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Dick wakes to an ear splitting screech twisting through the dark halls of the penthouse. The cry is agonized in its intensity and Dick's brain lags as he tries to figure out what it is and where it's coming from. He groans as he sits up. Damian.
"Coming, Dames," he calls. Whether or not the kid hears him, it's hard to tell. The wailing keeps up, growing louder as Dick pushes into the room across the hall from his. He left the door open, just a crack. Actually, he briefly considered pulling the cot Alfred set up into his own room, but Damian was knocked out by the time Dick was ready to go to bed and he didn't want to risk waking him. Probably best for everyone if the kid sleeps through as much of this as possible.
Despite the bone-deep exhaustion, Dick can't suppress the grin on his face once he's leaning over his—literally—baby brother. Even with all the confusion and hesitation and fear of this whole thing, it's almost worth it to see Damian's chubby, scrunched up face turning all pink.
Dick lifts him out of the cot. "Shh, precious." He's been letting all the little sweet names that he usually tamps down slip out unimpeded, figuring it might be the only chance he ever gets. It's not like Damian's tolerant of them in his… regular state. In fact, the only time he managed to get away with excessive use of pet names was when Damian got a nasty dose of fear toxin. Dick frowns as he remembers that night. The squirming baby on his chest pulls him back into the present.
Damian cries into his collarbone, his tiny soft brow bumping against Dick's neck. The dark fuzz on his head is as soft as down, and his head itself is so tiny it fits fully in Dick's hand when he cups it gently. He checks the baby's diaper—and the less said about that, the better—finding nothing.
"Maybe you're hungry?" He presses his lips onto the top of that soft, dark head, bouncing gently all the while. Damian whines. His little fists—so tiny, and Dick has to stop himself from cooing aloud when he sees them—are bunched into Dick's dark blue hoodie. He slobbers dark patches onto the fabric. Hungry it is, Dick thinks. Among the supplies Alfred returned to the penthouse was baby formula. He guessed, with his infinite expertise, that Damian had to be reduced to only a few weeks old, if that.
In the kitchen, Damian fusses. He's no longer squealing but he certainly isn't happy, cradled in Dick's arms as he prepares the formula one-handed. Dick hums some nonsensical tune to him, tightening his grip. The penthouse is cold at night, he always forgets. It's alright for him, but Damian struggled with it even as an eleven year old, as much as he pretended like he could handle it. In the brisk Gotham winters, Dick piles blankets on him when he sleeps and doesn't mention it when Damian steals hoodies out of Dick's dresser.
Now, he doesn't seem particularly bothered from his place in Dick's arms, so hopefully the body heat is enough. Dick takes one of the tiny hands in his own as he waits for the formula to warm, finding it cool but not cold. He makes sure to press a kiss to the little palm before releasing it. Once freed, the hand flies up to Damian's mouth. He gnaws on it and squirms.
Dick shakes his head fondly, warmth building in his chest—more warmth, if that was at all possible. He wonders if Damian has any recollection of him. Not in the form of memories, but maybe Dick's presence, or his scent, or his voice. Dick hopes so. He hopes that, even subconsciously, he's some kind of bastion for Damian.
Once the formula is ready, he sits at the table. Damian sucks the formula down greedily, the same way he did when Dick and Alfred first prepared it for him. That was when Dick first brought him back to the penthouse, panicked, Damian wrapped in the Batman cloak—freezing cold and tiny and wailing.
"I'm so glad I get to see this," he whispers while Damian eats. One of those small hands is curled around Dick's thumb, where it's wrapped around the bottle for support. He's going to try not to tease the kid about this once he's back to normal, but it's going to be a Herculean effort; he's the cutest thing Dick's ever seen. Pictures have already been taken—ones that Damian doesn't have to ever know about.
When he pulls off the bottle Dick props him up to his shoulder and pats his back.
"Good boy," he murmurs as the baby burps, followed by a little hiccup. He noses against the side of Damian's head and presses a kiss there. "I love you."
There's a moment where Dick's hit full force with grief, when he remembers that Damian's father is dead, that this might have been the one chance Bruce could have, in some world, had to hold his youngest son. He releases a shuddering breath. But then he looks into the boy's face and finds Damian staring at him, too young to truly smile, but with one of the most open expression's Dick's ever seen on him. Green eyes shine at him, full of trust. If Dick thought he would do anything for this kid before, it's only increased tenfold after all this. For all the loss the pair of them have dealt with, Dick is grateful in a way that everything accumulated into this moment.
"There he is." Dick gives him a toothy grin. "Feeling better now?" Damian makes a soft noise and his eyes start to droop. Dick holds him close to his chest and ponders carrying him back to the crib to sleep. He decides against it, for the moment. He's not sure when they'll restore Damian to his previous glory and Dick wants to savour this for as long as he can.