Description: We called you Laila because you were born at night. In thanks, the sky put special stars in your eyes so that you could talk to them.

Requests: 

dad damian x wife reader? maybe during pregnancy and after?

Heeeeey !!!! I'm so glad requests are open haha. May I please request a father! Damian Wayne & Daughter! Teenager! Reader where the reader is exploring her heritage, and finds out about Dami being in the League of Assassins and being Robin, and she asks him about it? Then fluff when she asks about her mom and herself? Why her father even agreed to having reader in the first place when he knew how dangerous it was back then? If not, I completely understand! Thanks, love! ❤❤

Can we get some toddler fluff with Damian x reader? 💕

Words: 4363

Notes: I feel like I really don't write a lot of parent-and-child stuff, so this is a fic with Damian and his daughter. I made the reader the mom, because some parts of the daughter's name are crucial to the set-up of this story. I tried to make this as loving and sweet as a I could, bc we all need a hug from our dad sometimes. (Makes me just want to... hug Bruce). 

_

When should we tell her?"

Laila has long since been taught the value of eavesdropping. Her father was very good at it, just like he was very good at many other good things. He was a good man, and nothing could ever change that for Laila, regardless if he also knew how to do some bad things too. Like eavesdropping and listening. Listening in particular.

He taught her during the winter time, when she had just turned four. She knew for a fact that she was born on January 1st, just as the sun was setting over the hill of Gotham's country with the dawn of a new year. She was born when the stars were freshly twinkling in the heavens, and her father would whisper to her as he laid her down to bed; We called you Laila because you were born at night. In thanks, the sky put special stars in your eyes so that you could talk to them.

But I've never heard the stars speak, baba. She had said.

There are stars in my eyes, too. That's how I know that they don't speak like you and I, but whisper. He said, swiping his thumb at her cheek, Do you hear them?

She listened hard, and sure enough came the whispers of the midnight. They closed their eyes and listened together. The wind weaved it's voice through the barren branches outside, rattling softly against the Manor's walls like a visitor knocking politely for entry. Laila remembered gasping, Baba! I heard them!

And what did they tell you? He asked.

Laila pouted. She had only heard the rattling of their knuckles against the siding of their home, and drew her brows together, I... I dunno. Did you hear anything?

Yes, I did, her father said. Laila leaned in closer in excitement. Her father laid his large hand upon her cheek, like a pillow had covered half her face, and spoke. They told me that they love you, more than every constellation and every planet they hold.

Laila had smiled. Can you tell them that I love them too, baba?

They already know, my love, he spoke. He smiled when she put her small hand over his, and leaned down to plant a kiss on her face, Just as I know how much I love you. Rest well, my adored.

Although that night had been nearly two months ago, Laila had never faltered each night; she paused her dreaming, just for a moment, to whisper a goodnight to the stars. She was a very good listener because of it.

Sometimes her father was there, and sometimes mother was in his place. Laila would never mind this. Her mother was warm and blanketed her in safety, and while her father would tell her about her childhood or his work, mother wove intricate tales of bats slaying laughing dragons, and birds flying farther than anyone had ever before. She was a wonderful story-teller. Her voice was tender and caring, and so her stories easily put Laila at ease.

Now, her mother's voice is tight and quiet with worry. It's muffled by the great, mahogany door to the office belonging to Laila's father. When they were all together, father would call her mother, and mother would call him baba for her. But now that they are alone, she calls him Damian.

"I don't think she's old enough to know yet, of course," father said, his footsteps pausing to rest where the window was. It was a stormy night, which muffled their voices, but at least kept them from knowing Laila was listening in. "But she's going to find out, and soon."

"Maybe we shouldn't avoid it with her. Maybe, if she asks, we just tell her," mother proposed. She was across the room, and something about the distance between her parents put Laila off.

"No. We can't. I am still... wary. What if Ra's... he knows of Laila, now... Or someone else ever..." Father muttered to himself.

