What Burns Cannot Break — Chapter 5
Synopsis: After settling into Wayne Manor, Damian's possessiveness over you only intensifies—especially when Dick Grayson begins spending more time with you. What starts as harmless banter soon turns into a battle for your attention. Every small gesture—a pat on the head, a nickname, even shared laughter—becomes grounds for rivalry. Damian treats it like war; Dick treats it like sibling teasing. You, however, treat it like babysitting two chaos gremlins with too much training and too little emotional maturity. Yet, beneath the chaos, both boys find something they've long been missing—a father figure who listens, laughs, and doesn't demand perfection. By the end, Dick realizes why Damian clings to you so fiercely... and maybe, just maybe, he wants a piece of that warmth too.
[There will be chapters about the relationship between Y/n and the other Bat-kids later]
.
.
.
Fortunately, you kept your promise to visit often.
But breakfast at Wayne Manor was never peaceful.
Not because of villains or alarms—though those happened too—but because every morning seemed to turn into a competition.
Damian sat rigidly at the table, fork in hand, pretending not to watch as you leaned over Dick Grayson's shoulder to read something off his phone.
You laughed. Actually laughed. And Grayson, the insufferable fool, looked pleased about it.
He's doing it on purpose, Damian thought, glaring at his cereal as if it had personally betrayed him. He knows exactly what he's doing.
"—so then I told Babs that if Bruce ever upgrades the Batmobile again, I'm calling dibs on the old one," Dick said between bites. "Right, Y/n? I'd totally rock it."
You hummed thoughtfully, lips twitching. "You'd total it within a week, Grayson."
"Hey!" Dick protested, mock-offended. "I'm an excellent driver."
"Mm. You've also crashed five motorcycles."
"Four." He corrected.
You raised a brow.
"...Okay, five," Dick muttered.
Damian's fork hit the table with a clink, and all eyes turned toward him.
He crossed his arms, expression carefully blank. "This conversation is ridiculous."
Dick grinned. "Jealous, little man?"
"Tt. Of what? Your inability to operate a vehicle safely?" Damian shot.
"Ouch," Dick pouted, clutching his chest dramatically. "You wound me."
"Not yet, Grayson."
"Boys," You said lightly, tone carrying that calm authority that made even Jason pause mid-retort. "No homicide before noon."
Damian turned his head away, muttering under his breath about Dick starting it.
You didn't miss it. You never did.
A faint smirk tugged at your lips. "Finish your breakfast, Dami."
And just like that, the tension drained. He grumbled, but he obeyed. You had that effect on him—an easy command that didn't demand fear, only respect.
Dick noticed it too.
Later that morning, the three of you were in the training hall. You had agreed to run a sparring exercise, though 'exercise' was generous. It was mostly you standing between a bickering acrobat and a pint-sized assassin, both vying for your attention.
"Okay," You clapped your hands once. "First to land a clean hit gets bragging rights for the day. No cheap shots."
Dick stretched, all cocky charm. "Sounds fair."
Damian rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowing. "I'll make this quick."
It wasn't.
The sparring session turned into chaos—Dick flipping over Damian, Damian sweeping his leg under Dick, both of them moving with trained precision and petty vengeance. You leaned casually against the railing, arms folded, expression unreadable.
It ended with Dick flat on his back and Damian pinning him triumphantly with a knee to the chest.
"Yield," Damian said smugly.
"Fine, fine," Dick wheezed. "I yield, tiny demon. Get off me before you bruise my ribs."
"Perhaps next time you will remember your place, Grayson."
Nah. Dick held back. Damian is, after all, a kid.
You stepped forward, crouching beside them. "Both of you fought well."
Dick grinned up at you. "Does that mean I get a gold star?"
You raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like I hand out stickers?"
He chuckled, rubbing his sore shoulder. "Worth a shot."
Then you turned to Damian. "And you—good form. Watch your stance, though. Your right foot was too far forward."
Damian adjusted automatically. "Like this?"
"Exactly."
You gave his shoulder a quick pat—the same way you used to after a perfect hit in the League's training halls.
And Dick saw it.
The shift. The tiny softening in Damian's usually sharp expression. The way he seemed to stand just a little taller when you acknowledged him.
So that's what it looks like, Dick thought, quiet for once. That's what having a father really feels like.
He didn't begrudge the kid for it. Not really. But he couldn't deny the ache of envy settling somewhere in his chest.
It wasn't that Bruce was a bad dad—he'd been there when it counted. But Bruce's love was heavy, guarded. Conditional on understanding pain and purpose. Y/n's? It was different. Easier. You didn't make them earn it.
