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Damian al-Ghul—Damian al-Ghul Wayne—was promptly dropped on the front porch of Wayne Manor three months ago. It would almost be humorous, if it wasn't so earth-shattering.
It was a lot. For everyone. That first day, Dick was shocked into silence, Jason was overwhelmed, Tim was restless, Bruce was in a state of disbelief, and Clark...
Clark didn't know what to do.
Usually, he could come up with a plan pretty fast. He and Bruce both could—being two of the three leaders of the Justice League, it was practically in the job description. This, however, was unlike anything he'd ever dealt with. Bruce had a biological son. A son who was ten years old. A son that they hadn't raised together. A son that Bruce claims he didn't know about. Another son.
"I just..." Bruce had trailed off, that first night. Clark could see glistening tears fill his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. "I can't believe she did this. We could've had him all this time, could've helped him grow."
"B," Clark's hand found his partner's arm, slowly rubbing up and down. "I know. But he's only ten, honey. That's about when we got all of our boys. Think of it like a Wayne-Kent family tradition."
"But-"
"I know. I wish we could've had all of our boys with us since they were babies, too. But that's what makes all of them so special: that they came to us. Chose to keep us as their family," Clark could feel his eyes welling up now, too. "I already love Damian. I think you do too. It's only a matter of time before he fits right in with the rest of us, like he's always been here."
"I'm scared," Bruce manages to breathe out. "I'm scared that he won't choose us. God knows what Talia's been raising him like."
"He will," Clark says, assuredly. "He loves you, Bruce."
And at that, they both smiled.
When the young boy first walked into the Manor, he had been curt and damn-near dismissive, only wanting to see "Father." But when he saw all six-feet, 220 pounds of Jason, though, he ran over, near-squealing, "Akhi!"
Now, Clark wasn't fluent in Arabic like Bruce was (and how Damian seemed to be), but he was pretty sure that meant "brother." Casually, too. So, apparently, Damian already knew Jason and saw him as a brother. One down, two to go?
If only it were that easy.
Damian was, frankly, a bit of a brat. He was stuck-up, arrogant, and too cunning for his own good. Probably exactly what one would've imagined a child with both Bruce and Talia's DNA would be like—just take that and raise it as an assassin for ten years.
But, he wasn't calling them names anymore. He'd lost his performative hatred for Clark. He stopped calling Bruce "Father" and switched to "Abi." That had to mean something, even though it was still technically formal.
Clark could tell Damian was close to opening up, once that happened.
It took two more months for Damian to crack his carefully-crafted, assassin shell open.
By then, he was already their baby. Though the only person he truly allowed to treat him with such tenderness was Jason, the others still got away with it in passing. A smiling "Uhibbuka, ya amiri" from Bruce after training. Quality time between Clark and Damian that always ended in a hug and forehead kiss. Dick telling the boy his own Robin stories as he subtly ensures Damian is being safe on patrol. Tim being, oddly, the one who Damian went to for comfort (though he would never call it that... more like a "debrief") after the rough days.
And then there was Jason. If Damian and Jason were in the same room, there was a very high chance that the former was curled into his older brother's side, resting with a hand stroking his hair. Jason called the boy a "demon brat," but it was clear there was no bite in it. Damian called him a "fool." That was tame, and more telling than he realized.
They had made a lot of progress. And there was no chance they'd ever let Damian go, now that they had him. He'd just have to get used to the overflowing Wayne (and Kent) love.
Damian found himself on their back porch, practicing his painting, more often than not in his free time.
Bruce was quiet when he opened the door, but that didn't stop Damian from turning his head.
"Madha, baba?" he asked, though not sharply.
"Nothing, son. Just checking in," Bruce moved closer to the boy. "What are you painting today?"
"The farm." Ma and Pa Kent's farm. Bruce fought the urge to grin, and then the urge to cry. That was his baby boy.
"Are you putting any of the animals in it?" he took a seat on their outdoor furniture.
"Yes," Damian rolled his eyes. "I am in the process of inserting Daisy into the scene."
Daisy was the Kent farm's newest addition, a wobbly female calf. Damian adored her. Bruce tilted his head to look around a little body at the canvas. Sure enough, there was Damian's paintbrush dotting a small black cow next to the fence.
"I see that now."
"Have you ever painted, baba?" Damian's voice came softly, after a stretch of silence. It was rare he felt comfortable enough to ask questions like that—the League of Assassins placed little value on personal connections. It was a weakness. Not anymore, Damian had to remind himself. Now it was a strength.
"No," Bruce pursed his lips. "But Alfred used to. Maybe you could talk to him about it."
Damian hummed. A small smile rested on both their faces.
That was, until they were covered in a brief, bright flash of white light. They both turned.
"Sorry," Clark's shoulders hunched up, and he wore a sheepish smile. "I've never gotten one of the both of you."
He lifted the digital camera in his hands as an explanation. It was worn, now. Bruce remembers when Clark bought it. They had just taken Dick in, and Clark (ever the sentimental man) had come back with it one day, insisting they needed it to capture family memories. Bruce loved this man so much. His resting smile came back.
"You just get home?" he asked.
"Yeah," Clark set the camera down, walking over to the two of them. "Who or what is the lucky subject of your art today, Dami?"
"Ma and Pa's land," Damian conceded. Bruce was overtaken by tenderness at his willingness to refer to the Kents as "Ma" and "Pa." Clark was probably not faring much better.
A look at his face proved Bruce's suspicions. His eyebrows were scrunched up and those big, blue eyes were filled with emotion.
"Wow," he breathed out. "We'll have to show them when you're done, yeah?"
"Alright." Damian said curtly, but allowed Clark to press a long kiss on his temple.
"I love you, baby." Another kiss, this one quick, to emphasize his point.
"Hm." Whether that was to the "I love you," the term "baby," or something else entirely, they didn't know.
"I love you, too, Bruce," Clark moved a bit, pecking his lover's lips.
"I love you," he returned, rubbing a thumb over the super's cheekbone. "Now go do whatever you had to do."
Two more soft kisses on Bruce's lips. How did he ever get so lucky?
As Clark retreated back inside, Bruce swore he could see Damian thoughtfully mouthing the words "I love you," as if he was testing them out.