"Then the earlier we tell her the more prepared she'll be. You're training her, yes, but you know better than anyone that ignorance is more risk than bliss," mother said, laughing without much enthusiasm. Worry had edged into her tone again. Laila's feet were shifting tighter against the carpet now; her parents would never fearful, never worried... What was worrying them so badly?

There is a pause. Her father has no doubt lost himself in thought, or was shaking his head. There is a creak from her father's desk, followed by the soft padding of her mother's feet joining her fathers. She wraps her arms around him, kissing his shoulder. "Damian... Let's just worry about this another night. We're wonderful parents, Laila is safe and happy... We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, okay?"

"More like burn it," father sighed. It made mother laugh, something light and muffled by the fabric of father's shirt.

"Stop worrying. We'll be okay. Laila is a smart girl, but she's still young," mother said easily, still carrying the hum of a smile in her tone.

"We'll be okay," he repeated. There was a tilt in father's voice, and Laila could easily pair it to the smug smirk he always wore. "Besides, she's much too short to reach the hands on the clock anyway."

"I wonder where she gets that from," mother laughed. Father began to argue playfully under the sound, something about how short he was he was her age, but it was lost to mother's giggling and Laila's thoughts.

What was significant about the grandfather clock?

_

Ever since the night in which Laila had overheard her parents, Laila had made it her mission to get inside her father's office to discover the secrets of the grandfather clock. It was old and broken as far as Laila knew. The part that recieved the majority of her thoughts were the hands. According to her father, she would need to be tall enough to reach them. This wasn't a problem, as his desk chair was just a few feet away. Well, maybe it was a problem... As she wasn't allowed inside father's office without his permission.

But she was a Wayne and a L/N. She could find a way around this problem.

Her first option was to get a key. She knew that there were three people who possessed a key to father's office; father, grandfather, and Uncle Jon. Laila had gotten this information by complimenting father's very pretty key, and he even taught her how to unlock and lock doors with it. Though she wasn't surprised to know that grandfather had a key—they lived in the Manor with him and Laila's grandma, Selina, and this was his house before it was theirs—she was surprised to hear that Uncle Jon had one.

Uncle Jon was father's best friend, and it had been that way since they were kids. Though he was technically Laila's godfather, he had been deemed Uncle the moment Laila knew what the word meant, and was publicly known to tie with Uncle Tim when it came to favorites. (Father disliked that Laila loved Tim so much, and she wasn't oblivious to the smug smile Tim threw father when Laila hugged him in greeting). There was always something odd about Uncle Jon whenever he came around, though. Laila wondered briefly if this strange aura was why he carried a key to father's office, but set the thought aside.

Though Jon would have been easiest to pickpocket (Aunt Stephanie said it was a "valuable skill", which Aunt Kate supported), Laila wouldn't be seeing him for quite some time. Lara Kent, Laila's cousin and Uncle Jon's daughter, repeatedly told her during their play-dates that her father was on vacation... "off world". There was no time to decipher Kent's ramblings—Jon, and thus the option of stealing the key, was unavailable.

Her second option also included stealing, but not a key. Uncle Jason had once stolen her away during a party, and sat her down in front of the library with her in his lap. After a short explanation including words like tumblers, locks, and kit, Jason had showed her how to pick the old lock on the library doors. Because of Laila's abilities as a quick learner, they were almost able to move on to try father's study—had it not been for Grandfather, Laila would have unlocked it, too. Just before he arrived, Jason was able to stash his lock-picking kit and give an excuse as to what they were doing wandering in the upper corridors.

Though Selina had never attempted to continue Laila's teachings, she often made jabs about her past as a thief and just how good she was at what she did. Laila didn't need to be a master detective to know that Selina definitely carried a lock-picking kit, but she was well on her way to becoming one.

So she could either ask Jason or Selina to borrow it, venture down and unlock it at a time when her father was absent, and investigate. Selina was quickly eliminated. Laila couldn't steal it off her without Selina discovering her, and she wouldn't give Laila it regardless, as she was smarter than that. Laila made the mistake of assuming the opposite of Uncle Jason.

