever-present grin softening into something a little more genuine. “I’ve gotta say, Mrs Wayne, Mr Pennyworth — this one’s a natural. Fastest sprint time in his year, sharpest reflexes I’ve seen in a long while. Kid’s got discipline, focus, drive — the kind that can’t be taught.”
You can practically feel Damian straighten beside you, posture snapping into proud attention at the sound of such high praise.
Reilly continues, resting his elbows on the desk. “Now, don’t get me wrong — he’s competitive as hell, and not exactly what I’d call a *team player* just yet, but he’s got leadership in him. You can’t fake that. Reminds me of another one of your boys I used to teach.”
Your lips quirk, sensing where this is going.
Reilly chuckles, shaking his head with the kind of nostalgia that only long-time teachers carry. “Your Dick was a picture of athleticism back in the day. That kid could run circles around half the upperclassmen — charm the socks off the other half, too.”
You blink, caught off guard — and before you can even attempt to school your expression, Damian lets out the softest huff of a laugh through his nose. A smirk ghosts over his lips, subtle but unmistakable.
Alfred’s brow arches ever so slightly, and you catch his eye — both of you clearly fighting the same losing battle not to grin.
Reilly, blissfully unaware, presses on. “Jason wasn’t too bad either — raw power, that one. Bit of a temper, but you could always count on him to give a hundred and ten percent. And Tim — well, we'll get to him in a couple days for his own parents evening, aye. You’ve got yourself quite the line-up, Mrs Wayne.”
You smile softly. “They do keep me on my toes.”
“I’ll bet,” Reilly says with a laugh, tapping his clipboard. “And this one—” he nods toward Damian, “—might just outdo them all someday. Though I’ll admit, I’ve had to *gently* remind him that friendly competition doesn’t usually involve actual combat maneuvers.”
Damian’s eyes narrow slightly. “If the objective is victory, then one should be prepared to win through all means available.”
Reilly barks a laugh, the sound booming in the small office. “See what I mean?” he says to you, grinning. “Confidence for days. Kid’s gonna run Gotham one day — on or off the field.”
You can’t help but return the grin, warmth blooming in your chest. “Let’s hope he channels that energy into something slightly less… bruising.”
Reilly chuckles, standing as he offers his hand across the desk. “He’s a good kid, Mrs Wayne. One of the best I’ve got. You should be proud.”
“Oh,” you reply with an easy, radiant smile, glancing at Damian with unmistakable fondness, “we are.”
As all three of you make to leave the office after shaking hands and bidding farewells, coach Reilly suddenly calls out to you like he's just now remembered something oh so important.
You've paused as Coach rounds the desk, small crisp envelope in hand, Damian's first and last name nearly scribed along the front. "Ms Zhang asked me to hand out her personal reviews of all students partaking in her fencing classes."
Ah, Ms Zhang — internationally renowned fencing champion, Olympic medalist, and the school’s not-so-secret bragging right. Gotham Academy loved nothing more than to casually mention her name during donor galas, a living testament to their “commitment to excellence.”
You take the envelope from Coach Reilly with a polite smile. “Thank you, Coach. I’ll be sure to read it once we’re home.”
—
God, you were exhausted by the time you'd finished the last of the rounds with Mr. Sloane, Mrs. Cole, and Headmaster Thornwell — you're certain Damian scares the ever-living hell out of Thornwell, but suppose he can't really complain considering the generous donations your husband and yourself give to the academy.
So the second you'd walked through the manor’s front doors, you were quick to kick off your shoes and sigh, rolling your ankles out as Alfred hung up his coat and Damian made a direct line for the kitchen — the little paper bag from the bakery already in hand.
The sound of familiar footsteps descending the grand staircase drew your gaze upward. Bruce appeared halfway down, his tie loosened, jacket not long obviously discarded, and that quiet, weary look he always carried after an evening spent with people who smiled too much and said too little.
But that softened the second his eyes landed on you.
“Welcome home,” he murmured as he reached the bottom step.
Before you could even reply, he was already there — one arm slipping around your waist, the other resting against your back as he leaned in to kiss you. It wasn’t hurried or showy, just soft and certain — the kind that said I missed you far more clearly than words ever could.
“Shareholders’ meeting?” you asked against his chest, voice still drowsy from the long evening.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “As thrilling as ever. I think one man spent twenty minutes debating the price of light bulbs.”
You chuckled softly. “And here I was thinking you might’ve had the more interesting night.”
He tilted his head, smirking faintly. “I doubt it. How was parents’ evening? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it this time.”
You waved a hand dismissively. “Mostly positive feedback, actually. A few… spirited remarks about enthusiasm and debate habits, but no detentions or formal complaints this time.”
Bruce arched a brow, amused. “Mostly positive?”
“Mhm.” You gestured toward the kitchen, where Damian sat perched on one of the stools, methodically eating a chocolate pastry with the precision of a surgeon. “Evidence right there. I promised him something sweet if he behaved himself and the feedback leaned more praise than concern. He earned it.”
Bruce followed your gaze, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched his youngest chew with careful dignity, pretending he wasn’t enjoying it as much as he was.
