The Smallest Variable
A DC Batman fanfic where Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent share a joint custody over their goddaughter—You. Part 3: Tails for a Week with Dent Tags: Fem! reader, Child Reader, Platonic Batfam x Reader, and Platonic Harvey Dent x Reader
Content Warnings: mild trauma references, crack treated seriously, ooc Part [1] [2] [3]
“By the way, it’s Uncle Harvey’s turn for custody. It’s almost Sunday.” You remind Bruce gently—except the effect is not gentle. His face drains of color like you’ve just told him the IRS is at the door.
Before your mom passed, she’d entrusted you—her daughter—to two people she trusted most: her good cousin, Harvey Dent, and her childhood friend, Bruce Wayne. And that’s how the two of them ended up with joint custody of you.
The mood in the room changed instantly.
Dick and Steph exchanged a knowing look. Cass and Duke traded quiet, worried glances. Jason’s smirk died on the spot, folding into a pained grimace. Even Damian’s posture stiffened, expression unusually solemn.
Bruce exhaled slowly, the weight of the reminder settling heavily across his shoulders. “I know,” he murmured.
Tim, ever the realist, asked, “On a scale of one to Arkham breakouts, how bad do we think it’ll be this time?”
Jason snorted. “It’s Harvey Dent. Do you really need to ask?”
Sunday arrived far too quickly. Alfred had already ensured you were dressed in the immaculate, well-behaved child uniform: pressed clothes, polished shoes, and freshly curled hair. Curls that would supposedly last all week—as long as you didn’t stick your head out the car window like a golden retriever again. You made no such promises.
“Uncle Harvey!” you yell, sprinting forward as a sleek black limo rolls through the Manor gates.
Bruce stands on the porch like a Victorian widow seeing her child off to war—equal parts resigned and horrified. Your siblings hover behind him, all pretending to do chores even though none of them had ever done a real chore in their lives.
Dick and Damian have chosen the most suspiciously chore-like task imaginable: they’re “fixing” the same loose porch tile that has never once been loose. Damian is kneeling beside it with a tiny toolkit Alfred definitely did not approve of him using, unscrewing and re-screwing the same perfectly functional bolt with intense, theatrical concentration. Dick is crouched next to him, nodding solemnly like a man overseeing the construction of a bridge. Every few seconds, they lean toward each other, whisper, and subtly glance up to monitor Harvey’s approach like two raccoons pretending to be civil engineers. Dick occasionally taps the tile with a wrench, murmuring, “Yep. Very structural. Very… tile.” Damian hums in agreement with the seriousness of a surgeon.
Steph was crouched near the porch tiles, tape measure in hand, pretending to calculate precise dimensions. Every few seconds, she called over to Damian, “If we stagger these measurements, the tile renovations will be way more efficient,” as if her calculations actually mattered. Damian glanced at her once, unimpressed, but she nodded firmly, clearly convinced she was contributing to the structural integrity of the Manor.
Jason and Cass have taken up “gardening,” which is generous language for the paranormal activity occurring in Alfred’s flowerbed. Jason is shoveling the same patch of dirt in a continuous loop: scoop, lift, stare, reconsider, then dump the soil right back into its birthplace with the resignation of a man stuck in moral limbo. Cass stands beside him with a watering can held perfectly upside down. Not a single drop of water has left the spout, but she tilts it with a dramatic flourish over the flowers as though performing botanical CPR. She squints at the petals, nodding in satisfaction, completely certain she is nurturing them. Jason eyes her for a moment, then shrugs and keeps shoveling the existentially pointless dirt patch. They have not made an inch of progress in thirty minutes.
Duke appears to be conducting a full architectural inspection of the manor’s front porch. He’s wearing glasses that aren’t even his prescription, holding a clipboard at a slightly incorrect angle, scribbling what can only be described as hieroglyphics. Every now and then, he pauses, steps back, squints at a column like he personally designed it, and nods with grave importance. Occasionally, he taps the porch railing with his pen and mutters, “Mm. Interesting. Very… porch.” He has no idea what he’s writing. No one does. But his commitment is ironclad.
Tim, who has famously never touched a cleaning tool willingly in his life, is attempting to sweep the front steps. Unfortunately, he cannot determine whether the broom he’s holding is meant for indoor hardwood or outdoor concrete. His strategy is to split the difference and sweep in odd, wide arcs that accomplish nothing except pushing imaginary dust in imaginary patterns. Every thirty seconds, he flips the broom, studies it like a rare alien artifact, then resumes sweeping in the wrong direction. At one point, he nearly hits Jason with it. Jason threatens him without looking up from his dirt pile, and Tim mutters a polite apology before returning to his archaeological sweeping ritual.
The limo glides to a smooth stop. The driver steps out, opens the door with formal precision—
—and Harvey Dent emerges in a designer suit with a smile that could sponsor a toothpaste commercial.
“There’s my favorite little munchkin!” he beams, sweeping you up into a tight hug. His eyes flick up to Bruce. A silent, diplomatic nod. A subtle exchange of mutual dread. The ceremonial changing of the parent.
You cling to Harvey’s neck happily. “I’m so happy to see you! Are you happy to see your beloved Belladonna, too?”
Harvey chuckles, balancing you easily in his arms as he produces an expensive doll from the limo—imported, hand-stitched, probably illegal in three countries. You accept it with immediate, wholehearted devotion.
Bruce winces. He recognizes a man who has just been out-parented by a $2,000 doll.
Harvey chuckled, adjusting his grip on both you and the doll. “Of course I am, my precious Belladonna.” He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face gently, his eyes soft as he looked down at you. “You look even more lovely than the last time I saw you.”
Bruce watched from the porch, arms crossed, trying to mask the tension tightening in his chest. He knew Harvey doted on you—probably too much—spoiling you in ways that would make Alfred twitch. Harvey’s protective streak was well-known; he wouldn’t hesitate to punch someone if they dared harm his little girl. And yet, seeing the genuine affection between them stirred something in Bruce he couldn’t quite name—a mix of relief, pride, and just a touch of lingering unease.
The rest of the siblings had staked out their positions like a poorly coordinated surveillance team. Jason’s scowl deepened, Steph’s lips pursed in envy, Dick leaned lazily on the porch railing, and Damian’s eyes flicked sharply between you and Harvey, calculating potential threats with alarming seriousness. Cass and Duke were tucked near the flowerbeds, pretending to inspect petals and railing angles but secretly just staring. Tim hovered near the broom he hadn’t touched in weeks, muttering to himself about the insanity unfolding.
You leaned up, pressing quick kisses to both sides of Harvey’s face, ignoring the small smile creeping onto Bruce’s lips. “Are you going to give me lessons in pre-law again?” you asked eagerly, your eyes sparkling with excitement.
The others blinked in unison.
“Wait—he teaches her pre-law?” Tim muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
Dick’s jaw dropped. “Is that… legal?”
Jason facepalmed, shaking his head. “I’m calling child labor on this one.”
Harvey laughed, the sound warm and full, as it belonged to a person who’d never questioned the universe more than necessary. “You bet I am, sweetheart. Can’t let a little thing like age stop you from becoming a genius lawyer.”
Your excitement practically radiated from you. “Oh, goody! My favorite subject is the Philosophy behind the law and jurisdiction!”
Harvey’s grin widened, genuine and unrestrained. “Ah, you always had a knack for the finer points. I swear, by the time you’re a teenager, you’ll be arguing circles around every judge in Gotham.”
The Bat-siblings exchanged increasingly horrified glances. Damian’s eye twitched in a way that threatened to manifest physically.
Stephanie groaned, one hand covering her face. “Please, can we not turn her into a mini Harvey Dent…”
Damian’s voice, sharp and incredulous, followed, “If she starts quoting case law before she can ride a bike, I quit.”
