Description: Cyra had said she was the daughter of Damian and Y/N Wayne. Y/N. Such a beautiful name. Damian knows that his internet history had been searched through ("Y/N name meaning","Y/N name origin") because the next morning Dick is smiling a little too hard, Tim snickers whenever they make eye-contact, and Barbara has a persistent and unyielding smirk on her face. He has yet to narrow down any suspects, but the push into his privacy isn't exactly the first thing on his mind right now. It's the girl that just took out fourteen armed and powerful men with—with a butter knife.

Words: 3178

Notes: Here's part two!! And requests are going to be open for a while, so please, send them in!

_ 

For some reason, those words stick with Damian out of everything his future daughter had said. Not the mention of his role as the next Batman, Dick's future children, his own (seemingly large) group of future-offspring, but the teasing comment about her. Cyra's sentence is now tattooed inside of Damian's mind, A badass time-traveler who could easily kick your ass.

His ego snaps eagerly at the "easily" bit, because he's Damian Wayne and no one can "easily"win against him... except maybe his father. The title of "time-traveler" doesn't exactly surprise him. Cyra Wayne, or "Cyra Khadija Rana Wayne", as she had so dramatically—in a very Damian manner—declared, had been forced back in time and seemed only mildly miffed with her situation. "Badass" doesn't surprise him either. Damian Wayne wouldn't have children with a weakling...

He has gone over them a thousand times in his head. Searching for double meanings, devouring new theories and snatching up any chance to meet new people. Anyone of these encounters could bring Damian to you. But that's the question... who are you?

Cyra had said she was the daughter of Damian and Y/N Wayne. Y/N. Such a beautiful name. Damian knows that his internet history had been searched through ("Y/N name meaning","Y/N name origin") because the next morning Dick is smiling a little too hard, Tim snickers whenever they make eye-contact, and Barbara has a persistent and unyielding smirk on her face. He has yet to narrow down any suspects, but the push into his privacy isn't exactly the first thing on his mind right now. It's the girl that just took out fourteen armed and powerful men with—with a butter knife.

Or, it was a butter knife, before she murmured something in a language Damian (nor Bruce) recognized, flicking out the harmless cutlery as she faced the enemy. The silver shines, and the gleam catches in Damian's eyes and temporarily blinds him. When his vision clears she is now hefting a massive gun of sorts. Robin's guess is some kind of a blaster, as a tank sits on the bazooka-sized weapon's end. Within the golden, glowing liquid is a deep purple rock... the source of the blaster's power.

"Bullets can't affect me, little girl. Neither can missiles, or rockets. I am a demigod. Do you understand what that means, you foul, insolent child—?" The bad-guy of the week spits, fisting his hands at his armored sides. He stops short at her expression, suddenly unnerved. The girl does nothing but smiles at him, then holds up a post-it note with her free hand.

DEMIGOD INCAPACITATOR

Before Bruce can complete his "wait!", the girl aims the weapon, steadying her feet against the marble flooring of the ballroom and pulling the trigger. A burst of light fires from the end of the Demigod Incapacitator. It slams into the bad-guy, melting into his chest and making him instantly collapse. The light spreads to the other mini-bosses in the room, and they all tumble with their leader.

"Woo-ee." The girl wipes her brow for an invisible layer of sweat, relaxing her stance against the massive gun and gently patting its side with a surprised expression,"I honestly thought that wouldn't work. Maybe it was a good idea to travel to the 2090's first."

This comment awakes something in Damian, and everything clicks together all at once. He has to shush his hope with a dose of reality; maybe that was just an inside joke he didn't know about, or something else. 2090s. Time-traveler. Oh, screw it.

You jolt when a hand wraps around your arm, instantly causing your body to react. Like the way water will spill when it is directed downhill, you tear your arm out of the person's grasp, simultaneously elbowing them in the chin and blowing them backward with your foot. You smoothly brush down your leather jacket, adjusting its edges,"Woah, woah, woah, pretty boy. Hands off the merchandise!"

