MY LITTLE DOVE / batboys as parents / parental figures.
synopsis. ranking the four main batboys in order of how good of a parent / parental figure i think they'd be. because i can and i have daddy issues that need healing. ( child/teen!reader ).
word count. 2.4k.
content warnings. tooth-rotting fluff, like a single mention of blood ( dick ). references to childhood homelessness, mentions of death, selective mutism!reader ( jason ). the cycle of abuse, implied depression, 'maybe if I ignore it the problem will fix itself' mentality ( damian ). deadbeat / only present monetarily dad, village bicycle!tim agenda ( tim ).
spencer speaks. hi just a reminder these are headcanons. if you don't agree idc, don't tell me lmao. i'm here to have fun and project via my writing. this is entirely inspired by one single conversation i had with carrie yesterday ( as of writing ). also new layout i lobe it. i literally spent like 5 hrs on this and its like the longest thing ive written???
tags. @dulcet-aurora. @scrumptiouslylovingarcade.
ᛝ DICK GRAYSON
dick was the only one of the robins to actually want a child. he'd thought about being a father for as long as he could remember. maybe it was just because of bruce. both how the man succeeded and failed horribly as a father. dick wanted to be better than that. when kory gave birth to you, his entire world seemed to shift on its axis. you were his entire world. for most of those few years you were a baby, he'd come home from those late night patrols around bludhaven to just watch you sleep, not even bothering to shed the suit or even the mask before he was resting his arms on the side of the crib. more than once kory found him asleep with a hand through the crib's bars, your tiny fist holding onto his pointer finger with a death-grip even in sleep. the older you got, the more you seemed to cling to him. it killed him to go out when you'd latch onto his leg and beg him not to leave whenever he had to go to 'work', looking up at him with those big eyes that always managed to help you get your way. but if he didn't go, who would? he couldn't tell you yet. couldn't make you take on the burden of keeping a secret when you hadn't stopped talking since your first word. though maybe you always knew. you never let them change the channel whenever he came on the news. the night you did find out, well, that was an accident.
it had been a rough patrol, that was for sure. dick was almost certain he’d broken a rib, and he couldn’t tell if it was blood or sweat he felt running down his face. a rub at his skin said a mix of both. it was one of those nights that really makes you think. the kind of nights that really only start when you really feel like you have everything to lose, not just something.
it had been a long time since he’d last watched you sleep. definitely since before you started climbing out of the crib in the middle of the night with all the grace of a grayson. but right now, it was what he needed. he didn’t change, didn’t shower, didn’t even take off the domino mask. for a few minutes he lingered in the doorway. watching your little chest rise and fall under the blanket with that plushie you never put down tucked under your arm. he didn’t know what he’d do if he lost this.
finally he stepped into the room, narrowly avoiding crushing some of the toys that were scattered across the carpeted floor. only when he settled quietly on the edge of the bed did he take notice of the small, scared noises coming from you. nightmare. they’d been happening more often, no matter what he and kory tried. without a second thought dick reached out to your open palm and pressed his fingers gently into it. “it’s okay, bug. daddy’s here.”
he didn’t mean to wake you up. but when your sad shiny eyes fluttered open and you looked at him that way, it hit him. he was still nightwing. your voice—even through near-tears—had a touch of wonder to it. “nigh-nigh?” you hadn’t quite managed to say the full name yet, but he knew exactly what you were asking. he reached up, pulled the domino mask off, and placed it on the nightstand. “yeah, sweetheart. that’s me.” when you sat up and poked his cheek—like you were seeing if it was real—he nearly cried.
his eyes genuinely watered when you crawled over and sat on his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “nigh-nigh made bad dream go ‘way…” his arms wrapped around you in return. "and i always will. promise."
ᛝ JASON TODD
jason, on the other hand, hadn’t ever thought about fatherhood. at least, not until he died. more accurately after his revival. when he’d have to stop himself from physically recoiling when he thought about it. he didn’t know why he reacted like that. he just couldn’t help it. but the thing was, it seemed like kids seemed to flock to him. at least the ones living on gothams streets did. maybe they could sense he was one of them, grew up cold without enough food in his belly and not a single adult that gave a rat's ass about him. maybe that's why he hung out around that run-down community center so much. there was a gym ( if it could even be called that ) with a decently good punching bag and okay food. he tried to go once a week, if not only because it got him out of the manor. then every few days, when that little shadow started following him around. he always felt the same pair of eyes on him whenever he went--even if they ducked behind whatever was closest whenever he looked back. it took a month--maybe more--to coax you over, only when he saw the bruise under your eye and asked if you wanted to learn to throw a punch. you followed him closer after that day. he figured out pretty quick you didn't talk too much, and he was fine with that. actions were better anyway, and your actions spoke volumes.
jason would never forget the first time he saw you stick up for yourself. you weren't the youngest kid that frequented the center, but you weren't the oldest, and it was the oldest that were the ones to worry about. they had lost that spark of childhood and seemed determined to take it from everyone else too. you included. you especially.
he never really got why. maybe it was how quiet you were, the extra air of softness it gave you. for whatever reason, it seemed to piss them off. and that pissed jason off more than he thought it would.
he wasn't about to coddle you, that's what his older brother was for. nah, jason was the type to carry you under his arm like a sack of potatoes over to the part of the gym-area with a padded floor and tell you to hit him. naturally, you resisted. you didn't wanna hit him, he wasn't the one making fun of you and giving you black eyes on the regular. it took a while of convincing for you to even throw a soft one--though it was more tap than punch--just like he'd showed you before on the punching bag.
