Chapter Text
character introduction
Damian Wayne Kent 30 years old
Jonathan Kent 27 years old
Raynod Wayne Kent 11 years old
Alex Wayne Kent 6 years old
Adrian Wayne Kent 4 months old
Chapter 1
The hallway of the Wayne-Kent manor was thick with a silence so heavy it felt pressurized.
It started with Alex, who had been caught trying to "modify" the security drones. Now, he stood stiffly, staring intently at the floral wallpaper. Raynod, having walked in on the scene, had initially tried to negotiate, but one look at Damian’s terrifyingly calm expression and the fact that his mother was clearly not in a mood for debate resulted in Raynod joining his brother in the wall-staring contest.
Then came Jon. He had walked through the front door, still wearing his office work suit, only to be met with the sight of his two oldest sons in time-out. Before he could even ask what happened, a swift, precise, and entirely unexpected flick of a training dart from the shadows had landed him with a throbbing bump on his forehead.
"If you wish to dispute the sentencing," Damian’s cold, authoritative voice had drifted from the study, "you are welcome to join them."
And so, Jon was there too. The Man of Steel was currently pressed forehead-first against the wall, sniffling audibly, his shoulders shaking with genuine, pathetic sobs.
"I haven't even said anything yet"
minutes later the click of heels echoed on the marble. Damian walked into the hallway, holding four-month-old Adrian.
The baby was bright-eyed and alert, looking around the hallway with an inquisitive gaze. As soon as Adrian’s green eyes landed on the trio of miserable men facing the wall, he began to babble.
“Ba-da, ga-goo, wah-wah!”
He gestured wildly with his tiny, chubby fists toward the wall, then toward Damian, his blabbering taking on an indignant, protective tone. He wasn't just making noise; it sounded for all the world like he was scolding his mother, demanding that he release his family.
The three men froze. Jon’s crying paused. Raynod and Alex held their breath.
Adrian was defending them.
The three of them risked a glance backward. Damian was standing there, looking down at the baby in his arms. They saw it—the smallest, most fleeting flicker of softness in his eyes. The "Demon" was actually listening.
This is it, they thought, their hearts swelling with gratitude. The baby is saving us!
Damian sighed, a sound that seemed to hold a world of exhaustion, and handed the baby over to Jon.
"Take him," Damian muttered seemingly exhausted, turning his back on them to head toward the kitchen.
Jon immediately took the infant, but as he turned back to the wall, a sudden, cold realization hit them. Damian hadn't said anything about the punishment ending. He had just handed off the baby.
Adrian, now held securely in Jon’s arms, looked at the wall, then at his father, then back at the wall, clearly confused. He let out a soft, confused chirp.
"Aya?"
Raynod, Alex, and Jon stood there, foreheads glued to the wallpaper, Adrian blinking in confusion in the middle of them.
Demon, they all thought in perfect, telepathic unison.
How could he be so cruel? Not even the charm of the cutest baby in the world—a baby who had literally tried to defend them—was enough to move the heart of the demon of this house.
"Ten more minutes," Damian’s voice drifted back from the kitchen, sharp as a blade."And if I hear one more whimper, it will be another hour."
The three men sighed, leaned their heads back against the wall, and surrendered to their fate.
Adrian, realizing his initial protest had failed, had escalated from polite blabbering to a full-blown infant tantrum. He was kicking his legs against Jon’s chest, his face turning a delightful shade of tomato red, slamming his tiny palm against the wall with every indignant
“GAH!”
"See?" Jon whispered, his voice trembling as he shifted the squirming baby. "He’s a man of justice, Dami! He’s demanding a pardon for us"
Raynod and Alex nodded vigorously, their foreheads still pressed to the wallpaper for the sake of appearances.
"He’s clearly articulating that the punishment is disproportionate to the crime," Raynod added, trying to sound as academic as possible. Damian walked back into the hallway. He paused, watching the scene with a faint, dangerous smirk. He didn't yell. He didn't even raise his voice. He simply signaled with a subtle flick of his hand that the punishment was over.