“He looks content,” Bruce murmured.
“He should be. He worked hard.” You nudged him lightly. “And before you ask — yes, we survived the Rivera encounter.”
That earned an unmistakable groan. “Him again.”
Alfred, passing through with his usual composure, interjected mildly, “Master Damian handled himself admirably, sir. If murderous glaring counts as restraint.”
You laughed quietly, pressing your face briefly into Bruce’s shoulder. “He behaved. I promise. Though, I can’t say the same for his internal monologue.”
Bruce huffed out a laugh, his hand gently rubbing your back. “I’ll take your word for it.”
For a few long moments, the house was quiet — the kind of quiet that felt safe, earned, like the world outside could wait until morning. Then, you're leaning back slightly to look up at your husband, eyes looking a little drowsy. "Patrol tonight?"
"Mmh," he hums confirmatively, dropping a kiss to your forehead. "Should head out soon."
"Have you eaten?" When he doesn't answer, your eyebrow is quirking up unimpressed. "You and Dami aren't going anywhere until you eat something actually substantial and let it settle for at least half an hour."
Bruce's chest rumbles from the deep, quiet chuckle that shakes his shoulders softly but he doesn't dare argue. He knows you could easily put your foot down about Damian not patrolling at all tonight because of school the following day so he supposes he should relent before he ends up defying that good old saying altogether — happy wife, happy life.
—
The manor was now silent, the kind of silence that only came after midnight — when even Gotham seemed to hold its breath for a while. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked steadily, soft against the hum of the kitchen lights.
You moved about quietly, half out of habit, half out of muscle memory. One mug for you, one for Alfred — his always with the faintest splash of milk, yours strong enough to wake the dead. The kettle whistled low and sharp, and you poured, the steam curling lazily through the air.
On the counter beside you sat the crisp envelope Coach Reilly had handed over hours ago — Ms. Zhang’s fencing report. You’d meant to read it earlier, but one thing had blurred into the next. So, with your tea warming your hands, you finally slit it open.
To whom it may concern regarding Damian Wayne,
It is with professional regard and genuine respect that I provide this update on Mr. Wayne’s participation and progress in Fencing this term.
From the beginning, Damian has demonstrated a remarkable grasp of both the technical and philosophical aspects of the discipline. His understanding of tempo, distance, and intent is exceptional for his age, and his reflexes and composure under pressure suggest a level of training far beyond that of a typical student. While his natural competitiveness can at times eclipse his sportsmanship, he has shown increasing discipline in balancing precision with restraint — a skill I consider equally valuable as any physical ability.
In paired exercises and tournament-style bouts, Damian has consistently outperformed his peers. His footwork is efficient, his bladework precise, and his strategic thinking is of the highest standard. He possesses an instinct for reading his opponent that cannot be taught, only refined. I have observed him applying classical principles of fencing with almost uncanny instinct — his parries are measured, his ripostes exact, and his timing nearly flawless.
Given his progress and clear aptitude, I strongly recommend that Damian consider participating in regional or national level competitions. The experience would challenge him in an environment that matches his capability and provide the opportunity to engage with opponents of comparable skill and discipline. I have no doubt that he would distinguish himself with honor.
In my years of instruction, it is rare to encounter a student who approaches fencing not merely as a sport, but as an art form and code of conduct. Damian Wayne does both, with exceptional focus and an intensity that commands respect.
Please do not hesitate to contact me should you wish to discuss potential next steps for his competitive involvement.
Respectfully,
Ms. Lin Zhang
Independent Fencing Instructor
Gotham Academy
By the time you folded it back into its envelope, you were smiling faintly — proud, unsurprised, and maybe a little amused at how earnestly your son approached everything like a matter of life and death.
Balancing both mugs, you padded softly through the hall, down the lift, and into the cool hum of the Batcave. Alfred looked up from his workstation the second he heard you.
“Tea delivery,” you murmured, setting his cup down beside him.
“Ah,” Alfred said, his face easing into one of those rare, fond smiles. “You’re a saint, ma’am.”
“I’ve been called worse,” you said lightly, placing the fencing letter on Bruce’s desk nearby. A small sticky note sat on the front in your handwriting:
'Don’t let Damian read this unless you want to deal with an inflated ego. Love you.'
You took one last look around the cave — the quiet monitors glowing, the faint sound of static from comms, the city skyline reflected in a dozen black screens. Somewhere out there, Bruce and Damian were doing what they did best, and somehow, that thought no longer filled you completely with worry — you're confident that your boys will come home alive and well, lest you kill them yourself.
“Be safe, boys,” you whispered under your breath, before turning back towards the stairs.
By the time you reached your room, your tea had cooled, but you didn’t mind. You set it on the nightstand, slipped beneath the covers, and let exhaustion finally pull you under.
And just before sleep claimed you, one stray thought drifted across your mind — half dread, half amusement.
Tim’s parents’ evening on Thursday.
You groaned softly into your pillow.
Maybe you weren’t ready to do this all over again.
_______________
Nothing to really add down here
This is just sort of an idea I had in my head before I disappeared for like 4 years
But anyways
I hope you've enjoyed
And as always, constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated
