Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The panting rush of adrenaline mixed with anger. Pleasurable in a way he knows it shouldn’t be. Red blood across red uniforms.

“I bet he said the same thing to you that he said to me, didn’t he? That you had the talent to make a difference in Gotham. That he needed someone he could trust in his war on crime. That you were one of a kind. The light to his darkness. . . .”

Chilly. Soft breeze off the water. The warmth of a softer voice, next to him.

“I think you, and Dick Grayson before you, gave him light. Gave him hope. . . . He misses you. . . .”

His hair still wet and dripping from being thrown into the water, flung to safety, but the letter—protected in a waterproof bag—dry and crackly. Its careful, looping letters, like something from a more decorative era. . . .

“Fate is commanding your life in a way I can barely fathom. I judge what I have done as not so much intervening on fate’s behalf, but as stepping out of its way. You are MEANT for something, Jason. Only time will tell what that is.”

Jason blinked in the dark. His sunblocking shades made it impossible to figure out what time it was supposed to be, but his body told him he was up too soon. He considered pulling back the blinds to check. Some light might do him good. So might some breakfast.

Instead, he lay in bed and stared at the black canvas before him.

“Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.”

“Shut up, Charlie,” Jason said, not meaning it. At least his brain knew where to place that. A Tale of Two Cities. Charles Dickens.

The other scenes remained unsorted.

Memory or dream? It would take hours for his brain to filter everything. (And some scenes might remain unsorted, clogging his mind for months.) It was a terrible game, but until recently, Jason had spent his mornings playing reality or flashback while waiting to see if the blood on his hands faded. So he considered this an improvement.

***

“It doesn’t really make sense,” the head of security was saying. (“Ted” his nametag declared.)

“If I had a dollar for every time someone said that at a crime scene in Gotham. . . .” Bullock muttered.

Dick tried not to fidget. (How would that look? Batman tapping his foot at the scene of the crime.) The museum had been directly along his patrol route; he’d felt compelled to stop when he heard the alarm. And he enjoyed solving a simple break-in now and then. But he was the only one out tonight. Tim was at the Watchtower. Damian was still grounded. Cass was still in Hong Kong. And Dick had the terrible feeling that every moment he spent waiting for the head of security to relive the details of this crime, some poor Gothamite was in a dark alley, waiting for a Batman who wouldn’t make it in time.

Some nights, Gotham felt like a ticking bomb, waiting to explode in his hands. After what happened to Blüdhaven, maybe I don’t even mean that metaphorically. . . .

“You’re saying just some gift shop items were stolen?”

“Yeah. Looks like they tried to break into the main lobby through the shop. But there are gates over each room, and their alarms are attached to motion sensors. When the thieves couldn’t get in, I guess they just grabbed a bunch of posters and books and took off.”

Bullock threw Batman a glance, like he expected Dick to interrupt. When Dick didn’t, he asked, “And they didn’t touch anything else?”

But Ted was right. Something didn’t make sense. Dick recognized that itching feeling in the back of his brain: a subconscious awareness struggling its way into the light.  

“Nope. Only the exit door was tampered with.” Ted rubbed his temples. “It seems like they managed to hide out in the gift shop after visiting hours.”

“You don’t think it could have been an inside job?”

The security guard waved at the keypad. “They didn’t have access to any codes. And no one on staff has all the access codes, not even Dr. Smith. It takes two of us to open up in the morning. I had to wake up Bill just to turn off the alarm.”

“You got anything you want to add, Pointy-ears?” Bullock asked. He looked as bored as Dick felt.

Which forced Dick to focus. A failed heist wasn’t a murder, but it also wasn’t a teen chucking rocks at windows. Someone had planned this. And they would probably try again somewhere else. Dick surveyed the room. The Gotham Archaeological Museum wasn’t even one of the top twenty most popular museums in the city, but it was funded by the Gotham Archaeological Society and very well kept. He pointed to the room behind him, labeled “Wonders of the Ancient Middle East.” “That’s a new exhibit, isn’t it? Where did the museum acquire it?”

Ted shrugged. “Private dealers, I think.”

Of course.

“But it was purchased through our grant from the Jack and Janet Drake Foundation.”

That was interesting.

After Bullock and Ted walked off to fill out paperwork, Dick examined each room. There were only two ways out of the gift shop. One was through the steel gate guarding the museum’s first exhibit: its permanent local history collection, which opened into the bigger rotating exhibits and the public entrance. The other way out was the heavy exit door used by staff. The gate had been torched and filed, but no significant damage had been achieved before the thieves had given up and turned to the exit door. The door had a small hole burned next to the lock, on the inside. That sort of torch wasn’t cheap, and it wasn’t used by amateurs.

The local history room was . . . dull. Old blueprints and faded diaries and wooden butter churns. They had better stuff at Gotham Metropolitan. The “Wonders of the Ancient Middle East” exhibit just past it was at least a little “shinier,” and probably what the thieves had been aiming for.

He examined a bracelet labeled “Winged cuff: Sumerian gold inlaid with black onyx, a large raw emerald, and yellow ceramic with a uranium glaze.” After a moment, he looked up into dark of the vaulted ceiling. “This isn’t your usual M.O., Selina.”

“It’s not Sumerian,” Catwoman said, landing on her feet in front of him. “And that isn’t an emerald.”

Dick sighed and shook his head. “And now you’re afraid it won’t go with your handbag after all.”

“Please. Credit me with better taste than that.” Her lip curled. “A big, clunky hunk of badly set stones? The wings are nicely detailed, though.” She shot him a glance he didn’t know how to interpret.

“Why are you here then?”

“When I heard the commotion, well . . . I don’t normally get to see these exhibits by moonlight. The security’s too high, and the rewards are too low.” She gave the bracelet a glare, as though it had personally insulted her. Then she threw out: “Someone broke into the Gotham County Wildlife Rehabilitation Center last week. Similar job. But more successful.” She stared at him. Waiting for something to click. Something Bruce would have understood already.

But the county’s wildlife rehabilitation center was well past the outskirts of the city proper, and Dick didn’t remember reading anything about a break-in, despite the fact that he scoured the local papers every morning (just like Bruce had).

“So?” Dick said, tired of this game. Tired of this night. Tired of this stupid city. Swinging around Blüdhaven by himself had felt freeing. Swinging around Gotham without Tim or Damian by his side was just cold.

Selina frowned, disappointed. “They only stole one species. A pair of sick bats. They were quick too. Professional. I barely noticed they were there before they were gone.”

“Why were you at the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center?”

“Visiting a friend,” Selina said archly.

“A pair of sick bats sounds like potential biological warfare.” Just what we need. “What does that have to do with non-Sumerian bracelets?” And why do you care?

That disappointed look again. “It’s a winged cuff.”

“Right. And an ugly one.”

“Hideous,” Selina agreed. “But look at those wings, birdie boy.”

Adjusting the night vision in his lenses, Dick squinted down at the bracelet. Then he jerked upright. They weren’t feathered wings. They were long and wide and leathery-looking. “Bat wings. What are you saying? How are these connected?”

“Don’t know yet.” Selina was already disappearing into the ceiling’s dark. “But seems like something you should be interested in, doesn’t it?”

Chapter Text

Tim tilted his head back. He could just make out the pensive expression on Dick’s face as he rested his arms on the back of Tim’s chair.

“Explain it to me again.”

“What part isn’t clear?”

Dick laughed. “Every part? Okay, so what I got was that the Omega beams haven’t just sent Bruce back in time, but they continue to propel him forward in time, which is how he’s managed to keep leaving clues.”

Neck still tilted awkwardly, Tim nodded.

“And each time Bruce moves forward in time, he gathers Omega energy.”

“That’s just my current working theory, but yes. Honestly, you’ve grasped this better than most of the Justice League team seemed to when I explained it yesterday.”

“But since we don’t know the exact size of the leaps, someone has to catch him before he overshoots us?” Dick glanced at Tim for confirmation.

“Well, that, and technically, we don’t even know if he’s in our timeline.”

“Of course, he’s in our timeline! He’s making changes to our past!”

“Right. Or at least, it appears that way. But we don’t actually know how he’s making these changes, and we do know that parallel universes and timelines exist, along with people who have the ability to move between their universe and ours, so. . . .”

Dick’s eyes widened. “I thought we had finally decided that wasn’t a thing? Didn’t Barry confirm the whole ‘plastic time’ theory?”

Tim folded his hands and settled into the Batcomputer chair. “No. See, that was only with the Speed Force. But what we don’t know much about is Omega energy and time travel. However, quantum superposition pretty much guarantees—”

“Tim, if you start another lecture on the ‘double-slit experiment,’ I swear I will feed you to the bats.” After a moment, Dick muttered to himself. “I hate time travel.”

Tim shrugged. “I’m not a huge fan of it right now either.”            

Dick made a noise in his throat and stared at the calculations on the screen.

“So besides all of quantum physics, what don’t you understand?”

But Dick didn’t laugh or try to cuff the back of Tim’s head. Without removing his eyes from screen, Dick said, “What’s the thing you aren’t telling me? And why are you afraid to tell me?”

Tim felt a sudden chill spreading from his gut.

“There’s something bad about gathering Omega energy isn’t there?”

Tim cleared his throat. “We don’t—I don’t know. There’s not a lot of data on the Omega beams being used this way. There are a lot of unknowns.” He didn’t say that some of his research suggested that the gathering Omega energy could be devastating—like planet-destroying levels of devastating—if it wasn’t defused. It didn’t matter. Tim would figure out a way to defuse it.

“But you have suspicions.” Dick abruptly spun the chair, so that Tim was facing him.

Avoiding the question would appear too suspicious. “When Shilo Norman described his experience with Omega energy, he called it ‘The Death that Is Life.’ If Bruce is experiencing something similar, he’s . . . not having a good time right now.”

“So the sooner we figure out how to get him back, the better.”

“Yeah.”

“What can I do?”

“Right now? Nothing.” Tim pulled up one of the programs he was running. Not because it would help Dick understand anything new but because Tim needed an excuse not to look at his face for a moment. “When the Watchtower computer finishes running my program, the Justice League’s going to try a time-jump.”

“Do you need me there?”

“Getting bored already?” Tim teased. “Gotham nightlife not enough to keep you busy?”

When Dick didn’t respond, Tim spun his chair back around. Dick was staring at the screen again, intently searching the lines of code. “You know Bruce would rather have you here,” Tim offered. “We need you here.”

Dick ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I know.” Finally, he tore himself away from the screen. “Hey, I know you’re busy with . . . the secret of time travel and everything. But I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“Sure,” Tim said, relieved to see this conversation heading in another direction.

“There was a break-in at the Gotham Archeological Museum last night—”

“That’s weird,” Tim murmured.

“Why?”

“I mean, it’s not a popular museum. Not a great field trip, you know? It’s more of an archeological in-crowd place—not well set up for the general public. My folks used to drag me there all the time.”

“Yeah, about that . . . the security guard mentioned that the new exhibit was paid for by the Jack and Janet Drake Foundation. I didn’t even know there was such a foundation.”

“Oh.” Tim leaned back in his chair, feeling weirdly detached. “Bruce helped me set it up, after everything. It mostly just funds the Gotham Archeological Society, their security, and purchases for the museum—I thought that would be something my folks would have liked. I’m not involved in the day-to-day operations or purchases or anything. I did set-up their security protocols though.”

Dick snorted. “Well, that explains some things. I wondered why such an unassuming museum had such high security.”

“This is Gotham. I don’t know why every museum doesn’t invest as much in their security as they do their insurance policies. Everybody thinks it’s the technology that matters, but it’s actually about how you train your staff—”

Dick was laughing at him.

Tim knew he probably deserved it, but he just felt irritated. All precautions seem like overkill—until you lose something that can’t be replaced. As if Dick didn’t know that.

Instead of pointing this out, Tim opened a new file. “Dr. Smith sends me quarterly reports. I could pull up the latest one.”

Dick was giving him a cautious look now, but all he said was “That would be great.”

The report had photos. “Fancy,” Dick said. “The Cloisters only sends me a postcard whenever they’re holding fundraiser—and I was their curator.”

“That’s still weird to me,” Tim pointed out. “Were you even qualified for that job?”

“Maybe not technically, but—wait, there it is!”

“Bat wings?” Tim looked back at Dick. “You aren’t thinking this is connected to Bruce, are you?”

“I don’t know. Selina thinks there’s some connection between this attempted robbery and some guys who stole a pair of sick bats from the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center.”

“I’m not sure that makes sense, especially the live bats part. Maybe she just misses Bruce,” Tim added, quietly.

“Maybe,” Dick allowed. “But given that all your conspiracy theories have turned out to be true—I’m not willing to dismiss anything out of hand these days.”

Tim flushed, feeling hypocritical. “Well, it is an unusual design. And I don’t even think that’s an actual emerald. Looks more like chrysoprase to me.” Or something else vaguely familiar. There shouldn’t have been chrysoprase anywhere near Sumer, right? He wished he had paid more attention when Mom went on about ancient gemstones.

“Selina said it wasn’t even Sumerian. I was hoping you might be able to talk to Dr. Smith—get us in touch with the seller?”

This seemed like a waste of time when they were so close to getting Bruce back. But if it was that important to Dick. . . . “Sure. I’ll see what I can find out.”

Tim scanned the rest of the report. He hadn’t really read it yet. He’d been busy, but now that a sad and slightly resentful feeling was settling in his stomach, he realized he’d been avoiding it.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I just hope, for your sake, that we aren’t dealing with some criminal with a bat fetish.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” But Dick was grinning. “Every time I think this job can’t get any weirder. . . .” Dick’s phone buzzed. A timer.

Tim raised an eyebrow.

“I gotta go check on Damian.” As he was heading for elevator, Dick threw over his shoulder, “Thanks, by the way. Not just for the museum stuff, but all—” He gestured at the computer where Tim’s algorithms were still visible.

“Of course,” Tim said, already pulling up Dr. Smith’s number.

***

There was something Tim wasn’t telling him about Bruce. Some theory he hadn’t fully worked out yet but was afraid was true. It wasn’t going to be as easy as sending the Justice League back in time and having them snatch a weary Bruce out of the timestream. (As if that were actually easy.)

Tim wasn’t going to mention his doubts until he had worked them out on his own. Dick supposed he could be that way too. Bruce certainly had been.

Losing Bruce still hurt so much that some mornings Dick woke up shocked to find he was still alive, that this much pain didn’t somehow bar him from the world of the living. How much worse would it hurt to get so close to retrieving Bruce and then fail? How would he function? He had to keep going. So much now depended on Dick’s ability to keep going.

With that in mind, he pushed open the door to the library.

“I have completed your assignment, Grayson.”

Smiling, Dick accepted the sketchbook. Then his brow furrowed.

“You’re disappointed.” Damian started putting his pencils back in their case.

“No! It’s really impressive. . . .”

“But it is not what you wanted.”