And he is pretty. You immediately know the year you are in because of the style of the Robin costume—and it's Batman counterpart—then by the person wearing it. Thirteen-year-old Damian Wayne stands before you in all his glory, and you instantly can't help but smirk. You never read too deep into your own future (who wants spoilers anyway?) but somewhere in the pages of your story his name was written, and many, many times.

You don't flinch when a sword's tip is pointed directly at your throat. His tone is a low and threatening hiss when he demands,"Name. I want your name."

"I go by a lot of titles. You'll have to be specific." You smile, touching the point of your finger to the blade and gently moving it aside. Damian lets it drop to your surprise. He grunts in indication for you to continue, not in the mood to play games.

"They call me "The Incoming"." You shrug. Something flashes and the large weapon you were once leaning against is back to its original silver form. You slip it into its holster as you tap your foot,"Or "The cavalry". I really like that one. Makes people picture some sort of killer warrior princess instead of a [height] fourteen-year-old."

"Your real name," Damian growls. You raise your hands in surrender and smile,"Oh, Damian Wayne, I like you. You have the fight, the looks," Your smile turns sarcastic,"And certainly the charm."

You stick out your hand, closing your eyes with glee and awaiting the returned greeting,"My friends call me Y/N. I'm a time-traveler. And no, I will not tell you your future even if you pay me in cash."

Damian's ears start to ring, and he pauses and takes a step back, shocked. So it is you. Damian Wayne, illustrious and infamous for a number of (possibly illegal) things, marries you, an immature, comedic, beautiful girl that has somehow already managed to make him blush. Sure, he could blame it on the fact that he knows you will get married and have children one day but... you also have incredibly enchanting eyes.

Oh, no.

_

"I'm sorry, Damian. I should have been here, I should have helped you—

Damian dismisses the comment with a wave of his hand. You slip your blaster into it's holster, closing the keypad on your vortex manipulator and sighing shakily,"If I had helped you..." You trailed off quietly.

"It's not your fault that you weren't there to fight." Damian says these words more softly than you would expect, filling the hole your emotions had carved into your chest. For some reason, without your control, your fingers dare forward and limply graze his. Damian's eyes are steady and unwavering with assurance and comfort,"He threatened my life. You went back to save me. You saved me so I could save everyone else."

He attempts a loose but cocky grin,"And I believe, by definition, that technically makes you a hero too."

The early morning air strokes your face with its damp hands, filling your lungs with water vapor and fresh oxygen. This is the least-grayest Gotham's sky will get; the light sheen of dove-silver coating the sky and casting a peacefully colorless atmosphere over Wayne Manor's garden. You overlook it from the roof, a meeting place you and Damian had been holding assemblages at for years now.

You let out a half-attempted chuckle, turning your head to the side and staring at the windows of a second-story guest bedroom. Your face matches the color of the window's interior drapes. Wordlessly, Damian turns your chin to face him, deepening the blush on your face heavily and recapturing your attention. Your breaths mix in the early-morning fog. You only realize he is blushing when the silence becomes awkward, and your inner shyness forces you to look anywhere else but his eyes. You have never seen so much emotion cloud their depths before.

He opens his mouth to speak. The words, for once, catch in his throat and refuse to surface. He gives himself a push and they finally breach the air,"Thank you." Damian said. Only now do his fingers slip from your face,"And I don't mean for saving me."

Damian feels a frisson roll down his spine, ricocheting back up again when your lashes flutter, trying to understand through your surprise. You raise an eyebrow, laughing a laugh that seems almost... nervous."Then why? What for?" You asked. You cross your arms over your chest, rocking on your heels and tapping your feet. All nervous ticks.

Damian grins to himself. He makes you, the all-powerful time-traveler Y/N L/N, the "incoming", the cavalry, nervous.

"For being my friend. Or whatever you want to call yourself in relation to me." Damian said. He picked at the threading of his button-up behind his back.

Suddenly daring as you comprehend the opportunity to embarrass him, you take a step forward tentatively and tilt your chin,"Am I your friend? Do you want me to be called your friend "in relation" to you, Damian Wayne?"

"No." Damian answers honestly. He regrets the word the moment it leaves his mouth, too used to the pact you'd made to "be honest" with him. It had become such a habit it had blended with his other instincts, like punching someone who touched him or aiming for the throat. Damian can't back out now, so he rolls with it,"I do not. Because you are terrible and I hate you."

You snort, knowing damn well he doesn't. You take the upper hand with both of yours, smirking, smiling with your eyes, and doing that stupidly attractive thing where you grab your hip. Damian curses in Arabic. He really has fallen so deeply, if he is not only acting like Grayson around you but also thinking like him.

"Yeah, sure." You smile, nudging his arm with your knuckles. Not knowing what else to say, you wait and stand until he responds. Damian's blush grows heavier. So heavy that he must look down, taking a sharply keen interest in both of your shoes. You cough,"So what do you want me to be called, then?"

Again, your tone becomes teasing and your true self returns to the light, shining and reflecting like a diamond buried beneath dirt. You wiggle your eyebrows and snicker,"Aw, am I your best friend?"

"Jon is my best friend, tragically." Damian responds evenly. You pout, laying a finger on your chin and tapping as you think. Used to your antics, Damian enjoys the show despite how much he acts annoyed by your dramatics. Not like he's a drama queen too or anything...

"That leaves you only one title available, boy wonder. But will you take it?" You smile giddily, spreading your arms and bowing like a magician performing a magic trick. Damian rolls his eyes and crosses his arms,"Fine. Whatever will make you shut up."

"Cool." You shrug,"Alright. Well, I have some errands to run in the 1950s, so if you'll excuse me..." You opened up the screen on your vortex manipulator, counting mentally how long it will take him to grow too curious. Apparently not long, because by the time you reach eight seconds he takes your wrist and lowers it. Surprisingly, he asks,"... Can I guess what you're calling yourself now?"

Before you can get out your "sure", Damian hooks his arm around your waist and leans in. The caterpillars in your stomach all change into butterflies all at once, making your body feel as if it is on fire, burning hot and raw with the vibrancy of your own life. Before your lips can touch, Damian daringly whispers,"Mine."

Your hands grapple to find a place to rest, jumping like startled rabbits from his arms, to his chest, to his shoulders, around his back before eventually, he guides them around his neck. His touch is feather-light and his skin is as hot as the sand of a Californian shore. His hands slide up to cup your face, and you break apart with a soft inhale of air.

From above on the third story roof, Batman—Damian Wayne's Batman, from the future—and the future, 24-year-old you, watch the scene play out. When the two teenagers below part, the teen-Damian sighs deeply. The teen-you touches her lips in awe, no longer mentally present as his kiss carries her to another world. She trips on her own feet even if she isn't walking, tumbling into him, grinning when he catches her.

You mouth your younger self's words, smiling and recalling that exact kiss with goosebumps cradling your being,"Where did that come from?" She questions, beaming so blissfully that her cheeks are hurting. She plants a hand on his chest and pushes herself up, reluctantly. The two teenagers meet eyes under a different light, and future-Damian has to keep from laughing at his past self's pleasantly stunned face. The teen-Damian watches teen-you's face intently, before he huffs,"I have no idea and I blame you entirely."

"Sounds about right." Teen-you said slowly. She looks up at him hopefully,"Can I kiss you this time?"

Teen-Damian nods, threading his fingers down her back as he pulls her closer. She squeezes his biceps, bringing him forward and into her as a mess of intricately tangled knots, slowly untying him as the kiss progresses. She giggles when he almost trips trying to push her into the wall of the Manor. He curses beneath his breath when the kiss breaks, but eagerly reunites himself with her against the brick surface.

"Gross." Your Damian comments softly, only half-joking,"Was I really that bad of a kisser?" He asked. You could only shrug in response, keeping an eye on the time—you couldn't be in your past for too long, otherwise, the two teenagers desperately making out below will notice you."Not like I cared. I was being kissed by the love of my life."

Damian clicks his tongue, pulling off his cowl and carding his fingers through his hair. He sighs when you run your fingers over his, readjusting his messy locks, soothing his scalp, and reminding him how warm your hands are all in one swing. He glances down at your younger selves and smirks,"Young love, right?"

"Young love." You agree quietly. You hold up your new-and-improved vortex manipulator, pointing at the time,"We better go, Damian. I'm still a little worried about leaving Cyra with Jason..."

Damian wraps his arm around your waist,"How much damage could they do? Then again, Jason has the mind of a newborn and Cyra is a newborn."

You gently elbow your husband, then wrapped an arm around his back,"I'm telling him you said that." You tease, and Damian places his chin on your shoulder. He challenges,"I dare you, my beloved."

You only shake your head at him, typing in some commands on the keypad on your arm. You both spare one last glance at the teenagers... the smile in your Damian's eyes deepens when he finds that his past self is gazing at your lovingly. With a press of a button the two adults are gone, leaving nothing in their wake but the smell of space-time-energy, a new engraving in the wall of the Manor (DW + Y/I = Better than you), the hope of the future, and the whirring of a time-machine compacted into a watch.

Teen-you glances up at the sound of your vortex manipulator. Damian does the same, but upon finding nothing but empty air he looks back at you eagerly, but questioning,"What was that?"

You shrug,"Whatever it was, I don't care. Now, c'mon," You gently tap your lips and wink,"Show me why they call you the boy wonder."

_

Cyra leans against her father, blinking harshly in an attempt to wake herself. Damian is certainly no better, with his hair ragged from wearing a cowl all night, bruises freshly formed and aching, eyes drooping with lack of sleep. As fun as patrol was, sleeping could be even more fun at times.

Batman and his Robin are both jerked into the land of the living by a near-identical pair of squeals. Something shatters in one of the Manor's halls, soon followed by what only could be Richard Wayne's—the present Red Hood and the eldest child of Damian Wayne—and his response to the breaking of his favorite mug.

"You little assholes!" He exclaims. The twins shriek gleefully as the young adult begins to chase them, taking this morning's daily-dose of chaos into the kitchen, along with a rapid increase in volume.

Richard's speed doesn't exactly match young Caden's. Caden swerves around the kitchen island, frantically pulling his twin brother Sebastian along protectively. Both are laughing hysterically, so much so their motions have been slowed down, giving Richard time to scoop them both up underneath his arms and huff,"That was my favorite one, you two! Ma-ma got that for me!"

The twins wriggle in their elder brother's grasp. Richard only holds them tighter, looking to Cyra for assistance. He nods at the two giggling children,"A little help here, girl wonder?"

Cyra dismisses the three with a tired wave,"You're on your own. This bird is out of commission." She groans, leaning against Damian. He winces when the twin's shriek once more. Maybe fighting a villain with a sound-shattering scream last night wasn't the best idea. Richard shifts the twins in his arms, perking up when you enter the room.

"Mornin'." Damian's arms instantly unwind from their folded position on the counter to envelope your waist. He kisses you softly, trying to hide his smile when Richard and Cyra greet you in unison,"Sabah alkhyr, Mama." They said. You smile.

"Richie, do me a favor and put down wing one and wing two." You brush a loose strand of hair out of your son's eyes,"And go comb your hair."

Richard snickers,"Never!" He allows the twins their freedom, and Caden makes the leading decision to climb his father's chair and attach himself to Damian's back. Being the youngest, Sebastian follows, and Damian suddenly becomes a human jungle-gym in which his children play on. Cyra smirks into her coffee mug,"Having a little trouble there, baba?"

"None at all, أبو الحن ." Damian answered. Robin.

Damian sighs happily, regardless if little fingers are digging uncomfortably into his back and a toddler's foot is in his face. He is blissfully euphoric watching you chase Richard with a comb ("Let me fix that wild mane of yours, little wing, before you start to look like Medusa!" You yelled. Richard runs a hand through his hair, smirking and striking a flirtatious pose,"I think it makes me look sexy." Cyra then chimes in,"I think it makes you look like an idiot."), feeling his two youngest learn to climb before they learn not to break things. He is happy seeing Cyra, his little Robin, getting up from the kitchen island in order to begin her training. He murmurs words of encouragement to her, and she pats his back and calls him "baba" again.

He is happy.