"You are dismissed," Damian said smoothly. The trio should have been ecstatic. Instead, a collective chill raced down their spines. Damian never let them off the hook that easily—not after a breach of security protocols.
The "letting them go" felt less like an act of mercy and more like a tactical repositioning.
Adrian, however, was beaming. He puffed out his chest, letting out a series of triumphant, pride-filled chirps. He had done it. He had faced the Demon and won. He looked at Jon, then at his brothers, expecting a victory lap.
Then, the true nature of Damian’s "mercy" revealed itself.
Damian walked back out into the hallway. In one hand, he was calmly stroking the manor’s sleek black cat, Alfred, murmuring, "Good boy, Alfred. Excellent restraint." But in his other hand, he held something that made the air in the hallway go cold: a massive, industrial-grade stack of cleaning supplies and a set of heavy, specialized scrubbing brushes. He didn't even look at the three men.
He turned his gaze directly to Adrian. The baby’s eyes went wide, his smile vanishing instantly. Damian set the supplies down at the base of the wall. He looked at his infant son with a gaze that was entirely devoid of warmth.
"Since you are so interested in defending the behavior of others, Adrian, you shall assist in the rectification of the mess they created. It is never too early to learn that actions have consequences."
The three men stared in utter horror. He was putting a four-month-old to work? Adrian’s lower lip began to tremble. He looked at the mountain of brushes, then back at his mother. The pride in his little face evaporated, replaced by a sudden, devastating realization that he had just volunteered for labor. His green eyes welled up with tears, his little chin quivering as he clutched Jon’s shirt, his world of "saving his brothers and dad" crumbling into a pile of chores.
"Dami, come on," Jon started, his voice cracking. "He's four months old! He doesn't even know what a scrub brush is!"
Damian didn't even flinch. He simply walked away, his cape swishing behind him. "He will learn. He has shown initiative. I am simply fostering it."
Raynod, Alex, and Jon stood rooted to the spot, watching the baby who had moments ago been a hero now looking at them with tear-filled eyes, clearly feeling the weight of the "sentence" his mother had just imposed on him.
The three of them exchanged a look of pure, agonizing defeat.
"Okay, okay!" Jon practically shouted, lunging forward before Adrian could even let out a full cry. He gathered the infant—and the heap of industrial cleaning gear—into his arms. "We’ll do it! All of it! Just... keep the baby away from the bleach, Dami!"
Damian didn't even turn around. He just waved a hand dismissively over his shoulder as he retreated toward the kitchen. "The grout in the foyer needs attention. I expect it to be pristine by sunset. If I see a single streak, you shall all be facing the wall until graduation."
Raynod let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping. "We are officially the most over-qualified janitors in the solar system."
Alex, meanwhile, had already grabbed a pair of rubber gloves that were at least three sizes too big for his hands. "At least we don't have to watch him try to hold a sponge," he muttered, sounding genuinely traumatized by the prospect.
Adrian, sensing that the "monster" had retreated and that his father and brothers had stepped up to take the brunt of the sentence, immediately stopped trembling. He peeked over Jon’s shoulder, his eyes wide and innocent, and let out a soft, satisfied “Ba!”
He wasn't crying anymore. In fact, he looked remarkably pleased with himself.
"I think," Jon said, staring down at the baby who was currently batting at his collar, "that he knows exactly what he did. He just orchestrated a complete transfer of labor onto us."
Raynod looked at his little brother, who gave him a wide, toothless grin and a happy, prideful gurgle. Adrian reached out, grabbing a handful of Jon’s hair, looking for all the world like a tiny, green-eyed mastermind who had just successfully defeated the opposition.
"He's a Wayne, alright," Raynod sighed, picking up a heavy-duty scrubbing brush. "He doesn't do the work—he just makes sure everyone else does it for him."
"Alright, team. Let's get to scrubbing before your mother decides the baseboards need a deep-clean, too."
As they moved toward the foyer, the three of them resigned themselves to a long, grueling afternoon of manual labor.
And in the center of it all sat Adrian, perfectly content in the safety of his father’s arms, watching them work with a look of absolute, smug satisfaction.