Dick wasn’t sure if it was just because he was so out of his depth or because Damian was always so focused on perfection, but he was pretty sure the “art therapy” session was not going the way it was supposed to. He’d been careful to reiterate that the exercises were not about accuracy, or even beauty, but expression and honesty. And he’d tried to pick an exercise that he’d thought Damian wouldn’t immediately sneer at. (Last night, Dick had gone through the lists and crossed out everything that mentioned glitter or making collages from magazines.)

“I mean, the exercise was to draw a representation of how you’ve felt recently. . . .” Dick glanced at the detailed rendering of the Batcave and then back at Damian. The drawing was almost sterile in its precision. Maybe he was missing something. Maybe there was some emotional revelation in this picture that was he just too much not-a-real-therapist to get.

“Yes. And this is what I ‘felt’ like drawing.”

“Okay. And why was that?”

 Damian blinked at him. “If you had preferred that I draw something else, you should have given more explicit instructions.”

 “I just want you to tell me about your drawing.”

 “It is the Batcave,” Damian deadpanned. “I had hoped your detective skills might reveal as much to you.”

Something in Dick’s left temple throbbed. He hoped Tim’s plan worked—if only so that Bruce could be forced to apologize for ever accusing a preteen-Dick of having “attitude.” Bruce had no idea. “I want you to tell me about your drawing.”

“It is a one-point-perspective, pencil and charcoal sketch of the Batcave done on seven-by-ten-inch paper.”

Dick breathed in through his nose and then out through his mouth. “I honestly can’t tell if you are being difficult on purpose, or if I just didn’t explain this well.”

“The point of this exercise is to improve my focus, correct?”

Dick knew his face gave nothing away, but he felt uneasy. Tim’s suggestion that Dick could call these exercises “training” instead of “unofficial therapy” had seemed brilliant at the time—no, it had been brilliant. But it made talking about them difficult.

“You Bats are crazy,” Gar had gasped out, once, after a Titans training exercise. “Like, actually certifiable.” He had not been joking.

“That’s what keeps us alive,” Dick had retorted. And he’d been proud that Bruce had been so unrelenting in his training, so impossible to please.

Even during the brief period when Dick had secretly seen a therapist, he had thought of it as another kind of training. An uncomfortable thing he was pushing himself to do to be a better person, a better leader and teammate.

But now all Dick’s reading was suggesting that the training metaphor, the idea of pushing oneself to the outer limits—particularly with Damian—might make things worse. He was probably making a lot of things worse.  

Screw it. Dick sprung into a handstand. A less authoritative posture but stepping out of his head and into his body, ironically, had always made thinking easier.

“Grayson! Stop being a child.”

Yes, this was better. Hints of stiffness were melting away from his spine. Upside-down, Damian’s scowl already looked more endearing. “The point of this exercise to is to help you manage your emotions, which will help improve your focus in the field.”

Damian turned away and started gathering up the unused art supplies.

“I know this isn’t your favorite thing, but if—”

“I don’t understand the exercise.” Damian didn’t look up from rearranging his paint brushes, so Dick could only guess how much this admission cost him.

Dick flipped back onto his feet. “What don’t you understand?”

“The point, Grayson. If the goal is for me to suppress emotions and impulses, then this exercise is counterintuitive. It feels as if you are trying to make me lose my temper.” Damian folded over his sketchbook and added, quietly, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that it seems like you want me to fail.” 

That’s . . . not good. “Okay, then I definitely haven’t explained this very well. The goal isn’t for you to suppress emotions, it’s for you to recognize and acknowledge them so that you can deal with them as they arise.”

Damian snorted. “I am angry. We know this. I deal with it by not being angry.”

“And just how you do plan to do that?”

“I don’t see any swords sticking out of you yet. Apparently, I am managing just fine.”

It was true that for the days following Damian cutting Tim’s line, Damian had been more withdrawn, less volatile. Dick didn’t know whether or not to label that as progress.

Dick knicked a few pencils and casually tossed them into the air, like small, badly weighted pins. “And you think you can just suppress everything, for what?” He switched to juggling behind his back. “The rest of your life? Without ever exploding at the wrong time?”

“Yes.” Damian snatched his pencils out of the air and held them like a bouquet of knives.

“Listen, I know this seems weird, but I promise it’s going to save you a lot of trouble in the long run. If you don’t know what you’re feeling, then how you are supposed to control it? Or even know if you should? It’s—it’s like starting a fight with someone before you even know if they’re an ally, never mind what their strengths and weaknesses are.”

Damian looked skeptical, but he was not arguing, so Dick supposed that was a positive sign.

“Do you want to try a different exercise? Or wait till tomorrow?”

“I have time to spare these days,” Damian pointed out.

“Right.” Which had somehow led to Dick having only half as much time in his already impossible schedule. But as he explained the next exercise and watched Damian’s serious eyes track his every word, he wondered how he could possibly resent this. The kid was trying. So hard.

“Would it help if you didn’t have to show me?” Maybe it was too soon to expect Damian to be that vulnerable with anyone else. Maybe it would be a victory if he could manage to be vulnerable with himself.

“I’m not embarrassed by my skills.”

No, but you’re terrified by any emotion that’s not anger. “Or would it help if I did the exercise too?”

Damian nodded slowly. “Perhaps it would give me an idea of what you think the goal of this nonsense is.”

“Except you are not allowed to laugh at my terrible art skills, okay? I’m talking ‘stick figures and suns with smiley faces’ bad here.”

“Tt. You told me that the point was not perfection. And anyway,” Damian added slyly, “if you manage to produce a recognizable stick figure you will have already exceeded my expectations.”

Dick laughed. “All right, DaVinci. . . . Give me some paper, would you?”

Dick set a timer on his phone and then hesitated for a moment, watching Damian work with the same seriousness he applied to every task. Dick was willing to bet that the end product would be some technically exact drawing of a horse or a turtle or something. And he would say, “It’s a horse, Grayson.” And Dick would be at a loss again, and Damian would be frustrated. . . . He should have changed tacks. Maybe it was time to shelve the “art therapy” ideas for a bit. Try something else. Meditation had gone well. (Or had it? Dick had a suspicion that Damian approached it as another ordeal to survive.)

If you don’t know what you’re doing, then how is he supposed to trust you? How is he going to learn anything?

Dick shook his head and stretched out his fingers. Nope. Not going down that path. Not today.

He had an elephant to draw.

***

He had promised Richard that he would try. But Damian was beginning to suspect that these exercises were merely tests of his patience. If he could make it through a month of increasingly bizarre and embarrassing demands without stabbing anyone, then he might be considered worthy of wearing the Robin uniform again. (Grayson had also promised that the uniform would be returned. But this seemed to be predicated on Grayson's assumption that Damian wouldn’t fail.)

This next “exercise” involved drawing himself as an animal.

Damian could understand why one might draw an animal. And he could appreciate the skills gained through self-portraiture. But what was to be gained from drawing oneself as another creature?

It had to be some kind of test. Grayson had said “there were no right answers,” but what was a test without right answers? (Or wrong ones?) Damian just had to pick the correct kind of animal. Anything too obviously predatory would only reiterate that he was not to be trusted. But a regular prey animal would suggest that he was a weakling, unable to protect others. Perhaps there was a prey animal that was also a fighter? Or a predator that Grayson might see as noble?

Unbidden, his fingers had already picked up his red pencil.

***

When time was up, Dick felt Damian come up behind him and observe his drawing. The boy clicked his tongue. “Sad,” he declared.

“I told you I don’t have any art skills.”

“No, you look sad in the picture.” Damian pointed to the figure in the center. “Why is your elephant so small on the page?”

“It’s a baby elephant.” It did look a bit lonely at the bottom of the page. He should have started his drawing further up. Or given it some friends.

“You see yourself as a baby elephant?”

“It’s the nose,” Dick joked.

Damian leaned in. “And you’ve used an unusual amount of blue.”

“I like blue. You know this.”

“I also know you like red and green and yellow, really, any garishly bright color. But here it seems to denote melancholy, especially when your other colors are so subdued.”

Dick didn’t know how to respond to that.

Damian put his hands on his hips. “Is this some kind of ploy?”

Right above Dick’s left eyebrow. That’s where the headache liked to start. “How could drawing an elephant be a ‘ploy’?”

Damian eyed Dick and the drawing in turn. “You are attempting to . . . garner sympathy? Or fake a vulnerability in order to trick me into exposing some of mine? Why else would you draw yourself looking so sad?”

“I’m not sad!”

“Exactly! So what do you have to gain from pretending that you are? What would you have to be sad about?”

***

“I don’t know, Damian! Maybe I buried my father this year? Sometimes, that makes people sad!”

Damian was startled, but Grayson looked stunned. For a moment, they blinked at each other. Damian suspected that this would be a bad time to remind Grayson that Father had not been his father.

“I’m sorry.” Grayson put a hand on his forehead. “I’m not angry at you.”

“Obviously, you are,” Damian answered stiffly. “Perhaps we should conclude for the day.”

Hand still on his forehead, Grayson said, “That’s the thing about anger, though, isn’t it? There’s usually something else behind it.”

Damian was certain that behind his anger was even more anger—a sort of reverse Russian doll, with a bigger, angrier monster the further in you went. “You’re angry because I said you look sad in your drawing.”

“But so what? Why should I be angry if you think that? Isn’t art supposed to be subjective?”

Damian rolled his eyes. It seemed too obvious to be stated, but apparently, he had to state it anyway: “Because sorrow is a weakness that can exploited.”

“Maybe. But Bruce was one of the strongest people I knew. And your dad never stopped mourning those he lost.”

The Manor, with its frozen-in-time clock and untouched bedrooms, certainly gave that impression.

Damian had been aware that he did not mourn his father in the same way the others did. Sometimes, he thought this was because they were too soft. And sometimes, he thought it was simply because he hadn’t known Father for long and it was difficult to mourn a stranger. But other times, he wondered if it was because of something . . . missing in himself.

“Then why don’t you want people to know that you’re sad?”

Grayson spread his hands. “It’s awkward, I guess. Nobody’s good with other people’s grief. They don’t know what to do or say, because there isn’t anything to do or say. When my parents died, Bruce was really the only person who understood what I was going through, and now he’s gone. And it’s just . . . easier not to be sad, I guess.”

“But you are sad.”

Grayson looked at his drawing and shrugged. “This exercise isn’t really supposed to be about me.” He gestured at Damian’s sketchbook. “So go ahead: put my scribbles to shame.”

“You said I didn’t have to show you.”

Grayson had only suggested that before he had offered to draw his own picture. But Damian clutched his closed sketchpad and hoped he could win this on a technicality.

Grayson narrowed his eyes for a moment, but all he said was “I did say that, didn’t I? But if you change your mind—”

Damian was already backing toward the door. “I have actual training to attend to.” And then he escaped, the outline of a red-winged creature with bat ears pressed against his pounding heart.

Chapter Text

It always surprised Jason how many churches there were in Gotham. (You’d think that any religious optimism would have been tamped out twelve disasters ago.) But he appreciated the bells, appreciated perching on a rooftop or a gargoyle and listening to the city ring in a new morning. Even when weather or smog obscured the sun, the bells rang: a strange mix of medieval tradition and fresh, unsullied hope.

He and Bruce had kept a ritual of listening to Saint Martin’s bells on Sunday mornings after patrol, and once Jason had asked him. . . . No. Don’t go there. Don’t ruin this.

The bells had existed before Bruce, and they continued to exist after him. Jason had belonged to this city a long time before he had met Batman.

Today, the sun actually rose, bleeding pinks and soft oranges between skyscrapers, blanketing the blue-collar hustle below. (Executives and middle management didn’t get up this early, didn’t unchain shop doors and run for buses and subway trains.)

A man swept the sidewalk in front of his bodega. Jason knew he was the owner because no one else would have taken such care, shaking out the mat, dumping the night’s cigarette butts and broken glass into a small bin he had dragged out with him. He brushed his hands against his hips and looked pleased, staring up at the unexpected sunlight.

There’s something beautiful left here. Even if it isn’t what Bruce was looking for.

Gotham’s beauty was in her ruthlessness, her tenacity. Jason couldn’t make out the faces below. But he recognized a certain broad-shouldered swagger that came with a matching hard-set jaw. “Don’t mess with me and maybe I won’t mess with you” was what every true Gothamite learned to project to the world. And “anything to survive” was their inner mantra.

Jason wondered, if he looked closely enough, if he could pick out the street kids, trying to change locations before a new police beat started.

The hairs on the back of Jason’s neck stood up. He’d once thought that was just an expression, but he’d felt this sensation as boy, on a skiing trip with Dick, when he’d sensed (just before seeing) a cougar watching him from a fallen tree. Then, he had reached back to check that the hairs were, in fact, standing.

This time he didn’t need to. He didn’t need to turn around either. There were only two other people currently in Gotham who carried that green perfume of decay and sickly-sweet promises—and both of their aromas were fainter. “Talia,” he greeted.

“Jason,” an edge of warmth in her voice. And there was still a part of him that wanted to lean into it.

So without turning, he said, “Just because Bruce is gone doesn’t mean Gotham is open season for the League of Assassins.”

“Bruce was never able to control the League’s movements. You flatter yourself if you think can influence them.” All hint of warmth gone. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

Now, Jason turned to face her. She looked—not weary, Talia never looked weary—but more troubled than usual.

“Yeah?”

“There’s someone in Gotham who shouldn’t . . . be.”

And I’m not looking at her?

“Someone who shouldn’t exist,” Talia continued. “But they do. And I don’t know what they want yet, but whatever it is bodes poorly for your city.” He’d forgotten how riddle-like conversations with Talia could be.

“And why would you care about poor little Gotham?”

“My son now lives in your sinkhole of a megapolis.”

“Then why aren’t you talking to him about this?”

Talia examined the skyline. “We did not part on the best of terms. It is better if he and the Grayson boy do not know I am involved.”

“Here’s the thing about Gotham: life moves a lot faster here than it does in the desert. I’m going to need you to speed up this mysterious conversation. What exactly are you involved in? Who’s your mysterious friend? Is Ra’s involved? Why are you telling me about it? And what exactly do you expect me to do?”

Talia stepped up until she was only four inches away from Jason’s helmet. “My business is none of your concern. If I told you the name, you would only be in more danger. Neither is this my father’s business—I’m here on my own accord. And I’m telling you because I think you are as interested in protecting your city as he was, even if your methods differ. And I expect you to remember what I have done for you.”

As if he could ever forget. But “That doesn’t always feel like a favor,” Jason said.

Instead of being angry, Talia put her hand on the helmet, where his cheek would have been. “No. I’ve often felt the same. The pit . . . takes things. I have been surprised by how much.”

Jason took a deep breath, and after a moment, Talia lowered her hand.

“There’s a shipment coming in, on this boat, addressed to this name.” She handed Jason a piece of paper. “I do not care how you dispose of the shipment; it is of no value to me. I only wish for it not to reach its destination. And it’s disposal cannot be connected to me.”

Jason didn’t do favors. But then again, Talia had never asked for any before. And if he owed anyone anything—he owed Talia.

“Why does this feel like you’re just trying to get me to do the boring legwork for you?”

Talia had stepped back so that she was standing against the rising sun, and Jason couldn’t make out her expression through the glare. But her tone was arch when she said, “Perhaps because you are a better detective than others assume? And now your curiosity is piqued. . . .”

Jason barked out a laugh.

“One thing more: Look after my son, Jason Todd.”

“I have been doing pretty much the opposite of that.”

“I know.”

Jason didn’t ask how she knew.

She raised a finger, sounding abruptly severe. “But the time for children’s squabbles and tests of strength is past. The Grayson boy has brainwashed him. I doubt Damian will ever return home; I doubt Ra’s would allow it. But I don’t want to see another child—my child—die for the Batman’s pointless crusade.”

“I don’t think I have any control over that.”

“Hm. If you truly believed that, you wouldn’t be here.”

Jason pulled off his helmet, so that she could see how serious he was. “You and I have very different ideas about why I’m here.”

Talia shrugged. “I had assumed you came here to find your vengeance—but I see that the Joker still lives and Bruce did not die by your hand.”

Wow. “Not for lack of trying, okay?”

Talia turned away from the sun, and the half of the smile that Jason could make out was knowing. “If you were content with the situation, you would have left Gotham to its new Batman and Robin. But you remain. And Damian needs you.”

“Listen, I have my own reasons for—”

Talia sliced the air with her hand.

Jason fell silent automatically. Apparently, some things were still ingrained from his time with the League, when Talia was the only person who wanted him alive and following her instructions was his only shot at survival.

“Those who have only seen a resurrection, refer to ‘pit madness.’ But those who have experienced it know that it can also leave you . . . helpless, dependent upon others. This is why my father has only his most trusted servants around him at these times—the ones who would obey him at his weakest.” Talia stepped onto the roof’s ledge. “I once told Damian that he must trust no one—not even his own mother.” When she turned toward Jason, the sun framed the back of her head, and he couldn’t see her expression at all. “That was a half-truth for a child not mature enough for adult complications. Life will eventually force you to trust someone, whether you choose to or not. So be deliberate in your trust, Jason Todd. And remember that I returned you to yourself.”

Then she was gone—a flash in the sun. Jason did not attempt to follow. He doubted there would be even a shadow of her available to trail. And she wouldn’t tell him anything more.

He wished she hadn’t said that she had returned Jason to himself. How many pieces of himself still were still buried somewhere he couldn’t reach? Or maybe they had decayed beyond even the Lazarus Pit’s powers to restore, as impossible to recover as any other lifeless handful of dust? A wind was blowing in the street below, and already the filthy flotsam of Gotham was pressing itself against the bodega’s freshly swept doorstep.

***

When Alfred came in to lay out homework assignments for the week, he briefly examined the drawing on the table. “It doesn’t resemble Master Damian’s typical work.” He stepped closer. “Still, there’s something moving in its sorrowful expression, isn’t there?”

“It’s not ‘sorrowful’!”

Alfred glanced between Dick and the drawing with far too blank an expression for comfort. Finally, he said, “Should I ask how these exercises have been progressing?”

“All I know is that I’m even less qualified for this than I thought.” Dick flopped down on a sofa cushion. “This is going to take so much time, Al. Time I definitely don’t have.”

“Maybe it is time to ask for help.”

“Tried that already.” Dick hung his head over the sofa’s arm. “Pulled every ally we had away from their work before I learned that surprise! Gotham still needs a Batman.”

“And now she has one. But that doesn’t mean he can’t ask for help. And I wasn’t thinking of ‘allies,’ Master Dick. I was thinking of family.”

Chapter Text

“You are too old to pass for a college student,” Stephanie hissed.

“Oh, stabbed to my core,” Dick whispered back, looking not even a little bit stabbed. “But in that case, you are definitely too young to date a policeman.”

Steph slammed her textbook closed, ignoring glares from other, more diligent library patrons. “I’m not dating anyone, for your information.” Babs, if you told him about Nick, I’m going to dye your hair purple.

“Listen, is there somewhere we can talk?” Dick asked, suddenly serious.

Leading him out behind the science building, Stephanie wondered whether this was “good serious” or “bad serious.” Oh, who am I kidding? When is it ever “good serious”?

It was quiet behind the science building, a bit of an echo deadzone, and too out in the open to be attractive to drug dealers or clandestine lovers. They wouldn’t be overheard or interrupted. 

Dick looked away and put his hands in his pockets. And that was weird. Batman shouldn’t have pockets.

“Are those your normal clothes? Or is this a costume too?” she blurted. When Damian had followed her onto campus, he had referred to his outfit as “urban camouflage mode.” Did you even get to wear normal clothes after you became Batman? Or was everything a disguise?

Now Dick was looking at her like she’d just started speaking Kryptonian. (Or something weirder. He probably knew Kryptonian.)

She crossed her arms. “Did you have a reason for interrupting my extremely limited study time? Or are you just being a jerk? Again.”

Dick ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. But in my defense, the first time we worked together, you froze Damian.”

Well, yes. But that had been an accident. And anyway, he sort of deserved it. “You didn’t trust me even before then. You’ve never trusted me. I expected better, to be honest. Tim talked you up so much. But then you put on that cowl, and BAM! it’s like I’m dealing with—”

“I came here to ask for your help.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I need help.”

“From me?”

“Yes. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, but I need someone else I can rely on for regular patrols—even if it’s just one night a week.”

Inwardly, Stephanie was turning cartwheels. (Batman wanted her to patrol his city. She was already, of course, but as a semi-interloper.) Outwardly, all she said was “And how’s Tim going to feel about this?”

“He said was fine with it.”

“He did? Wait, did he say ‘fine’ in the way that means he’s actually fine with it—or in the way that’s more ‘it’s FINE—I can fight through a horde of ninjas with fifteen broken bones if I have to’”—Steph lowered her voice and pressed a fist against her heart—“‘for JUSTICE.’”

Dick just narrowed his eyes at her. Stephanie felt like she was looking back up at the cowl.

“You can’t tell the difference either.”

A reluctant smile tugged at Dick’s lips. “No.” Then he rubbed the back of his neck. “Also, there’s another thing.”

“Wait, why that tone of voice? What is it?”

“I’ll understand if you say ‘no.’”

“Nuh-uh. . . .” Stephanie stepped back, holding her hands in front of her. “I have midterms coming up—and I’m probably failing philosophy as it is—I can’t do any undercover missions right now. Can you even imagine what that would do to my mom? She just got me back, and now I’m—”

“No! It’s not a mission. It’s Damian.”

“Wha. . . ?” Stephanie couldn’t even parse out what this sentence was supposed to mean. She spun about, half expecting the young assassin to drop out of a nearby tree.

“And Bruce said I was ‘the chatty Robin.’” Dick looked more amused than annoyed, but Stephanie still felt stung.

“Technically, he fired me from being Robin. So I guess you can keep that title,” she snapped. She didn’t know why she’d said that. As if everyone needed a reminder of how she could never live up to the Bat-clan’s standards.

“Happens to the best of us.”

Wait. . . . That was something to ask Tim about later. Or Babs. She and Tim weren’t really having those kinds of conversations yet. Things were still at that awkward we-used-to-date, I-used-to-be-dead, and you-were-grieving-your-second-father-figure-but-I-haven’t-forgotten-how-much-of-a-jerk-you-were-when-I-tried-to-help-you stage.

“What’s going on with Damian? Is he okay?” Stephanie wasn’t sure how he could be. A kid who carried that many knives and smiled that little didn’t fall under any definition of “okay.”

“He’s fine,” even though the way Dick’s lips pressed together said something else entirely. “But ‘work’ keeps pulling me away. Damian could defend a whole precinct by himself, but he’s still ten. And even Alfred needs a break sometimes. Anyway, I told him that part of protecting our identities is pretending that he is a normal ten-year-old, and normal ten-year-olds have sitters sometimes. He’s not happy about this—at all—but he said you were ‘the least of dreadful out of a host of dreadful options.’ Which is actually pretty high praise—from Damian.”

“You’re asking me to babysit?”

“Don’t call it that in front of Damian, but yeah.” Dick laced both hands behind his neck now. “You’d be paid, of course. And we’ll work around your class schedule. You can call Alfred about the details.”

“I’m not saying ‘no,’ but why can’t you just take him on ‘work trips’ with you?”

“Well, for one thing, he’s grounded from ‘work’ right now.”

Stephanie tried to imagine what on earth could have brought that on. But then another thought occurred to her. “He’s getting antsy, isn’t he?”

Dick sighed. “I guess it’s a bad sign that most of his social interaction comes from criminals and police detectives. But you’re really the only other friend he’s managed to make.”    

Should I be this flattered that the murder child considers me his friend? “You’re not really supposed to see friends when you’re grounded,” she pointed out.

“Steph, if Damian managed to make other friends, I would drag them over every single day.”

“Okay, I accept. Though I’m kind of surprised that Damian asked for me and not Tim.” Surely, it would be cooler to hang out with Bruce’s favorite Robin?

Dick turned away from her so quickly that Stephanie thought she must have said something wrong. He pressed his forearms and forehead against the science building and trembled. Then she realized he was laughing.

When Dick turned back around, he was still taking deep breaths. “You and Tim should really talk more,” he said, finally.

That’s . . . a bad idea. Out loud, Stephanie said, “Is this regular sitter rates? Or like, ‘babysitting for the Waynes’ rates?” As if she could afford to say “no” either way.

“You’ll be watching Damian,” Dick said, his eyes still bright with laughter. “It’s like professional-bodyguard-plus-hazard-pay rates.”

***

 The first thing Cass noticed as she slid through her apartment window was the flat shiny object on her bed. No one was in the room.

 The second thing she noticed was the note: Call me. –D.

 Her spine uncoiled from its tight spring, and she smiled as she shut the window. In a few quick movements, she had the screen on and the secure video link dialing. Barbara’s work.

 “Hey.”

 “Cass!” The new Cave was in the background. Dick was in sweats, a towel around his neck. He was panting a little, as if she had interrupted his morning workout. “You’re a hard woman to get a hold of.”

 “Got your gift.” Cass ignored the smile and focused on the uncertainty around Dick’s eyes. Worried. And something else? “You wanted to talk?”

 “Yes.” Dick turned away, facing an area of the Cave she couldn’t see. “No, give me half an hour. Well, Alfred said you have an essay on King Lear you haven’t written.” Cass watched Dick’s shoulders move as he took a deep breath and slowly released it. “The sooner you let me finish this conversation, the sooner we can get back to training.” Another breath. “I’m not arguing with you about this.”

 There was the sound of something being set down less gently than it could have been, followed by “Thirty minutes, Grayson!”

 “Fine, yes, thank you.”

 When Dick turned back to the screen, Cass raised her eyebrows.

 “It’s a . . . work in progress.”

 Cass waited.

 Dick ran the towel over his forehead and didn’t meet her eyes. Shame. “I need a favor.”

 “Okay.”

 “Tim said you were pretty busy in Hong Kong, and I know you have your own cases, but I—”

 “Okay.”

 Dick stared at her. Surprise. Hope. “Do you want to hear what the favor is first?”

 Cass shrugged. “It’s big?” she guessed.

 “Yeah. I was hoping you might come back to Gotham. I—we could use the help.”

 “Yes.”

 “Oh. Okay. Great! Alfred’s got a room set up for you—”

 “Give me one week.” Cass was already reaching out to turn off the video.

 The screen made some pinging sounds. Little bubbles with words inside them appeared. Questions. Something about tickets and dates. Cass ignored them. She had promised to come, so she would. That was enough.

 She lay on her back across the bed—the wrong way, which felt more comfortable—and thought about the cost of her promise.

 It hurt to be in Gotham without him. It hurt to watch to everyone else move around each other like they weren’t carrying the same big gaping hole.

Tim believed that Bruce was alive—just lost in time. The belief thrummed in him, desperate and bright. Cass didn’t know if this was true, just that Tim believed it was. Cass didn’t know if it mattered. Gone was gone. Alone was alone.

Bodies did not lie, so Cass was used to knowing truths people didn’t wish to share. But caring about so many people at once was still new to her. After the burial, her home had become loud with bodies—and frustrating with contradictions between the bodies and the words.

In Hong Kong, no one knew her. She could help people and come home to a quiet apartment, with no contradictions.

In the middle of his journey to find clues about Bruce, Tim had visited, tried to convince her to return. His presence had reminded her of how much she missed having a family. But it had also driven home how broken that family now was.

She did not want to go back and listen to them lie. She did not want to get swept up in their words. She especially did not want to see the little one—he was like Cass had been—everything about him a weapon. But he had been given words. The thing Cass had been denied. And now he wielded those as a weapon as well.

But Tim had been so happy to see her (while still being so sad). And now Dick had asked. A favor. A hard thing. An honest thing—no contradiction between his words and his need.

So she would go. He would like that. If she had asked him to come, he would have come. (That was part of why she believed he was dead. She needed him and he wasn’t here.)

Five days later, she arrived in Gotham, in the middle of a fight. It had been on all the television screens at the airport, so she didn’t waste time with luggage—just found trouble and landed in its center.

A man with a pig face. And lumpy people(?) with faces like little girls, but with everything young and curious removed. Nothing to read there. Clumsy fighters, slow. But a lot of them, converging on civilians.

“You’re early,” Dick (no, Batman, he is Batman now) said, grinning.

The new Batgirl pushed off of the shoulders of one of their adversaries and dropped to Cass’s left. “No, your timing is perfect—you show off.” Now, they were back to back—familiar, home. “Man, I’ve missed you, Cass.”

Batgirl pressed her hand to her ear. “Oracle says ‘hi.’” She made a face. “And ‘no names in the field.’ Well, if she had another name, I’d use it.”

“Gas!” Red Robin dropped to her right.

The not-girls were spraying something from their mouths(?).

Gas filters secured, the four of them stood for a split second, a small ring in a large sea—and then they rippled out. Everything was movement. Was wordless. Was right.      

In the aftermath—handcuffs, antidotes, police cars, civilians wrapped in blankets—Commissioner Gordon said, “I know you, don’t I?”

“Yes.”

He squinted at her for a moment. “What are you going by these days?”

She shrugged. “Undecided.”

Stephanie rocked uncomfortably on her toes.

“No!” Cass said sharply. “You keep Batgirl! No returns.”

Only Stephanie smiled like that. “Pretty sure I’ve voided the warranty anyway.”

Cass pointed at the one of the not-girls being loaded into a police van. “Alive?” she asked.

The Commissioner looked confused. But Batman said, “Only in the worst way. There’s a facility we take the dollotrons to.” More quietly: “Only one ever remembered who they were before.”

She nodded, anger solidifying in her bones. There was more than one way to kill a person.

As the police car carrying the pig-faced man drove off, she said, “He’s new.”

Now Batman’s face reminded her of him. “A lot’s changed since you’ve been gone.”

Those were discussions for after sleep.

Instead, they went back to the Cave, the new one, so she could hug Alfred and everyone could eat his sandwiches. When she thought of her family, this was how she pictured them: masks off, uniforms still on, tired and bruised but laughing. Giddy as the adrenaline of the night’s work began to wear off.

Here, she had a moment to read their faces without having to explain her own. Tim’s frightened her less than it had the last time she’d seen him. There were still flashes of something she didn’t have a word for—reckless but calculated—like when she had gone to fight Shiva. She didn’t like that. But tonight, he was animated, smiles that reached his eyes. Tonight, they were safe.

Stephanie was the best—so little lie between her saying and her being. Those doubts around the others, the ones he chose, were still there, but smaller. Cass had seen her fight tonight, had known again what she had never doubted: she’d made the right choice giving Batgirl to Steph.

Dick was already up. Conversation with Alfred. Small gestures, something important but not critical. He was Batman now, and Batman was a ritual of worries. Even with the cowl pulled down, he walked differently. She could read his lips now “. . . he’ll definitely be annoyed, but he’ll be more annoyed if I don’t check on him.”

As Dick slipped away, Alfred approached her. He would have made a good fighter. He telegraphed so little. “I could not find your luggage, Miss Cassandra.”

“At the airport.” She shrugged. “Don’t need it.”

“I will send for it tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I hope you will let me know if you are missing anything.”

She had run out of toothbrushes once and had brushed her teeth with her finger for a week before Alfred found out.

She grinned.

Alfred sighed. Then he smiled. His smiles were nice, small and warm, someone putting a fresh muffin in your hands. Just for you. “I hope you know how happy we all are to have you home again.”

Maybe not all of them. She hadn’t seen the little one yet.

She did not see Damian until the next afternoon, as she and Dick were coming back up from the Cave, her head full of new names and faces. Her hands itching to fight, to help. 

He was waiting for them, and pretending he wasn’t, watching something on his phone. Something dark and moving quickly. Then she recognized the movement. It was her. A video of her fighting across rooftops in Hong Kong.

“Cain.”

It was not casual—a friend who didn’t know her history. Or formal and respectful, a “Miss Cain” at a party. That name in his mouth was a blade. And he knew. He enjoyed it.

The curled lip and dismissive tone. But also, the side glance, the watchful curiosity. And a light in his eyes that was pride. In what, she wasn’t sure.

“I know about you. In the League, they called you ‘the One Who Is All.’ I have to say, I expected more.”

“My name is Cassandra. That is what you will call me.”

The slight curl at the corner of the lip now a full-blown sneer. “Tt. Why? Is there something about your surname you wish to hide?”

He clicked something on his phone and the screen changed. A little girl was approaching a large man behind a desk.

Dick snatched the phone and turned off the screen. “Where the hell did you find that video?”

Cass didn’t need to see the rest of the recording. Her mind was already good at playing out the scene, frame by frame. Lots of practice.

Damian ignored Dick, staring at Cass. A challenge. “I know all about you. Your father, assassin David Cain. Your mother. . . .”

“What are you doing, Damian?”

Cass also ignored Dick. She held out her hand. The gesture would always feel foreign, but the desire behind it was familiar. “Whatever you have been told, we are not enemies. We are family.”

“We are not family, Cain! You were simply some charity project—”

“Stop!” She pointed at the boy. “We fight. Cave. Now.”

The boy looked . . . happy. Like he had been waiting for this moment.

Dick was covering his eyes with one hand, but all he said was “Okay. Let’s get this out of the way.”

When they took position on the mats, Dick warned, “If there are broken bones, Alfred will kill us.”

Cass stretched her arms. “No. Only you. Oldest.”

“Choose your weapon,” the boy demanded.

“You choose. I am the weapon.”

“Fine, then I don’t need a weapon either.” He slid into a defensive position as easily as breathing.

The boy was good. Cass knew this. 

She did not give him time to display his skill.

In four moves, he was on his back on the mat.

“I wasn’t ready!” he grumbled.

Cass grinned. “Not my fault.”

“Again!”

Three moves this time.

“Pick a weapon?” she suggested.

Damian glowered at her. “Only if you do.”

Cass shrugged and picked up an escrima stick. Just one.

“That’s part of a pair.”

“Yes.”

Looking suspicious, Damian pulled out a training sword. “I won’t hold back.”

“Good.”

She glanced at Dick. He was sitting, cross-legged, just beyond the mats. He looked somewhere between resigned and amused. He shrugged at her, the corner of his mouth lifting with his shoulders.

Damian feinted an attack at her right side before changing direction, sword sweeping down, across where Cass’s ankles had been only a breath before.

But she had already propelled forward, pushing off of her toes into a flying leap, escrima stick posed to strike across the back of the boy’s bent shoulders. He wasn’t there when it fell.

Damian had used his lack of height to his advantage, rolling tightly beneath her jump.

Now they were both back in their defensive stances, on opposite sides of the mat.

“Better,” Cass praised.

“Don’t, patronize, me.” The boy was panting a little. He was also not as angry as he wanted her to believe he was.

“I’m not.” Cass motioned him forward with her hand and a grin.

Amateurs used the same attacks. Skilled fighters relied on surprise and variations. But professionals knew that sometimes the most surprising move was to repeat an attack that had just failed.

This time, when Damian went for her ankles, she felt the almost-brush of the blade, like the gentlest of breezes. Even as her foot connected with his nose, she was impressed.

She wiped her bloody heel off on the mat while Dick rummaged through the medical supplies.

“I swear, man, if you don’t stop antagonizing everyone you meet, you’re never going to be able to breathe through your nose.” To Cass, Dick said, “I asked you not to break anything.”

“Not broken,” Cass said. “Probably.”

She offered Damian a hand. When he refused it, only glaring up at her and holding his nose, she grabbed the front of his bloody shirt and yanked him upright. “You call me that name again, and I will forget you are his son—I will break something that matters,” she promised.

Damian looked like he believed her, but he also looked less frightened than irritated. “If I’m not allowed to ‘make threats of violence against members of this household,’ then why is she?” he threw at Dick as the man pressed a cloth to his nose.

Dick raised an eyebrow at her. “She’s not,” he said, pointedly. “But you ought to take her warning seriously.”

“Why?”

“Because who the heck is going to stop her?"

Chapter Text

Apparently, the answer was Pennyworth.

It was Pennyworth’s day off (although most of the time his “days” off could only be generously described as “afternoons”). The plan had been to hide Damian’s face until at least the next morning—when Alfred would officially be back on the clock.

In an unspoken act of solidarity, they scattered themselves across the TV room, working on various projects. (Damian could not remember the last time someone had used the room for watching television, but the plethora of sofas and armchairs made it a popular place to unwind or work—or both at once, as Drake frequently claimed he was doing.)

The first thing Pennyworth said when he walked into the room—even though Damian was carefully obscuring his visage with King Lear—was “How did this happen?”

There was a brief but telling pause. Damian lowered his book. Drake shut his laptop and leaned forward on his elbows, grinning. (Drake had been gone for days, but of course, he managed to be home for this.)

“I’ll give you three guesses.” Grayson shrugged expressively. “Sorry. Sometimes, sparring sessions get out of hand.” Not technically a lie. “I took care of it.”

“I distinctly recall an expensive face guard you were advised to wear during training until your nose healed, Master Damian.”

No one dared roll their eyes, but all four of them exchanged exasperated glances. This was a long-standing argument. You couldn’t wear face guards in the field (too hard to secure, too much of a hindrance to visibility, too ludicrous in appearance to strike fear into the “superstitious and cowardly lot”). So sparring with them on was unproductive. The fastest way to learn to protect your face was to feel what happened when you failed.

Instead, Damian said, “My face had healed, Pennyworth.”

“For all of two days. A record now, I suppose.” Only the dryness of the statement revealed how angry he was. The hands that peeled away Damian’s bandage were careful.

“I can handle a busted nose,” Grayson pointed out.

Pennyworth surveyed the damage silently for a moment before returning the dressing. He pinched the bridge of his own nose, saying, quietly, “I was gone for three hours, Master Richard. Surely, if you can keep Gotham safe every evening, you can keep your charge from breaking his nose for the third time in as many months.”

Grayson pressed his lips together and didn’t respond.

Damian was going to point out that it hadn’t actually been broken each of those times, but—

“Oh, come on,” Drake broke in. “That’s not fair. Damian’s way harder to control than Gotham’s rogues.”

Damian wasn’t entirely sure this was an insult, but just to be safe, he threw out, “Since you have failed in both those arenas, Drake, your input is unneeded.”

“Not an accident,” Cain—Cassandra—interrupted with a shrug. “I kicked his face. Now he knows better. Problem over.”

“Oh my god,” Drake said under his breath. He sounded delighted.

Pennyworth looked the opposite of delighted. “You kicked him in the face?”

“They were sparring—downstairs,” Grayson pointed out. “It was controlled.”

At “controlled,” Pennyworth shot Grayson a sharp look. But he turned to Cassandra. “On purpose, Miss Cassandra?”

“Yes.”

Damian couldn’t grasp why Pennyworth was making such a big deal of this. It was worse to kick someone in the face on accident because that meant you weren’t skilled enough to predict your blows. Damian didn’t enjoy getting kicked in the face. But until recently, he had kicked people in the face on a near nightly basis. And occasionally, he got kicked or punched in the face himself. This was expected.

“This is nothing, Pennyworth,” Damian assured him. “Cassandra’s blow was merely glancing.”

“Wait, wait—Cassandra? Why does she get to be ‘Cassandra,’ and I’m still ‘Drake’?”

“Earned it.” Cassandra gestured at Damian’s nose, as if that explained everything.

“So? I broke his face twice. At this point, he should be calling me ‘Lord Timothy, Breaker of Faces.’”

Damian bristled. That was not the same. “You got lucky!”

“‘Lucky?’ Really? Would you like to see if third time’s the charm?”

“Yes!”

“NO!” Grayson interjected, standing.

Cassandra shook her head. “Mat still has blood on it.”

“Good Lord,” Pennyworth whispered to himself.

“Okay, this has gotten a little out of hand—” Grayson started.

“I can’t imagine that it was ever in hand—” It was less the sharpness of the tone and more the abrupt way that Pennyworth cut himself off and turned away that shamed everyone into silence.

After a moment, without turning back around, Pennyworth said, “If you’ll excuse me, there are some tasks I must complete before morning.” 

They all stared at the now empty doorway. Drake muttered something under his breath that Damian couldn’t quite catch.

Grayson ran his hand through his hair. He had been doing that a lot lately. “I’ll talk to him,” Grayson said, finally.        

“No. Me.”

Everyone else looked as surprised as Damian felt.

Cassandra made a face. “I am learning to ‘use my words.’” She crooked a pair of fingers on either hand.

“You learned air quotes!” Drake said. He sounded proud.

She beamed at him. “Steph,” she explained.

Damian groaned to himself, but he stood. “I will assist you.” He did not know what Cassandra intended to say—whether she planned to blame him or paint him as an unwilling victim. Both those options rankled.

They were not allowed in Pennyworth’s quarters without an invitation. When Damian had first arrived, he’d found this strange. Pennyworth appeared to have the run of the entire Manor (and now the penthouse). Why would he require private rooms to himself? It was certainly more than Mother afforded any of her servants, even the most favored.

Now, however, just standing outside the door, Damian felt as though he were trespassing.

Cassandra nodded at him and raised her hand to knock.

When Pennyworth answered, he looked neither surprised nor annoyed at seeing them. “Is there something I can assist you with, Miss Cassandra?”

“We are sorry.”

Damian grimaced. He had not agreed to apologize.

Pennyworth glanced between them, unimpressed. “While I appreciate the sentiment, I would prefer if you didn’t say things you don’t mean.”

“Not for fighting. For making you sad.”

Something flickered across Pennyworth’s face. Damian wondered if Cassandra could read it; he couldn’t. “I was just about to take tea.” Pennyworth stepped back, inviting them into a small sitting room. He gestured toward some chairs and a small table with a tea service.

They sat. Pennyworth silently pulled two extra cups from a small cabinet. Just as silently, he poured them tea.

Damian was reminded of his mother pouring tea for a guest. It was not an act of servility but of ownership. If the household was already Pennyworth’s domain, then this was the secret heart of the fortress.

Damian also remembered that occasionally guests who drank his mother’s tea were not heard from again.

Pennyworth sat down without speaking. By his elbow, next to the tea service, was an open notebook. In an uncramped but concise script was written the day’s date and a double-columned checklist. All the tasks they were keeping him from.

Cassandra, however, didn’t say anything else. She held the tea under her chin and breathed it in.

Damian set his own cup, untasted, on a small end table and gripped the arms of his chair. Why had he agreed to come? What was he supposed to do—drink tea while Pennyworth frowned at them and Cassandra made monosyllabic statements?

Someone was patting his hand.

Cassandra. She tilted her head. “Only a little bit angry. Mostly, sad. Mostly, with me.”

“What are you babbling about, Cai—Cassandra?”

She withdrew her hand.

After a moment, Pennyworth cleared his throat. “I went to see Master Jason today,” he said.

Chapter Text

This was so far outside of what Damian had been expecting that it took him a split second longer than normal to process the words.

He shot a glance at Cassandra to see how she was reading this.

She frowned. “You’ve gone before.”

“A few times. He has not always let me in.”

“You know where Todd is?” Damian spat out. “Pennyworth, that lunatic has tried to kill us—on multiple occasions!”

“Which is why I did not invite you to come along,” Pennyworth replied blandly.

“Does Grayson know?”

Pennyworth took a long sip before setting his cup down. “I don’t know. I suspect that he suspects.”

“Why?” Damian finally managed. “If you are betraying us to Todd, then why bother returning? Why tell us now?”

***

Alfred tried to remind himself that these sort of knee-jerk responses and leaps to unfathomable conclusions must seem quite rational under the twisted logic of Damian’s childhood.

But it took all of Alfred’s strength not to deadpan: “Because it is too late. Miss Cassandra is actually Jason Todd in disguise; the Manor has fallen.”

The visits had started before Bruce’s death.

It had been a slow night, for Gotham, so Alfred had left the comms in Oracle’s more than capable hands and was genuinely contemplating a few hours of sleep before his boys returned.

But when he reached the unlit kitchen, all thoughts of slumber fled.

The last time Alfred had seen Jason in person, he had been a boy, with a boy’s soft face and angular limbs. But even without the jarring photos of Gotham’s newest rogue blown up on the Batcomputer, Alfred would have recognized the man immediately.

He sat in the same chair, with same posture. That was the chair where he’d eaten breakfast and done his homework and hung around the edges of Alfred’s workaday life.

Each of the children had wormed their way into a particular corner of Alfred’s heart. But only Jason had wormed his way into Alfred’s kitchen.

And here he sat, elbows on the table, chin in his hands.

“Master Jason.”

The man gave no indication that he had heard. Alfred clicked on the unobtrusive stove light and busied himself with filling the kettle.

“He’s not here.” It was the first time Alfred had heard Jason’s voice since the return, and he was perturbed by its roughness. He wondered how much was due to the pit, how much to the roughness of his current life, and how much to whatever was brewing behind that unmoving face.

“No, Master Bruce is out for the evening. But you already knew this when you decided to visit.”

“Yeah.”

Briefly, Alfred wondered how Jason had bypassed the Manor’s security, and if he should be concerned. But in the presence of a miracle, he found himself unable to hang onto thoughts of the mundane.

And it was a miracle. Whatever the boy had done (and the new furrow across Bruce’s brow told Alfred more than any report), however unholy the means of his resurrection, the fact that the child was here, now, in this kitchen was a grace Alfred had never dared to pray for.

Anything alive could be saved.

And fed. Alfred did not ask; he just poured the tea and set out a tin of scones leftover from that morning.

The young man’s hands mechanically circled the cup, but when the scones were set down in front of him, he looked up.

As soon as Alfred looked into his boy’s eyes, he knew something was wrong. Alfred had seen the same slow-dawning terror in the pupils of sleepwalkers who find themselves outside their beds, waking from one state of confusion into another. Whatever had led to this visit, it had not been planned.

“I remembered this blend was a favorite of yours, but I can start another pot, if you’d prefer something else. Or I could put on some coffee.”

Automatically, Jason lifted the untouched tea to his lips. But as he breathed in the steam, a light entered his eyes that had not been there before. He laughed, huskily, under his breath. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you remember.”

Alfred didn’t miss the emphasis. But an explanation of how little Bruce had forgotten, how little the man was even capable of forgetting, would require either a whole novel or nothing. Instead, Alfred observed, “It’s been a long time since there was a discerning tea drinker in the house, I’m afraid.”  

“What about the girl, the new one? She drinks tea.”

It was more disturbing to realize that Jason had been keeping tabs on the others than it was to know he could break into the Manor whenever he pleased. “Miss Cassandra has not spent much time at the Manor lately. As I’m sure you already know.”

The crooked grin was from the boy Alfred had known—the sardonic bite behind it was not. “Nothing gets past Alfie.” Jason took another sip of tea. “Your day off is still the first and third Thursday?”

Alfred couldn’t quite track this change of topic. “I keep to the same schedule—or at least, as much as I ever did.”

Jason shook his head. “Don’t care what they say: the wicked rest plenty. The righteous keep hustling.”

“And what about you, my boy?”

Jason emptied his cup and stood. “Somebody’s got to make sure the wicked don’t rest too easy.” The glibness was more painful than the silence had been. “This has been fun, but I gotta see some dogs about a man.”

Alfred also stood. He had fifty more questions he wished he had asked, but whatever door had opened had already slammed shut. The boy was now as remote as if six feet of soil still stood between them.

Alfred closed the tin and placed it in Jason’s hands. Jason’s brows knit together.

“Take care. For our sake, if not for your own.”

There had been no response to that. Jason left through the drawing room window. When Alfred cleared the table, he found a scrap of paper under Jason’s teacup: FYEO: 21 Water Street.

Often, when Alfred went, no one was there, and he left his basket on the concrete step, hoping the food wouldn’t spoil before someone spotted it. (Alfred wasn’t naïve enough to believe Jason had given him the address of his only hideout—or even his main one.) Sometimes, when Alfred arrived, Jason already had his kettle on, waiting.

Conversation was cautious, centered on the innocuous and universal (books, food, small changes to Gotham’s historic neighborhoods, etc.). Occasionally, their talk bordered on the nostalgic, but even the past felt like a minefield. Once, the mere mention of Leslie Thompkins had shut Jason down completely.

Alfred had no idea how the reason behind today’s visit would be received. As soon as he had set the food on the counter, he turned to face Jason. “My boy, you’d better sit down. I will be direct because I don’t know how else to break this news. . . .”

Jason sat.

“We recently learned that Master Bruce, is not, as we had believed, dead. He is lost in time. And there is currently a scheme underway to bring him back.”

Jason blinked at him. “Are you sh—kidding me right now?”

Alfred merely stared back.

“There was a body. I was told there was a body.”

“Yes. Apparently, that was courtesy of Ra’s al Ghul and his unsuccessful attempt to clone the Batman.”

“Do I even want to know how you found that out?”

“Probably not.” Alfred would rather not mention anything involving a Lazarus Pit if he could help it. “It was not a pleasant experience for anyone involved.”

“And you’re certain he’s alive, just trapped in time?”

“He has been leaving clues from the past.”

“And he’s coming back?”

“If all goes well, yes.” Alfred busied himself with putting away the food. The hideout was so quiet that even the small rattle of Tupperware on refrigerator shelves seemed to echo.

The interior of this nondescript building had been designed on a modest but tidily contemporary open-floor plan (only the bedroom and bath were separated by walls), and the back of the sofa marked the boundary between the living room and the kitchen. Occasionally, Alfred glanced behind him. Jason’s head and shoulders were visible over the back of the low couch. They did not move.

“Why did you let him?”

Alfred, feeling that he had missed some essential part of the conversation, closed the fridge door and asked, “Let whom do what exactly?”

“I’m not blaming you. But how could you watch him turn a bunch of children into soldiers?”

“Is that how you felt?”

“It doesn’t matter how I felt then. That’s what we were. Little chess pieces in his war against crime. Otherwise, how could he have gone through so many pawns so quickly?”

Alfred tried to recall and work out the thought processes of a decade past: “Master Bruce and I had some . . . discussions about your evening activities. But I suppose, in the end, I didn’t ring up Social Services because your life with him still seemed like a better chance at a good life in Gotham than any of the other avenues open to you. And because it seemed impossible to stop either of you.”

Jason said nothing to that.

And the silence forced Alfred to reconsider his words. He had made his disapproval and his concerns about Dick, and then Jason, joining Bruce’s crusade painfully clear. But it had only been with Dick that he had attempted to directly dissuade the boy himself. (Dick had been amused. Of course, he was sure he wanted to dress up and fight crime. Who wouldn’t want that?) Jason had seemed even more gung ho about the role than the first Robin had been, and Alfred had been more concerned about making the boy feel at home than questioning his vigilante activities. It occurred to Alfred now, with the clarity hindsight, that those two concerns should have overlapped.

“I am sorry,” Alfred said finally, washing his hands and exiting the kitchen. “I should have made certain you knew you had other options, that no one would have been upset or disappointed if you had chosen a different path.”

He moved around the sofa, so that he could see Jason’s face. No movement there either. Alfred wondered if he had lost the boy for the day.

“It shouldn’t have mattered.”

“Hm?” Alfred sat, gingerly, on the chair facing Jason.

“How much I enjoyed being Robin. Like, once you lose a child you don’t just collect fifty-seven more. How old are these newest recruits anyway?”

Alfred considered the question behind the question. “When Cassandra and Damian came to us, they had already been trained to fight. Perhaps I cannot speak for Master Bruce in this regard, but I believe the hope is that they may relearn some part of what it means to be a child while still employing skills that cannot be unlearned.” And desires that cannot be tamped down.

“And the Replacement? What about him?”

“How dare you.” Softly. The anger had come upon Alfred before he could weigh his right to express it.

A mixture of bitter hurt and wincing apology replaced the frozen look on Jason’s face. “I know you’re all attached now—”

“How dare you assume that you could ever be replaced.” Alfred took small, shallow breaths as he attempted to regain control. “You have no idea how much you were missed. How much you still are missed. I thought—I thought Bruce would not survive it. He became so reckless, as though—” Alfred shook his head, trying to dislodge the old fear clogging his throat. He took another deeper breath.

Jason’s eyes were wide. The poor boy.

Alfred could not decide if it was kinder to share the full truth or to shield him. But there had already been so many silences in the place of honesty in this family. And this boy was a man now—a man who deserved truth, whatever it cost Alfred personally. He had been cowardly for long enough.

“Forgive me. I had not intended to burden you further. But if you must blame someone for Master Timothy’s continuation of a role that should have been retired . . . you should blame me.”

Jason blinked at him.

Alfred looked away. “I encouraged him. I don’t know if he could have been dissuaded. But Master Bruce tried. Frequently.” How did one explain the unstoppable force that was young Timothy Drake? “I did not. Master Tim insisted that Batman needed a Robin, and after watching Batman spin out of control . . . I was inclined to believe him. He saved Master Bruce’s life—and I mean that literally—and I aided him.” Alfred gripped his knees, momentarily disturbing his trousers’ stiff crease. Then with the admission, he let go: “I was willing to tempt fate a third time rather than accept the certainty of losing Bruce so soon after you. I could not bury another child that year.

“I know it was indefensibly selfish. . . .” Alfred brushed the wrinkles out of his trousers, unwilling to look up yet. “I understand, of course, if you wish for me to leave.” He was irritated to find a small dark stain on the gray fabric. It would not rub out. And then another one. And another, in an increasing pattern of dark circular stains.

Alfred raised a hand to his face, mortified.

“Shit,” Jason whispered. “Alf, I’ll make you some tea, okay? Just—just sit there for moment.”

“Nonsense!” Alfred swiped at his face as he stood. “I am perfectly capable. I did not come here to weep on your divan like a Romantic heroine while you indulge my histrionics.”

Even in an unfamiliar kitchen, the act of measuring the leaves and pouring the kettle was steadying. And Alfred could sense his composure returning, as his embarrassment increased.

“So I’m just supposed to sit here while you make tea? ‘Madame Bovary, c’est moi’ now?”

“Of course not.” Alfred lips twitched. “Madame Bovary is an example of Realism. As you well know.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Right. But Emma Bovary is basically the Romantic heroine, deconstructed. Trust me, I recognize another drama queen when I meet one.”

This was the boy Alfred had feared they lost—blunt and bookish, full of sharp humor and a shocking compassion. A wounded idealism under all the pragmatic action.

The rest of their conversation steered wide of Bruce and Batman and the boys in his footsteps. But all day, Why did you let him? whispered through Alfred’s mind. It was not a new question. Or ever a fully settled one. The excuses (and Alfred always knew they were excuses) he told himself changed with the child; sometimes, they changed by the month.

These days, he looked at Damian and didn’t know how they could do anything differently. However dangerous and questionable his current life, the boy was loved, was beginning to learn that he was safe within his own home.

And then Alfred had come home. To broken noses and promises.

***

“Your understandable wariness of Master Jason aside, Master Bruce was his father as well. If he is returning, I thought that Jason had a right to know.”

Damian could barely contain his incredulity. “Todd is not family. He has rejected everything Father stood for. He is not to be trusted, Pennyworth! I demand you cease seeing him without someone capable of protecting you!”

Damian was serious, but something soft and amused lifted the corners Pennyworth’s crow’s feet. “I assure you that I would not go if I believed I were in danger—or putting anyone in this household in danger.” The softness turned abruptly sharp. “Apparently, it was much less violent today in the infamous Red Hood’s hideout than it was in the Wayne family penthouse.”

“We were in the Cave,” Cass pointed out.

Damian thought this was a fair point, but Pennyworth’s expression did not change.

“Despite your evening activities, I had hoped you both realized that violence is not tolerated inside these walls.” Alfred set his cup down. “I’m not cross—”

Cassandra made a quick motion with her head.

“I’m mostly not cross,” Alfred corrected. “I’m more concerned. It’s not natural for families to hurt each other, and I fear that the two of you may not fully understand this—that we have not done the work of explaining this. I don’t wish to see you solve all your problems this way.” 

“Not all our problems,” Cassandra agreed, “just this one. Also, he hurt me first.”

Damian held up his hands. “I didn’t even touch her!” His face burned at the admission. He hadn’t been able to touch her. Maybe that was why Pennyworth was so disappointed. Not only had he resorted to violence—he had failed at it.

“You knew calling me ‘Cain’ was an insult. Also, a ‘charity project’?” She snorted. “You are like . . . a movie bully. From a bad movie.”

“While certainly inappropriate,” the look Pennyworth shot him was brief and sharp—like a dagger between Damian’s ribs, “that’s hardly the same as breaking somebody’s nose.”

Cassandra shook her head. “It is to me.”

Alfred opened his mouth and then reconsidered. Finally, he took a sip of tea and said, “Yes, Miss Cassandra, I suppose it might be. But given that you are both older and more experienced—” 

“I have been training since before I could walk!” Damian protested.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “I am captain of that club.”

“I had hoped you might set an example for Master Damian,” Pennyworth continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted.

Cassandra just wrinkled up her nose. “Respect first. Then example matters.”

“You’ll note that Master Dick and I have endeavored to earn Master Damian’s respect without breaking his nose.”

Cassandra shrugged and gestured between them. “Sister. Grandpa. Very different.”

Damian stared at her. Maybe she didn’t know. There had been that gossip rag rumor a while back. “You realize that Pennyworth is not actually Bruce Wayne’s father. . . .”

She smiled at him as though he were a much smaller child. One who didn’t fully understand. “Someone ties up Ra’s and Alfred over a vat of acid—who do you save first?”

The answer required no thought: “Pennyworth.”

“See? Real grandpa.” The genuine pride in her smile baffled Damian.

“That’s not—that’s so illogical it doesn’t even bear refuting. Also, you aren’t my sister.”

Cassandra smiled again. This time was less friendly than it was . . . feral. “Yes. I am. You can’t stop me.”

Chapter Text

Screw the sad hot dogs of New York and Chicago. Gotham chili dogs were the true national treasure. They almost made up for everything else Gotham had given the world.

You could get toppings if you wanted—cheese, crispy fried onions, kimchi, and crushed potato chips were all popular—but what made it a Gotham chili dog was the chili. Jason had asked Tony, owner of the honestly named Tony’s Chili Dogs, about this.

“Most chili dogs’ chili is just meat sauce, yeah? It ain’t nothing like your Tex-Mex-style chili. But in Gotham, your dogs’ chili gotta have four things.” Tony ticked them off on his fingers. “You gotta have onions cooked down real good. No onions? Forget it. You gotta have green bell peppers chopped up real fine—but not too many. This ain’t no salad. You just want the flavor.”

Jason had nodded appreciatively. “And none of the health benefits.”

“Exactly. But the third thing is beans. But chopped up real fine, like hamburger.”

“For flavor?”

Tony shrugged. “Maybe. But mostly ’cause beans is cheaper than meat.”

Jason considered this. “Wait, what’s the fourth thing?”

 “The fourth thing is meat. It’s gotta be leftover dogs from the day before or the burnt and broken ones you can’t sell, but—”

“But chopped up real fine,” Jason finished for him. “I’m getting the picture.”

“If it ain’t dog meat, it ain’t Gotham chili.”

“Now, there’s a slogan.”

And Tony, to his credit, had laughed. “And then you cook up it in a big pot with your stock and spices and tomato paste—all night if you can.”

“That seems like a lot of work, especially all the ‘chopping up real fine.’”

“Yeah, but you gotta understand, especially in the old days, it was easier to get a meat grinder—or a guy what was good with a knife—than meat, in Gotham.”

Jason liked Tony’s chili dogs, he liked how Tony’s restaurant was still open at 3 a.m., and what was more, he liked Tony.

So he was surprised when he sat down at the counter after a long night and Tony’s shook his head and jerked his thumb toward the door.

“What? I take too many napkins last time?”

Tony sidled close and wiped his hands nervously on his apron. “There’s a scary-looking lady been asking about you.” Tony’s eyes skated to the far end of the small restaurant.

Jason’s eyes followed. A dark-haired woman in a cloak was examining the plastic menu.

“She’s got a sword,” Tony whispered.

“Yeah, I know.”

Jason slid into the booth. “Even for Gotham you might be overdressed.”

Sometimes, there was a thin spark of amusement in Talia’s eyes—a delightful surprise—like a curly fry in box of regular ones. That spark was not present now. “I heard what you did with the shipment. I told you your city was at stake.”

“You told me I could do whatever I wanted with it. So I did. Also, I don’t work for you?”

Talia slammed both hands on the tabletop. “It has fallen into the wrong hands!”

Across the room, Tony jumped.

This wasn’t like Talia. She was passionate but not prone to uncontrolled outbursts. This “visitor” had really gotten under her skin.

“Okay, okay! Pas devant les chien-chauds.”

Talia threw the menu. The movement was so sharp and fast that the plastic corner embedded itself in the foam of the booth—right above Jason’s shoulder. “This isn’t a game!”

“Really?” Jason leaned forward on his elbows. “Because it feels like one. Especially the parts where you don’t tell me anything and then I do stuff for free in my spare time.”

Now, the spark had returned. Talia smirked.

“What?”

“I forget—I have dealt with your mentor for too long.”

Jason didn’t know whether to feel insulted or flattered.

“What do you desire? Name a price.”

Jason scowled.

“I am Talia al Ghul—I do not need to tell you the resources I have at my disposal.”

Jason tugged the menu out of the foam and pretended to read it. “And yet you need to meet a guy in a chili dog joint about a simple shipment. . . .”

Talia gave an elegant shrug. “I have another job related to our ‘visitor,’ and I need a specialist. You are that specialist. So what do you need, Jason Todd?”

Without looking up from the menu, Jason said, “I’m looking for a Tom Silnas. Used to work for the Falcones. Retired about six years ago. Is definitely still alive. Sends a check to his granddaughter, Maria, every year on her birthday. But I can’t locate him. He never had a record. He was just a bookkeeper, but a criminally good one. And he has information I need.”

Talia just nodded. Didn’t ask why he needed this particular man, or why Jason, with all his training, had struggled to find this one old man.

“And $175,000,” Jason threw in. His safe houses and tech weren’t cheap, no matter how many “friends” he made and how much laundered money he “liberated.”

She pulled out her phone. “There. $75,000 deposited in your account. Another $100,000 when you complete this task. You truly are a child of Gotham.”

For some reason, Jason felt wounded. “Unlike the children of all the other cities, who live on dreams and daisies? Chili dogs don’t buy themselves. Also, I still don’t know anything about this job I haven’t technically agreed to take yet.”

Talia smiled knowingly. “I don’t have much to tell you, except that our visitor is collecting something. I don’t understand why, but nothing they do is without purpose.” Talia’s expression went blank, as though she had taken her next thought and slipped away to some place private to examine it. Something like a shudder passed through her. “However innocuous their actions may seem there is always a darker purpose behind them. Be wary.”

“Difficult, since I don’t know who I’m being wary of.”

“What I can tell you is that music is involved.” She handed Jason a piece of paper. “My operative intercepted a communication and wrote down the message, word for word.”

He glanced at it and then back at her. “‘Bring me the ostrich sheet music—the correct one will be obvious.’ Feels like any music about ostriches would be pretty distinct.”

It had been a long time since Jason had a puzzle to unravel. Busting drug dens and threatening gang leaders wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t exactly the Saturday crossword either.

Talia stood. “Good. Then you should not have any trouble locating the sheet music.”

Jason wanted to say something smart as she left, offer to buy her a chili dog or remark that he had always loved scavenger hunts.

But he was thinking about how self-satisfied Talia had looked when she transferred the money. She didn’t understand. Jason wasn’t a child of Gotham because he was practical enough not to turn down good money.  

Tony brought him a chili dog, even though Jason hadn’t ordered anything yet.

“Thanks.” Jason took a big bite, relishing the mess of it all.

He was a child of Gotham because he knew how to make good use of what was already on hand.

***

“You are going to the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center?”

“Yes.” Cass frowned at herself in the hall mirror. She pulled her hair down, even though the bun had taken her ages. She wished Stephanie was here. Stephanie could tell her what a person “representing the interests of the Wayne Wildlife Foundation” might dress like. And Steph was good at hair.

“I could go with you.”

Cass caught Damian’s eye in the mirror. “Dick say you could?”

He was leaning against the wall, deliberately casual. “Oh, you do everything Grayson tells you to now?”

Cass turned around to face him. “Weak manipulation tactic,” she declared. “You can do better.”

Frustration flashed across his face, followed by a misery that was quickly smoothed over with aggressive confidence. “It’s not technically breaking my grounding. I won’t be working as Robin. I’ll just be ‘the animal-loving Wayne heir’ visiting the Center. With his ‘beloved sister.’”

Cass nodded and pocketed the keys. “Better. You can come.”

She was glad she had brought Damian. He asked questions Cass would never have thought of. “How many pounds of meat are required to sustain an injured bobcat?” had no bearing on her investigation, but the answer was interesting. Sheryl, the Center’s director, seemed both intimidated and delighted.

It was odd to watch the boy outside the Cave. Like an animal outside its . . . habitat?

The others had two bodies, one for in uniform and one for regular life. He still moved like the League here, just a little muffled.

But if Sheryl and the other staff noticed anything odd, they seemed to attribute it to Damian being the son of Gotham’s favorite billionaire. Billionaires, she was learning, were allowed to be a little strange. They were allowed a lot of things. Cass bet the Center didn’t let just anyone hold the baby skunks during feeding time. (“They can’t spray yet,” one of the interns assured Cass. “Even if they act like they want to.”)

“I haven’t seen any of the order of Chiroptera here,” Damian observed, releasing his baby skunk, carefully, back into its pen.

At Sheryl’s blank look, he added, “I had assumed that with the prevalence of white nose syndrome, you would end up with at least one or two.”

The baby skunk whined and stomped, leaning forward on its front feet.

“You are interested in bats?” Sheryl asked.

Damian absently pressed a finger against the skunk’s head. “Of course,” he said. “Bats are essential pollinators; the global diminishment of their populations should disturb everyone.” 

“It’s actually funny you should bring that up. . . .” Sheryl dug out her phone. “A week ago, these little guys showed up out of nowhere in a cage on our front step.” The bats in the photo looked like big fuzzy bumblebees with dark bodies and creamy stripes. Sheryl had about thirty photos on her phone.

One was of the note that had come with the bats, a hastily scribbled “Pied bats eat moths and need to stay warm.”

“Cute,” Cass said.

“Aren’t they?” Sheryl nodded enthusiastically. “But confusing. And illegal.”

“Illegal?”

“The sale or possession of bats as pets is illegal in New Jersey. And these guys are very rare, and they don’t even belong on this continent. We called Fish and Wildlife, and they called an expert from the Smithsonian to come to look, but a couple of days ago, the bats just vanished!”

“Vanished?” Cass tried to look shocked.

“Cage and all.” Sheryl lowered her voice. “We’re thinking poachers or exotic animal dealers, but we don’t know how they could have known. And I don’t like thinking that anyone on staff. . . .”

“Of course not,” Damian said.

“Speaking of staff. . . .” Cass smiled, teeth flashing in a way she had learned from Dick. “My little brother wanted to talk to some of your interns. He is interested in volunteering.”

Damian shot her a glare, but Cass was impervious. “My investigation. I lead,” she had warned him in the car.

Cass’s plan was to fake a phone call and get some time to investigate on her own, but as soon as she and Sheryl were alone in the room, Sheryl said, “I know why you’re here.”

The threat and the body language did not match, so Cass waited.

Sheryl smiled. Sympathetic, a little sad. “We don’t normally let kids who are younger than high-school age volunteer. But I suppose we could make an exception for Damian.”

Because he is rich and we are making a big donation, Cass thought.

But Sheryl said, “Sometimes, the kids who struggle the most to get along with people do the best with animals.” She gave Cass a meaningful look.

Oh.

“He’s a very serious young man, isn’t he? I feel like he’d be up to the responsibility if he decided he wanted to help out.”

“Yes.”

There was a screech at the front desk, and for a moment, Cass thought this would be like a TV show, and they would look over to find Damian at the center of some disaster, proving them both wrong.

But it was just someone bringing in a mink that was trying to escape a cardboard box. Sheryl rushed forward, excusing herself. And leaving her phone behind. . . .

“I suppose this is not a social call.” Barbara sounded exasperated.

Cass stood around the corner, one phone (her own) against her ear and the other in her hand. “You’re mad I didn’t call before?”

“You’ve been in town for days now. I thought—” Barbara sighed. “It’s fine. What do you need?”

Cass wasn’t used to having people who wanted to hear from her just because. And now there were so many of them in her life. But Barbara had been the first. Cass realized she should have called sooner.

“Sorry—things have been . . . you know.” Because Barbara would know. “Dinner before ‘work’ tonight? And can you do the thing where you steal photos off a person’s phone and they don’t know?” Cass had some training in this, but Barbara would be faster.

“Give me a name. Also, seven o’clock. Bring dessert.” She could hear Barbara trying to keep the smile out of her voice.

When Cass stepped back into the main office, in addition to the photos, she now had the note that had come with the bats, which she had stolen from Sheryl’s office and slipped into a plastic baggie.

“But I drove all the way out here!” A frazzled woman was bouncing a sobbing baby and gripping the hand of a toddler who was getting fussier by the second.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we are not the Humane Society. We only work with wild animals.”

A spitting sound emerged from the carrier on the edge of the desk. “It’s basically a wild animal,” the woman offered.

“What is it?” Damian approached as if pulled by a string. Cass hadn’t noticed him at first.

“A kitten,” the woman said. But Damian was already in front of the carrier. A black and white blur slashed out in between the metal bars.

Damian shook his bleeding finger. “It has more hostility than sense,” he noted. After the attack, he held his hands down by his side, but he did not move away from the cage.

“It tried to attack my other cats. Even bit one of the kids,” the woman said. “I can’t keep it in the house.”

“I’m afraid you can’t leave it here. I can get you the address for the nearest—”

“We’ll take it,” Cass said.

Damian turned toward her, surprise leaving his face as open and hopeful as a sunflower.

The glow of certainty settled into Cass’s chest. “It’s perfect.”

***

“This is asinine.” The kitten was gnawing desperately at one of the air holes in the cardboard carrier the Center had provided. “Pennyworth will never allow a feral kitten to roam the penthouse.”

Cassandra merely smiled.

Talia raised an eyebrow. “What is that . . . creature?” As if she didn’t know. As if she hadn’t sent him to destroy them.

“The penthouse has no problems with mice. A kitten is superfluous.”

The cat had now managed to chew the hole big enough that its tiny pink nose fit through the cardboard. Damian covered the hole with his hand. The nose was cold and curious against his fingers.

“I wish to keep it, Mother.”

“It would have been simpler to let them take the kitten to a shelter,” Damian observed.

“Yes.” The next corner was a sharp one, but Cassandra barely slowed down, and the kitten mewled in protest as it scrambled for purchase.

Damian clutched the carrier and clucked his tongue. “I can’t believe some fool gave you a license.”

“They didn’t.”

“Does Pennyworth know this?”

“Does he need to?” A dare.

“If I’m not allowed to drive without a license, I don’t see why you should be able to.”

“You have more time.”

Damian grit his teeth. “Stop speaking in riddles! I know you know full sentences, so use them!”

The car pulled over onto the rumble strip so quickly that Damian almost lost his hold on the carrier. A driver screeched past, shouting. Cassandra ignored him.

Instead, she faced Damian. “I don’t talk for no reason. And you are bad at listening—”

“I am not—”

“Even now.”

Damian pressed his lips together and made a noise in his throat. The kitten responded by hissing.

“If I’m going to use long sentences and ‘superfluous’ words, then it needs to be for someone who is paying attention. Otherwise, the effort is ‘asinine.’”

Lips still pressed together, Damian raised his eyebrows. Fine. See? Not talking.

She nodded. “I was sixteen when Bruce adopted me. Not much later, he died. I was still lucky to have him—and Barbara. But I had lived on my own for a long time. . . .” She squeezed and released her hands. “When I became Batgirl, that was all I wanted to be. I had no other self. And I thought, Good. Batgirl is the best thing I will ever be. But Batgirl was never a child—never went to school, or made photo frames out of macaroni, or”—she grinned, wryly—“took her driving test. You have time to do those things. Make friends. Have a kitten. Be Damian Wayne. Not just Robin.”

Damian just continued to glare at her, lips pressed shut.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Is this inarticulate attempt at a lecture over, or must I continue to suffer in silence?”

The spark of anger in her eye was what he had been aiming for. But belatedly, he remembered the kitten. If Cassandra decided to punish him by tossing it to the side of the road, Damian was not certain he would be fast enough to stop her. (And if he tried, what sort of weakness would he be revealing?) 

“ He is small, insignificant to our cause.”

Then her anger was gone—replaced by something he didn’t recognize. She squeezed his hand on top of the carrier. “Practice makes it easier,” she said, before pulling back onto the road.

He wondered what he was intended to practice, but he wasn’t going to ask and submit to another round of homilies. And he didn’t know how to explain that he didn’t want to be any form of Damian Wayne who wasn’t also Robin.

Cassandra parked in the penthouse garage, but she didn’t follow Damian out of the car. She just rolled down the window. “I need to buy ice cream. Also, get you cat things.”

“On one condition. You must raise him to be your champion, fearless and obedient. . . .”

“Do you even know what a kitten needs?” Leashes? Collars?

She shrugged. “Food? Litter? We should take him to the vet tomorrow and ask.”

A kitten would never be useful—no matter how fearless. And he highly doubted this one would ever be obedient. Damian grabbed her arm. “You can’t tell anyone,” he hissed.

Instead of promising, Cassandra pulled away from the curb.

Chapter Text

“Thanks for agreeing to see me, Dr. Smith.”

“My word, of course, Timothy! You’ve funded the very chairs in this office. Sit down, sit down.” He gestured toward a chair that had clearly recently housed the stack of folders now on the floor.

Tim had first met Dr. Bartholomew Smith at a Gotham Archeological Society fundraiser. Even when Tim had been six, Dr. Smith had shaken his hand in the exact same way he was doing now.

“Have I shown you how we’ve displayed the spear your father donated?”

“Yes, thank you, I’ve seen it,” Tim said quickly. Dr. Smith had asked this every time they’d met since the Jack and Janet Drake Foundation had been established. “Actually, I was curious about another item in the collection.” Tim pulled up the quarterly report on his phone.

“Oh, yes! The Sumerian winged cuff. Arresting, isn’t it?”

“I wondered who the seller was and if they had anything else similar.”

“I can certainly pass your name along.” Dr. Smith drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. “But I’m afraid I can’t divulge the names of either sellers or donors who wish to remain anonymous. And I suspect it may be a one-of-a-kind discovery.”

“I understand. I was just hopeful.”

Dr. Smith smiled apologetically. “Some of the Archeological Society members have connections that they don’t wish to strain. And of course, many members themselves have sold or donated their own finds to the museum. Your parents were quite generous in that regard. Have I shown you the—”

“I actually had some questions about the break-in the other night. I wanted to know if you needed any security upgrades.”

Dr. Smith obligingly talked Tim through the break-in, but it was all information Tim already knew. “I rather think it is because of your generous attention to our security that nothing was lost—well, nothing except a few overpriced posters and books. Between you and me, the mark-up is criminal. On the posters, I mean. The books are merely average sinners. Have I told you how much we appreciate your aid with the security upgrades?” Dr. Smith also asked this every time they met.

Tim smiled. “Yes, you have. I’m sure Mom and Dad would be happy knowing their life’s work was being watched over so carefully.”

Now, Dr. Smith looked sad. And Tim realized that was the part where Dr. Smith remembered that both his parents were dead. “Did your step-mother, Daria . . . ?”

“Dana,” Tim supplied, surprised that Dr. Smith even remembered that much.

“Did she share you father’s hobby?”

“Er, no, not really. She was busy with. . . .” With paying actual attention to me, Tim realized. “. . .other things. Oh! What’s that?” Tim stood and pointed at a figure just above Dr. Smith’s head on a shelf. A poor diversion, but he couldn’t deal with a question about what had happened to Dana.

Dr. Smith beamed. “Oh, this! It’s a small totem of the Miagani tribe. Do you recognize the creature it depicts?” He held it out in his palm.

“A deer?”

“Yes! They also made frequent use of bat imagery, which is fairly unique for tribes in the Northeast. We see, for example, Camazotz in Maya mythology, but we don’t truly understand the meaning of the symbol for the Miagani. Actually, my assistant Nancy wrote a fascinating paper in which she suggests that the Batman is not so much a person as a sort of collective manifestation of the ‘physic memory’ the tribe left behind. Our version of the European Barbatos.”

When Tim raised his eyebrows, Dr. Smith said, “Oh, it’s nonsense, I know. But it’s brilliant nonsense, so that’s how she got this internship. Did you meet Nancy?”

Tim vaguely remembered a curly-haired, bespectacled young woman disappearing into the collections vault with a cart of scrimshaw pieces.

“It’s a shame, actually—so much money and effort spent digging up treasures across the globe when Gotham has so much history here, already. I wonder that your parents never funded an excavation in Gotham. . . .”

Because archeology was how they escaped their responsibilities. It’s harder to ignore your child when you’re still in the same state. Mentally, Tim shook himself. Wow, Teen Angst Wonder! Get a grip. As if Tim didn’t understand the importance of having interests outside of work. But being here, thinking about Dana, seemed to pull the cover off his well of resentment and grief.

Dr. Smith had pulled a file out of his pile on the floor. “In fact, if you look at the recent excavation in lower Gotham County of a colonial dairy. . . .”

Tim locked eyes with the small figure, who seemed to understand. One of its forelegs was lifted as it waited patiently, eternally for its moment of action.

This, Tim reminded himself, as he nodded and smiled, is the face everyone else makes when you keep going on about Star Trek.

***

“Geez, Bruce. I was at the library. I get bad reception there. You know that.”

It had only been half a lie. Fourteen-year-old Dick had been at the library, which did get terrible reception on the lower floors. He had also been researching a Riddler case Batman had explicitly ordered Robin to stay away from. But Dick wasn’t ready to mention that yet. (It would come up later—mumbled around the flashlight Robin held in his mouth as he picked the lock on Batman’s death trap.) Later, Bruce would be exasperated and reluctantly proud.

But on this occasion, Bruce grabbed Dick’s chin, jerking the boy’s gaze up to meet his own. “Don’t start. We expected you home over two hours ago. You know better.”

“What? You’ll let me go undercover for a week, but I can’t go to the library for the afternoon?” It was hard to sound to sound as indignant as he wanted to with Bruce’s giant hand under his jaw, but Dick did his best. He’d been preparing for this battle all day.

But then Bruce dropped his hand. “I didn’t know where you were, Dick.” Bruce’s words were no longer whip-sharp but strained.

“I’m sorry,” Dick had blurted, bewildered by his sudden rush of shame. He was Robin, for heaven’s sake. He could survive a few hours at the library.

But Bruce had been confusing like that sometimes.

***

“Where were you?” Even as the words slipped over his tongue, Dick heard Bruce’s voice.

When Alfred had informed of Dick of Damian’s disappearance, Dick had spent a distracted hour picturing increasingly gruesome scenarios. As Robin, Damian could take almost anything Gotham dished out. The kid was nothing if not tough. But if he was kidnapped as Damian Wayne, Dick knew the boy would silently endure horrors rather than give up their secret. And in Gotham, kidnappers weren’t always out for money. There might never be a phone call. 

Damian froze, before throwing out: “I thought you knew how to knock, Grayson. Or have your hands abruptly ceased to work?”

“I did knock. You didn’t hear me.”

Damian grabbed a pullover off the bed and shoved it, still bunched up, inside a drawer (which struck Dick as extremely out of character). “Get out of my room!”

“Answer my question.”

“I went to help Cassandra with her mission. I did not go as Robin,” he added, sharply. “Merely as a Wayne family member interested in their facility.”

Dick nodded, slowly, realizing he hadn’t told Damian that staying in the house was part of being grounded. No. Scratch that. It was probably preferable if Damian did leave the house—as Damian, with supervision.

“I’m glad to see you and Cass working well together,” Dick said, finally. “But you know you are supposed to tell Alfred or me when you leave. And you didn’t leave a note—or take your phone.” This was not the first time they’d had this discussion, but Dick thought he was managing to keep his tone in the “calm but concerned” range. A Herculean task.

However, when Damian turned to face him fully, it was as if a fight had had already started without Dick.

“I led League expeditions—across continents! And now I must beg permission to travel across town?” Damian rushed at Dick, pushing him toward the door. “You have no idea who I am! What I am! I will never be a normal child. Stop trying force me to become one!”

“Whoa!” Dick braced himself against the doorframe. “Where’s all this— This isn’t about being ‘normal.’ This is about you not—”

And then the drawer fell out of Damian’s dresser.

“Is . . . is that a cat?”

“No!”

For a moment, Dick believed him. Maybe it was an alien or a very small badger or some kind of evil parasite. Because he’d never heard a cat make those kinds of noises.

This momentary shock allowed Damian duck under his arm and disappear—cat and all. The kid was fast. Dick heard a door slam somewhere down the hall.

Alfred was standing at the opposite end of the hall with a laundry basket. After a silence, he offered, “If it is any consolation, I believe sneaking out of the house, attempting to sneak in a kitten, and then throwing a tantrum when confronted may be the most ‘normal’ childhood behavior Master Damian has displayed since he arrived.” 

Moments later, Cass appeared, litterbox and kitten chow in tow. She filled Dick in on their mission and their newest family member.

“Was the cat a bad idea?” she asked.

Dick threw up his hands. “Who knows? I don’t know what he wants. I don’t even know where he is.”

“He’s still in the house. Cat’s too angry to carry far.”

***

Tim was good at ignoring things that needed to be ignored and getting work done.

Earlier today, he had ignored Dick’s pacing over Damian disappearing without his phone. (The kid was a former assassin. And Robin. He was fine.) Later, he ignored Damian hiding behind the emergency generator. (If Damian wanted Tim to know he was there, he’d say something.) It was a little harder to ignore the kid gasping suddenly and the small black and white blur that appeared in corner of his peripheral vision.

The kitten trotted distrustfully around the Cave, ears twitching, tail in a high question mark. Damian didn’t make a sound, but Tim could practically feel him straining to coax the kitten back to their hiding spot.

Tim typed up his report on his useless meeting with Dr. Smith. The man had only wanted to talk about funding for a Prehistoric Gotham collection. And when Tim had finally managed to dig through and photograph files while Dr. Smith left to make a fresh pot of coffee, Tim found that the winged bracelet had an incredibly boring and legitimate provenance. Any mislabeling of its origin and gemstones appeared to be honest mistakes on the part of an otherwise respectable dealer in Turkey.

Meanwhile, the kitten circled closer and closer. Abruptly, it dived under the Batcomputer console. Tim peered into the darkness beyond his stretched-out toes. The kitten hissed at him.

Fine. Tim went back to his report.

After a few minutes, he felt something rubbing against his socked foot. When he tried to peek, the hissing started again. And when he attempted to rub back, something distinctly tooth-like dug into his toe. “Have it your way,” Tim murmured and continued typing.

After a few minutes, the rubbing stopped, and something small and warm slumped against his foot, asleep.

After a few more minutes, he heard a sharp intake of breath, then the soft pad of feet behind his chair. (That was nice, Tim thought. Damian could walk without making a sound if he wanted to, so apparently, he was trying not to startle Tim.)

“What is this report for?”

“Isn’t Dick looking for you, or something?”

“I know what that is.” Damian ignored the question, sliding closer to the screen.

Tim didn’t turn around. “Yeah? Then what is it?”

“A Chaos Shard.”

Tim zoomed in as close he could and then swore under his breath. He knew he’d seen that stone before! “How do you know what a Chaos Shard looks like?”

“I had a tactics tutor who was obsessed. He believed a Chaos Shard would finally solidify all the League’s plans.”

Tim shivered. “You have to literally have the power of gods to wield one.”

“The League believes Grandfather is above all gods. They’ve built a machine to harness a Chaos Shard’s power. Or so this tutor told me. I never saw the machine.”

Tim’s fingers flew, pulling up Bruce’s files on the Chaos Crystal. Apokolips. Reality-warping powers. Lethal to mortals. The photos left no doubt. The glassy blue-green gem in the bat-winged cuff was definitely a Chaos Shard.

Tim turned to Damian. The kitten growled and tugged his sock half off. “I have to let Dick know about this. Do you want to find a new hiding place for you and the Tribble first, or. . . ?”

***

Alfred was not particularly surprised to see Damian standing by the computer when they arrived in the Cave, but Dick released a gusty breath. “Listen—”

“Not now, Grayson! Look at this.”

Tim stood, giving Dick the chair. “It’s a Chaos Shard. Damian recognized it.”

Over the years, Alfred’s mind had become a repository for an odd mixture of knowledge. The least abrasive silver polish. The exact temperature at which Martians begin to asphyxiate. How to remove blood from almost any surface. The perfect French omelet. The number of wharfs along Gotham Harbor.

But some things he didn’t have to know. The length of silences in the Cave told him more about a potential threat than any number of books on the topic could. 

And this silence was so long that Alfred put his hand against the wall for support. I think I preferred when I didn’t know how often the universe was at risk of collapsing in on itself.

“Well. That puts a wrench in things,” Dick said finally.

“What now?” Cassandra asked.

“Now that we know something is afoot, we chase down every lead. Everything else is on the back burner.”

Tim started.

“Everything but that,” Dick corrected. “But patrol’s going to be thin.”

Nobody argued. If the universe was razed, there wouldn’t be a Gotham left to protect.

“Top priority is finding out who wants the Chaos Shard—evidence points to it being someone who knows exactly what it does. But if they don’t know, we have to stop them before they destroy themselves.”

“I can help.”

Dick closed his eyes. “Dames, this is not the time—”

“It doesn’t have to be as Robin! Just let me do something.”

Dick supported his chin on his hand and considered the boy in front of him.

“It’s the potential warping and/or destruction of the universe,” Tim pointed out. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe he can complete his grounding after reality is safe again?”

The stubborn set of Dick’s jaw was far too familiar to Alfred. “Currently, the cuff is safe—in a museum whose security system you designed. Until that changes, groundings stand.”

Tim looked at Damian and shrugged.

But Damian just crossed his arms and lifted his small chin. “I came here, I gave up the League, to help, so let me.”

“I will. I promise. But not yet.”

Whatever flashed in Damian’s eyes didn’t bode well for anyone’s evening—destruction of reality aside—so Alfred felt that this was the right moment to interrupt. “Perhaps that is a private discussion, for later this evening. But speaking of ‘chaos,’ where is our newest guest?”

“Currently?” Tim wriggled his bare left foot. “Chewing on my sock under the Batcomputer.”

Damian slid to his knees and pulled out the furious kitten, who was still clinging to one navy blue sock. (Alfred noted, with an internal sigh, that Tim’s other sock was gray. It had been a losing battle to get the boy to wear proper footwear in the Cave—“I think better with my feet free”—but Alfred always carefully sorted and matched all the family’s socks. This mismatching was deliberate and mysterious. Alfred tried not to take it personally.)

“You have terrible taste,” Damian informed the cat. To Tim, he threw out: “Have you so mishandled Father’s company that you can no longer afford shoes?”

Tim flicked the insult away with his hand. “Are we keeping it?”

Alfred was startled to find four pairs of eyes focused intently on him.

Selina Kyle was as poised and put together as a woman could be. But whenever she visited the Manor, Alfred found cat hair wafting down the stairs and across the hallways for weeks afterward. And there was nothing either poised or put together about this creature.

The kitten attempted to run away from Tim’s sock, but its claw was stuck, and the sock followed. It growled in the back of its tiny throat.

Much of the furniture in the penthouse was contemporary, but some of it, including the dining room chairs (Queen Anne armchairs with delicate legs), had been pulled directly from the Manor. Those chairs had barely survived four (now five) boys. Alfred doubted they would be spared by this muff with knives.

“We’ve had dogs before,” Dick pointed out.

The kitten rolled over onto its back and kicked at the sock.

“Multiple studies link pet ownership to psychological well-being in children. . . .” Tim spread his hands, as though he were laying these very studies out in front of Alfred.

Another claw became stuck, and the kitten yowled.

“It’s an orphan . . . probably,” Cass said. 

Damian said nothing. He disentangled the kitten’s claws from the sock’s thread. He was rewarded for his efforts by a vicious swipe and a hiss.

The boy’s hands were a canvas of fresh hatch marks. Alfred hummed in concern. “Let’s put some disinfectant on that.”

“It’s fine.”

It was not fine. Two of the scratches were long and deep enough that they would not stop bleeding. And who knew where the creature's claws had last been? (Hadn’t Alfred read an article recently about a specific parasite felines carried? Read it, and then felt grateful that there, at least, was one danger he need not worry about?)