"And... why do you want to borrow it?" Jason asked. He was in the garage, and had been in there for the last couple of days, due to the scruff around his chin and the amount of grease on him.

Laila tried to look as innocent as possible, smiling up at him serenely and trying to keep her body language open, "Lara's mom taught her how, and she keeps on bragging about how she can do it and I can, saying I'm supposed to be the smart one and stuff. I want to prove her wrong."

Jason looked at her for a long moment. It was too long to be a normal pause, and just long enough to make Laila start to squirm. He knew she was lying. Of course he knew! She was a fool for thinking otherwise. Even if Laila imagined she was a good liar, everyone in her family was trained to be lie-detectors, her father, grandfather, and Jason most of all. (She knew this was because her grandfather and Jason lied all the time, but didn't want to think so ill of her father and ignored it). She should have never underestimated him.

He sighed, but gave her a grin, "You're real cute, you know that, little girl?"

"Yes, sir," Laila said, rocking on her heels.

Jason laughed. "You're not that bad of a liar, too. But get your hands out from behind your back. It's one of your tells."

"Yes, sir," Laila said again, pulling her hands out from behind her back. She crossed them, and Uncle Jason eyed the gesture with the look he usually gave Laila's father.

"Now, why do you really want to use it?" Jason asked. He got up from the floor, where he had been leaning against his bike, and strode over to the in-garage fridge and got himself a water. He opened it and took a swig as she explained.

Laila knew that she couldn't risk lying a second time. Now that Jason was suspicious, she'd get caught immediately. With a slouch in her shoulders, she told the floor, "I'm trying to break into my father's office to investigate something."

"I figured you'd say that," Jason replied, tilting his head and smiling a little bit, "On any other day I'd give it to you, but I really can't this time, bud. I'm not gonna tell your dad what you're up to, but I want you to know that you're gonna find out what you want to know eventually. It's better to wait."

"Okay. Well, thank you, Uncle Jay," Laila said.

Before she could leave, Jason wiped his hands on a rag, tossed it aside, then proceeded to mess up her hair to his greatest ability. She squealed and tried to fight him off, but it was gone as fast as it came. There was no way to get any physical revenge, as he was already covered in grease and much too big for her to attack, so she opted for something that would strike at least a playful nerve.

She beamed at him sarcastically, "You sound like Bruce, by the way."

He lurched for the back of her shirt, scowling over his grin, but she was too fast and too small and managed to escape the room. In her wake, Jason hollered back a laughter-filled, "Ugh!"

Tim entered the garage just as Jason made the noise, and raised an enquiring eyebrow, a W.E. tablet in one hand and his phone in the other. Though he didn't visit the Manor as often now that he lived in the inner city, his car always seemed to be in the driveway.

"Are you okay, man?"

"Just Lee," Jason said. He shook his head, unscrewing his water bottle, "That little girl is too damn smart for her own good."

By the time she'd made it into the kitchen, Laila realized that she only had three or four plans left, and all of them were bad. The one that seemed redeemable was still risky, and even if Jason had promised his secrecy, going up to her father and asking him wouldn't end well. She would be reprimanded for eavesdropping on them, and shame with the idea was already brewing in her mind.

While she was considering it, she discovered one of her play foam swords residing in the umbrella stand in the entrance to the main foyer. Thoughts of her mission evaporated. Maybe father wanted to play swords with her again? Last time, he'd jumped up on the dining room table in his suit and fenced with her, and when she won, gave a wondrous performance of a hero's death. He played dead so well that Laila almost burst into tears. Had she hit him too hard? Had he hit his head when he fell off the couch? She only found out when he scooped her up and began to soothe her. The rowdiness of the memory made Laila remember how tired she was, and how badly she suddenly wanted to take a nap.

She turned around the corner, found the nearest person, raised her hands through her drooping eyelids and said simply, "Up."