"harder." he nodded towards his palm and you hit with just a tiny bit more force. "c'mon, kid, I said harder." he barely caught the quiet grumbly noise you made, but he chuckled when he did. "what, you wanna be those little bastards' punching bag the rest of your life?"
that got you to hit noticeably harder. "there ya go, squirt. but i know you can hit harder than that." hit. "one more time, hard as you can."
when you hit him that time he pulled his hand back, shaking it out. "damn, squirt, you've got some power behind those fists." technically he was playing it up, but he was the red hood for crying out loud. the pricks picking on you didn't have half the pain tolerance he did.
jason todd was never more proud than when you came over to him with that big grin on your face and the dumbass kids that thought they could mess with you nursing their wounds. he may not have liked kids much, but you were alright.
ᛝ DAMIAN WAYNE
damian did his best. you always knew that. you always told yourself that. he didn't have it easy growing up either, from what little he told you about your grandmother and great-grandfather. with your grandfather, it really depended on the day. by comparison you had it so easy. you weren't given a blade before you could walk, you weren't shipped off somewhere completely unknown as a kid. by all accounts, damian thought he was doing pretty well. but he knew he'd do better if your mother was still there. your mother who always knew she wanted to have a family with him, who knew he didn't think he could be a father, who assured him she'd be there to help him. but she wasn't. and he had you, who hasn't spent more than an hour outside of your room in probably a month. or maybe you had, but just avoided him. wayne manor was a big place after all. it was uncomfortable, every conversation you had was either one ( more likely both ) of you pretending or far too awkward for a father and child. but damian knew better than to assume he knew you just because he'd raised you. that didn't mean a single thing.
it wasn't very often that you joined your father and grandfather for dinner. nobody ever mentioned it, but there was a distance growing between you. a rift that damian had no clue how to cross. it wasn't often he admitted that weakness, and he certainly never admitted it to you.
it was easy when you were smaller. all you wanted to do was ramble and snuggle and play. granted he struggled with that stage more than he probably should have without your mother, but it was nothing compared to the silence. the days without contact despite living in the same home. every now and then he couldn't help the bitter thoughts from brewing up in his mind. you had it so easy compared to him. he hated that he thought like that.
but here you were. sitting at the far end of the long dining table that used to seat so many more. numbers had dwindled over the years, to say the least.
"nice of you to finally join us." bruce's voice cut through the silence like a knife, and damian silently cursed his father. looking back over to you he couldn't help noticing that you didn't acknowledge the patronizing words, like you didn't hear them at all. you were just there staring at the plate in front of you, picking at the food before taking small--noticeably hesitant--bites.
damian wanted to say something, but for once in his life of snide comments and snarky remarks, he couldn't think of a single thing. nothing he was comfortable saying, at least. so he kept his mouth shut except to put food in it.
when you stood after finishing only half the plate, he considered going after you but he hesitated too long and you were gone when he looked back up. it ran in the family, he guessed.
ᛝ TIM DRAKE
if any of the robins were not cut out for parenthood, it was timothy jackson drake. he never deluded himself into thinking it'd be nice to settle down, he didn't pretend he'd ever even considered it. he threw himself into the life of a vigilante the second he figured out bruce's identity. he could die at any moment. maybe that was why he threw himself into the bed of anyone that would have him. if you're gonna die, might as well have some fun while you're alive, right? he regretted everything when your mother contacted him again, when she slid the positive pregnancy test across the table of the rundown diner with flickering florescent lighting and a kitchen that probably had to bribe the health inspector to remain in business. he had barely opened his mouth when she blurted out that she was keeping it. keeping you. she said she didn't expect anything, that she just wanted him to know. he called bullshit immediately but kept his mouth shut. he wrote a check the second he got home and mailed it out. he sent another every month, even as she returned the first few. eventually she actually cashed them. he didn't know when the kid was born, just a general idea. he sent a little extra around your birthday. he only met you when you turned thirteen—thirteen and bitter. though, ‘meet’ is a strong word.
tim knocked on the door sharply, the crumpled envelope held tightly in his hand. bright red pen scribbles of 'return to sender' all over it. he though he and your mother were past this—the constant back and forth mailing and re-mailing the same check until she caved and cashed it. he figured after thirteen years of a check every month, she’d get it. maybe she was just trying to get him to finally meet you. but then again she’d never even tried to reach out before.
it didn’t click what actually happened until she opened the door, hair a mess, clothes rumpled and barely masked hostility in her voice. “what are you doing here?” the confusion when he held up the envelope said everything. “you didn’t send this.” his gaze moved behind her, like he expected to see you standing there—or anywhere. but there wasn’t even a shoe in a smaller size. not a single sign of a smaller human.
“where’s the kid?” he questioned. your mother sighed, stepping aside to let tim into the apartment without even looking sparing a look at his expression. “[name] asked who sends the money.” that was all he really needed to hear. “and you said their dad.” she gave a nod.
“they kept checking the mail after. i didn’t know they’d…” she gestured vaguely to the envelope. tim didn't sit down. sitting down would make him look comfortable, and he was anything but. he couldn't get into this kid's head--maybe that was because he didn't know them. it could be a bid for attention, a ploy to get their parents back together, a bitter child lashing out?
he didn't realize how long they'd been talking. he'd been careful to avoid asking too many questions about you, just what grade you were in, if you were doing fine in school. he ended up learning you didn't even have his last name. it shouldn't have surprised him the way it did, considering he wasn't there to sign your birth certificate. not a thing connected you to him except a paternity test.
his head shot up as the front door was shoved open. being a detective required hyper-awareness, and he could practically feel the anger coming off the deceptively still body. your eyes locked on his and for a second he swore you were gonna come over and punch him in the face or something. only you walked straight past him and went to your room, slamming the door behind you. your feelings towards him were obvious in that one action. so yeah, meet is a strong word.
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