Over the next few days, Dick found himself hanging around you more—helping with missions, asking your opinion, cracking jokes just to see if he could make you laugh again.
And Damian noticed.
You offered Dick a sip of your drink? Damian suddenly wanted some.
You called Dick 'champ' after a mission? Damian was at your side ten seconds later, deadpanning, "And what am I, then?"
"My headache," You answered without missing a beat.
He didn't even argue. Just frowned and sat closer to you anyway.
By the time the family gathered in the living room that evening, the rivalry had reached absurd levels.
Bruce walked in to find Dick and Damian wrestling on the carpet while you sat on the couch, scrolling through your phone.
"Do I want to know?" Bruce asked.
Jason, sipping coffee beside you, snorted. "Big D versus Little D. Been going at it for fifteen minutes."
Bruce sighed. "Shouldn't you stop them?"
You shrugged. "They'll tire out soon."
"Are they fighting over something important?"
"Your definition of 'important' may differ from mine, Wayne."
Right on cue, Damian shouted, "He touched my Father first!"
Bruce blinked. "...Oh."
Jason was wheezing. "Man, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that—"
"Don't," You warned, and Jason wisely shut up.
Eventually, both combatants collapsed in a heap of exhausted limbs and bruised egos. You finally stood, walked over, and crouched down.
"You two done?"
Dick groaned. "Define done."
"Good enough." You offered him a hand up first. He took it, wincing slightly.
Then you turned to Damian. "You too, Dami."
He hesitated before accepting your hand—because that's what pride looked like in a ten-year-old trained to kill.
"Now shake hands," You instructed firmly.
They didn't. But they also didn't lunge at each other again, which counted as progress.
Later that night, you found Dick sitting on the manor steps, nursing a bruise and staring out at the gardens.
"Can't sleep?" You asked, joining him.
He smiled faintly. "You know me. Too much energy."
"You fought well."
"Not well enough to win."
"Winning's overrated."
He looked at you then—really looked. "You're good with him, you know."
"Damian?"
"Yeah." Dick's voice softened. "He listens to you. Trusts you. That's not something he does easily."
You didn't answer right away. "He reminds me of myself. Angry kid trying to make sense of two worlds that don't fit."
Dick laughed quietly. "Guess that makes sense why he clings to you."
"And you?"
"What about me?"
You smiled. "You've been sticking around a lot lately."
"Yeah," He admitted. "Guess I just like having someone who feels... safe to talk to. You don't make it weird."
"That's because I'm used to chaos."
He chuckled—a real, genuine one—and leaned his shoulder lightly against yours. "Thanks, Y/n. For, you know... being here."
You rested a hand on the back of his head, ruffling his black hair gently.
"You're welcome, champ."
Behind the curtain upstairs, Damian's eyes narrowed as he watched from his window.
Unbelievable.
Downstairs, you looked up suddenly—sensing the faintest pulse of that demonic awareness prickling at the edge of your senses—and smirked.
"Think he's glaring holes through the glass again?" Dick asked.
"Oh, absolutely."
"Should I be worried?"
"Nah."
You stood, stretching. "He's just territorial. He'll grow out of it."
"...You sure?"
You glanced toward the window, where two green eyes glowed faintly in the dark. And smiled. "Eventually."
Note
I want to clarify something: I don't dislike Bruce Wayne. Nor do I plan to make him an antagonist or anything like that.
The reason some members of the Bat-Family may find a father figure in Y/n isn't because they don't love Bruce. Rather, it's because they kinda crave a connection that he cannot give them.
Bruce is not a bad father in the sense that he's not uncaring or abusive (in the real world raising child soldiers is clearly abusive, but he is from a comic book). However, as a character, he struggles to ever prioritize his family over his mission. He's frequently absent, is emotionally distant, and has trouble relating to kids. He really has no idea how to raise children, and is very dependent on Alfred to do most of the emotional lifting.
I'd also add that Bruce can be an okay father, even a good father at times. But as long as he's the Batman, he can never truly be a great father because being the Batman requires one dedicating their entire being to fighting evil and saving the innocent—whereas a great parent always makes their children priority number one. Being Batman and being a parent don't really go together, like at all.
Bruce is not a normal father and never can be. His relationships with his Robins are multi-layered and complex. He is a fiercely protective figure, but his work as Batman often keeps him at a distance, making him a less present father than some of the Bat-Family might wish.
That said, I don't plan on Damian jumping straight to accepting Bruce as a father. It will be slow, because I want their relationship not to be rushed or forced. Acceptance takes time.
Thanks for hearing me out 🫶🏻