Laila didn't remember being put down for a nap, with nothing but the fading scent of her mother's perfume still in her nose.

_

"Father?"

Damian rose his head above his work. The voice buzzes something within him, something instinctive and protective, and he almost imagines a little girl shyly peering at him from around the doorway. But she's no longer a little girl anymore.

Laila Wayne stared at him, and he was reminded again and again of your eyes as he looked upon his daughter. Though they carried his hue, they had your shape. It was the one thing about Laila physically that connected her to Damian. She had her mother's build, her nose, her everything. Bruce was introduced through the smile. And though Laila didn't know it, her cheeks and her chin shared the same sharpness that Damian's own mothered carried.

The truth was that Damian found himself more in her personality than in her hands or her chin or her eyes. She walked taller and prouder than she actually was, smirking and narrowing her eyes with the same slyness that her mother had now fallen in love with twice: first in Damian, and then their child. She moved with the graceful and silent fluidity of a pianist playing a quieted piano.

But maybe saying that Laila and Damian had nothing in common physically was untrue. The scars inlaid in her palms from holding the same weapons, grappling with the same tools, and punching the same faces were identical. They both bore marks as Robin. Tonight, in particular, they both carried the ghostly hollowness in their eyes that came with the after-effects of a fear-gas dose.

He had wanted, more than anything, to keep her away from this life. But like him, she was too persistent and too stubborn. She had gone behind his back. She gave him no room to say no, and fit herself under the mantle with the same forceful grip that he had loosened in his late teens. But she was kinder, softer, more willing to empathize and be merciful than he still was.

That's what had gotten her three nights ago. The Scarecrow had appeared through Gotham's mist with the intent to make a grand return, to show Gotham real fear. Robin had never fought him before. She thought she saw weakness, and instead of bearing a fist, she extended her hand. Damian had to bring her out of a panic attack for the first time in his life. He and Y/N had to watch at her bedside for the last two days as she faught. She hadn't spoke of what visions she saw, but the look of horror that she gave him when she awoke confirmed his worst fears. Though she insisted that she was now okay to wander the Manor, he knew she should have been asleep hours ago.

"Beloved," Damian breathed. Gently, he gestured her inside. She was quick to enter, giving the dark hallway a shaken look once she closed the doors. "How are you feeling?"

"I... I don't know, father," she told him. Laila skirted around his desk, and gently lifted herself onto its surface so that they could speak face-to-face. "I'm having trouble falling asleep. Are you alright?"

Damian had also been dosed. Though the images of his lover and child being taking from him were still fresh, he had much more practice at avoiding the visions that Laila did. She looked him over with twice as much worry as he was showing on his face, and he was reminded again of her hand extending to those Damian thought never deserved any kindness for what they had done. This was not the first time she had done it, either. She offered muggers redemption, gave second chances to criminals, tried to offer her help to the insane. Even if they were too sick to accept or understand, she still tried. She loved, and loved, and loved, and Damian wondered if it was his fault that she was so willing to give.

And then he though, no, it couldn't be me. Because who loved more than you did? This was the part of Laila's personality that was you. Damian loved. He did, he really did, but no one was capable of giving their all to their cause quite like you, and now the same could be said of your daughter.

"Did I ever tell you about when you were a baby, how you used to have trouble breathing?" Damian's said softly. Laila shook her head. At this, he took her fist and kissed her palm, squeezing it and not failing to be surprised by how small it no longer was.

"The doctors said that you would be fine, and that it happened with babies sometimes as they adjusted," Damian said. He stared out the window as he spoke, still studying the weight of her palm in his hand. While he could encompass the whole of her fist in his own, he could now barely bend his fingers over her fingertips. There was a childish nostalgia in it, and he yearned to feel her soft, impossibly tiny hands wrap around his thumb again.

"Your mother was so worried that she moved your crib into our room, and we took turns laying on that side of the bed so we could hear your heartbeat under our hands." Damian said. He breathed in, hating how the breath was