You froze for a second, eyes narrowing as your brain whirred like a courtroom timer. Then, without missing a beat, you pointed a tiny finger at him and said firmly, “Objection, Damian, your point is rejected as it lacks known facts—I can ride a bike splendidly.” You gave him a quick smirk before turning back to Harvey, eager to continue your exposition.
“Good news, Uncle Harvey! My debate club made it to regionals!” you announced, bouncing slightly in his arms. His grin widened instantly, eyes softening as if your announcement alone had solved all of Gotham’s problems.
Damian rolled his eyes, unimpressed—or at least pretending to be—but you could see the faintest twitch of respect in the way he shifted his stance. Harvey, on the other hand, looked utterly smitten.
“Regional? That’s incredible!” he said, ruffling your hair affectionately. “I always knew you’d be a star, sweetheart.”
Stephanie muttered under her breath, hands covering her mouth, “She’s only eleven, and she’s already a debate champ. Life’s not fair.”
You ignored the whispered commentary. Instead, you leaned forward, voice picking up that infuriatingly nerdy cadence you only used when your brain was full and refusing to shut off. “One of our finer points in the debate was when the motion was, ‘This House Believes That Power Is Reflected by Character, Not Circumstances.’ And since I was on the opposing side, I used you, Uncle Harvey, as an excellent example of reflecting power via circumstances.” You paused dramatically, letting Harvey’s delighted smile fuel your momentum. “Bruce still manages to help criminals who want to reform, even when most people have lost hope in them and donated to charities he didn’t need. He had the power and the resources to ignore it, to let tragedy harden him or make him bitter, but he didn’t. He decided to use his circumstances—losing his parents, facing Gotham’s worst—to actually do better, to rebuild instead of turning his mistrust into cruelty. And you, Uncle Harvey… once you became Two-Face, you faced the same crossroads. You could have succumbed to despair or let the world write your story for you, but instead, you used what happened to you to rise, to gain influence, and to try to steer Gotham into something better, even if it was messy.”
You grinned, bouncing slightly in his arms, your doll still tucked under one elbow. “See? Even circumstances that split people in halves—whether trauma, tragedy, or really bad luck—don’t define you. It’s what you do with them that reflects real power!”
Harvey laughed, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Belladonna, you have a mind sharper than a thousand judges. Regional? I am beyond proud.”
You beamed, clutching your doll like a medal. “And that’s why we won! Because—as I argued—people aren’t powerless just because life gave them halves; they’re powerful if they choose to act, and I used both of you as prime examples!”
You clutched your doll and waved enthusiastically as Harvey helped you step into the limo. Damian finally let out that faint whistle, muttering under his breath, “I’m not saying I agree…but that was actually… impressive.”
“Bye, Bruce! Bye, Dick! Bye, Jason! Bye, Steph! Bye, Tim! Bye, Duke! Bye, Damian! Bye, Alfred!” you called, spinning slightly to make sure everyone got a proper farewell.
You leaned out a little, grinning at the family pets. “Bye, Titus! Bye, Alfred the Cat! Bye, Ace! Bye, Bat-Cow! Bye, Jerry! Bye, Goliath! Bye, Penelope! Bye, little ducklings—Quacker, Waddles, Puddles, Bubbles, Muffin, Peaches, Buttons, Sprout, Snickers, and Jellybean! And bye, my fancy quail chicks—Sir Beakington, Lady Featherbottom, Count Quailula, Madame Clucksworth, Duke Tinywing, Princess Peep, Baroness Whistle, Lord Sprinkles, Sir Chirpsalot, and Queen Hennifer!”
Harvey chuckled, gently lifting you into the seat. “Someone’s going to wear out their vocal cords before the week is over.”
“I love you all!” you added one last time, waving frantically as the black limo rolled smoothly out of the Wayne Manor gates, carrying you off to your week with Harvey—and leaving a trail of bemused, exhausted, and slightly terrified family members in your wake.
Borders by @pixopix Taglist:@kneelforloki Part [1] [2] [3]