Damian stared back at him, his jaw tightening. Then without a word, he lifted himself onto the medical table and held out his arm.

Alfred worked silently, not wanting to risk this sudden acquiescence with speech. But as he finished wrapping the injuries, he noted, “This is a rather brutal new friend you’ve acquired, Master Damian.”

Alfred kept his tone lightly teasing, but the boy folded his arms, hiding his freshly bandaged hands against his sides.

“He doesn’t know any better.”

Alfred screwed the cap back on the Neosporin. “No, I would suppose not. He is a very young cat. And probably frightened.”

A barely perceptible tightening of the arms across the boy’s chest. “I am aware that he is not a practical acquisition.”

“Practical might not have been my word choice,” Alfred allowed.

Damian smoothed down one of the bandage’s edges. “I can deliver him to a shelter in the morning.”

(A disappointed noise burst from the group still clustered around the computer.)

Damian put his hand on Alfred’s wrist. Alfred stopped winding up bandages and met the boy’s solemn gaze. “Just because we have more serious concerns doesn’t mean that someone might not want him, Pennyworth.”

It slowly dawned on Alfred that this was Damian’s way, not of asking to keep the kitten, but of pleading for it not to be “disposed of.”

The tone—trying not to expect too much—reminded Alfred of another little boy who had also become resigned to adulthood and loss much too early. (When Damian had first arrived, Alfred had looked, almost despairingly, for resemblances beyond the physical and had recognized Bruce only in the boy’s stubbornness and his rage. Now, he wondered how he could have missed the obvious.)

Alfred released a silent prayer for the woodwork before offering the boy a smile. “Bringing home unexpected additions to the household is a family trait, I believe. Far be from me to stand in the way of tradition.”

(“Ah, yeah!” Tim and Cass high-fived.)

Damian hunched over his folded arms and furrowed his brow.

Alfred wondered if he had not been clear enough.

Then the boy straightened. “I should have left a note. And taken my phone.”

Alfred let his hand rest for a moment between the boys’ shoulder blades. “In the future, please consider that you are leaving me to endure Master Dick’s litany of bizarre kidnapping scenarios.” A hint for both of them.

But Damian did not offer his other guardian an apology. (“Tt. As if I could be kidnapped so easily.”) And Dick did not smile, not even a shadow of a smile. Alfred wished he could smooth away that worry and exhaustion as easily as he bandaged Damian’s cuts. 

After a moment’s silence, the boy said, still speaking only to Alfred, “I will remember.”

Perhaps that was all that could be expected for the moment. “Now, what do you intend to name our new friend?”

Damian pushed off of the table. “I was thinking that ‘Alfred’ is a solid name.”

Dick coughed, suddenly.

The boy was serious, and Alfred didn’t have the heart to tell him that he didn’t wish for a namesake who was likely to endanger the sofa. (When Alfred had allowed himself to entertain this sort of fantasy in the past, it had involved tiny fingers curling around one of his own. . . .)

“You . . . you can call the cat ‘Alfred,’ but you still call our Alfred ‘Pennyworth’?”

“He’s a cat, Drake. Cats don’t stand on ceremony.”

Tim ran his hand through his hair. “No, of course not. Silly me.”

“I’m honored,” Alfred said somberly. (In some sense, he was.) “Now, if you would kindly remove the lunchmeat from behind the generator and mop up the puddle your charge left beneath the Batcomputer. . . .”

There was a small scuffle when Damian attempted to mop up the cat’s mess with Tim’s sock. (Tim was eventually mollified by being permitted to entertain the cat while Damian cleaned.) Then Alfred, pointedly, suggested that the kitten be taken upstairs to be fed genuine cat food.

A forbearing, if not entirely comfortable, silence settled in the kitchen as Damian scrolled through search results on what, and how often, to feed kittens, and then measured out food into a saucer. As he set the saucer and the kitten on the floor, Damian offered, “Mother would have insisted he learn to survive on whatever was available to him. So that he becomes independent and strong.”

Alfred pulled the card he had been looking for from the rolodex. “Well, it appears that your mother and I subscribe to differing philosophies on the care of small creatures.”

Damian shut the laptop, firmly. “I know you are trying to distract me from what they are discussing downstairs.”

“Good. I would fear for your inductive reasoning skills otherwise,” Alfred said, pressing the phone to his ear.

The vet was able to squeeze them in that afternoon.

Their appointment ran long but being away from the penthouse meant that Damian could neither sulk in his room nor attempt to sneak back into the Cave.

And Alfred was grateful for the distraction, if not for the disruption to his schedule (every extra fifteen minutes spent in the waiting room required a recalculation of what would be feasible for dinner).

And he was doubly grateful for the vet herself, who, immediately understanding the situation, directed all her advice to Damian. “The very best things you can do are handle the kitten often, so that he becomes used to human touch, and play with him. Kittens have a lot of energy to expend. Play is how kittens learn. Just like children. It’s essential to their development.”

Damian shot Alfred a quick questioning glance, but Alfred wasn’t sure what he was being asked.

After dinner (which had been both rushed and tense), Damian, uncharacteristically, joined Alfred in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a sketchpad he did not open. The kitten fell asleep on one of the chairs.

“Something on your mind, Master Damian?”

“Tt.”

He did not offer to help, but when Alfred handed him a towel, Damian silently accepted his role drying and putting up dishes.

“I did play,” Damian offered, just as the last fork was unloaded from the dishwasher. “I was very young, but I remember it.”

Alfred nodded. After a moment, he observed, “Some argue that one is never too old to play, it is merely the forms of play that change.”

Damian said nothing to this. After a moment, he threw out, “Whatever you may think of her, Mother was not . . . she always. . . .”

Alfred waited. But there was no other attempt made to finish that statement.

Damian folded his arms and leaned against the counter. His posture challenged Alfred to contradict a hundred unspoken statements, each one a landmine in the field of silence that stretched across the kitchen.

“I have only met your mother on rare occasions,” Alfred said. “But my impression was that Talia al Ghul was not a woman who could be summed up in a single statement. And I daresay that was part of what attracted your father to her.”

“Grayson doesn’t like her.”

No, of course he doesn’t. “Has he said as much to you?”

Damian huffed. “He doesn’t have to.” The boy’s shoulders were up about his ears now. “Her ideology may be . . . flawed, but Mother did not deny me anything required for successful development. I am not damaged, Pennyworth.”

Ah. “I don’t believe I ever said you were.” Before Damian could claim this was deflection, Alfred added, “Having been involved in the raising of several young people, I don’t know if it possible to bring someone up without . . . some level of harm, however unintentional.” He dried his hands and turned to fully face the boy. “I am certain that well before you reach adulthood you will become aware of many things Master Dick and I should have done differently for you. However, I am also certain that you know our mistakes in no way mitigate our fondness for you.”  

Damian made the same noise in his throat that he always did whenever affection was mentioned. (But he also ducked his head to hide the pleased curve of his lips.)

“I am certain, too, that your mother loves you. Even if I cannot agree with how she chooses to show this.”

Damian shrugged and leaned further back against the counter, a casual posture that looked more unnatural than his normal stiffness. “If Drake’s plan succeeds and Father returns, then I suppose Father will want to be Batman again.”

“My crystal ball is bit dusty at the moment, Master Damian. But that’s strikes me as a fair assumption.”

Damian nodded once, sharply.

“Do you have any particular concerns about that possibility?”

Alfred had recently asked Dick if he had given any thought to how life might change when Bruce returned. And Dick had run his fingers through his hair and said, “My plan is to make sure Gotham hasn’t burned to the ground before he returns. That’s as far ahead as I’m able to think right now.”

Well, never let it be said that Master Bruce hadn’t passed along his talent for avoiding uncomfortable topics.

Damian slid his unopened sketchbook under his arm. “Since arriving here, I have ceased to expect things to stay the same for more than five minutes at a time.”

The sleeping kitten stretched and then fell off the chair with a small yowl.

“It’s time to feed Alfred.”

How jarring to hear one’s name so causally misused.

But when the family filtered in from patrol, Alfred was grateful for the kitten. For something small and unnecessary to fuss over instead of the potential end of reality.

Out of everyone in the family, Damian slept and woke on the most regular schedule. (Imposing order where none existed, Alfred assumed, was a habit the boy had learned long before he came to Gotham.) But it was still common, on the nights he didn’t patrol, for Damian to sleep several hours and then return to the Cave and demand a report. (To Alfred’s relief, Damian always returned to bed after seeing his Batman had come home in one piece.)

But tonight, Damian did not demand anything of his Batman. He stood by silently as Stephanie was filled in on the Chaos Shard.

There was litany of questions, followed by a long silence.

“Whoa,” Miss Brown whispered, finally. Then her eyes narrowed, and Alfred could see the exact moment she realized she hadn’t been told everything.

Apparently, Tim could see this too. “Obviously, we will keep you updated . . . as plans progress,” Tim added, the barest of hint of a warning in his eyes.

Damian huffed and crossed his arms.

Stephanie opened her mouth—and Alfred braced himself for the aftermath—but what she said was “Wait, when did you guys get a cat?”

Damian held up the kitten. “Brown meet Alfred.”

And if Stephanie was a little too delighted by that name, Alfred couldn’t bring himself to begrudge anything that caused laughter in the Cave tonight.

Later, Cass and Stephanie disappeared upstairs, still laughing.

Alfred couldn’t help but notice Damian holding the kitten’s makeshift bed (a box that had once contained protein bars, now cushioned with old cleaning rags), complete with sleeping kitten, up for Dick’s appraisal. Dick said something that caused the boy to jerk his shoulders. Dick leaned down and ghosted the top of the kitten’s head with his finger. Then he leaned even further down, his head close to Damian’s. Whatever he said caused Damian to flick his eyes up and then down again. Then Damian leaned forward slightly, allowing the box to rest against Dick’s chest, allowing his words to brush over the cat’s fur. Dick touched Damian’s forehead, lightly, with his own. Damian allowed this as well, something uncoiling between them, before the boy slipped into the elevator and up to bed. 

Alfred returned upstairs shortly after this to prep food and make sure kittens and children were all in the correct places.

As he returned to the Cave, he passed a yawning Dick, who jerked his head at Tim. “Don’t even bother. He’s hit his second wind. He’ll be up for hours.”

Alfred had long ago come to recognize that specific look of concentration and had learned not to disrupt it. Just to the edge of the Batcomputer he set a flask of coffee, a sandwich, and a clean pair of matching socks.

Chapter Text

Catherine was still pressed into the couch, where she had fallen asleep as soon as she came in from her Sunday shift at the grocer’s. “Jason, honey, why aren’t you at school?” She sounded hoarse, worse than last week.

Jason straightened from his crouch at the far end of the room, hiding the screwdriver behind his back as he stood. “It’s a half day. For like, teacher prep or something.”

"Is it? I’m sorry. I forgot.” After some struggle, she managed to prop herself up on one elbow. “Did you want to do something together?”

“Nah, I got some new books from the library, so I thought I’d work on those. How are you feeling?”

Instead of answering, she teased, “One of these days, you’ll read so much, your eyes will fall out.” Her own eyes were already closing.

It took Jason longer to find a decent pawn shop than he had expected. One guy tried to offer him forty bucks for the whole set-up. “I’m young, but I’m not new,” Jason told him.

Catherine was more awake when he got home. More awake than Jason had seen her in weeks. Which was great. But also terrible timing.

“It’s not a half day.” Catherine was standing at the stove, stirring something, but she turned to face him as soon as he walked in the door. “I called the school. They said you called in sick today. Why would you do that? And where is the television?”

"I sold it,” Jason said, hoping that answered both questions.

“Sold it? For what?”

“For Mr. Pink-ass.”

“I told you not to call him that! What you are giving Mr. Pincus money for—” A sharp breath. The spoon clattered onto the stovetop. “Tell me the rent check didn’t bounce.”

“I took care of part of it; he'll wait till Monday for the rest." By Monday, Catherine would have a paycheck. "It’s no big deal. We hardly watch TV anyway.” The television, the DVD player, and the fancy speakers had been Willis’s purchase. “Things are looking up, kid,” he had told Jason when he had come home with their shiny black boxes. And then a week later, he had been gone.

Catherine put a hand over her face, her other hand braced against the counter.  

Maybe she felt sentimental about the TV—the last purchase Willis ever made on their behalf. Sometimes, Jason stood outside the doorway when Catherine talked to Mrs. Walker, their upstairs neighbor. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say!” Mrs. Walker had declared. But Catherine had just laid her upturned palms on the kitchen table, like she had been waiting for someone to fill them. “I know our marriage wasn’t perfect, but I never thought he’d abandon Jason,” she had murmured.

"I’m sorry,” Catherine said, after a minute, hand still over her face.

This was worse than if she had been upset with him. He should have told her that they must’ve been robbed or that he’d sold the TV for something dumb and then lost the money.

“You’re so goddamn useless,” Willis had snarled at her once, when she had forgotten to pay the electricity bill. And Jason had wished that she had decked him. But she had just stood there, like this. Hand over her face.              

Jason could smell the macaroni starting to scorch on the stove, but he didn’t know if he should say anything. Maybe she would be sorry for this too.

Instead, he went and hugged her tightly around the waist. She wrapped her arms around his head, cradling him against her stomach.

When he was sure she wasn’t looking, Jason reached out and turned off the burner.

***

Jason wasn’t in uniform, so at first, he considered faking a loud a phone conversation to scare the pair away from the back door of the liquor store they were obviously failing at breaking into. Criminal masterminds, these two weren’t.

But then the taller of the two said, “Hurry the fuck up already!”

The other one (kid, he was a kid Jason saw as he turned) ducked, even before the hand started moving toward him.

Catherine stumbled out of the bathroom. Her eyes were glassy. It was going to be the kind of day where she drifted. If they were lucky, she’d sleep. If they weren’t, she’d lie on her mattress with her door shut and cry until Herman arrived.

But instead of sweeping blankly over his face, Catherine’s eyes lingered on Jason’s purpling temple. Then they sharpened. “What happened?”

Jason’s mouth worked but no lie came out. And before he could find one, the door was scraping open.

“Hey, baby, it’s your lucky day! I got—”

“The key. Give me your key.”

When Herman hesitated, Catherine yanked it out of his hand.

“You got lady problems today or something?”

“Get out. Get now before I hurt you.”

“Hurt me? Girl, you can barely look at me straight.”

“GET OUT!” She raised her fists.

Herman dropped his bags and caught both of her wrists his hands. And shook her. Hard. Catherine’s body rippled like Gotham Harbor during a storm.

Jason recognized the look clouding Herman’s face. Without even trying, Herman was going to murder her. All because Jason couldn’t think fast enough to come up with a convincing lie. All because part of him hadn’t wanted to lie, not for scum like Herman Jones, no matter many sacks of groceries he brought into the house. Jason needed a knife. Or something heavy—

Catherine shrieked. A piercing sound that cut through the apartment and probably all the way into the super’s office in the basement.

“I’LL KILL YOU!”

Herman stumbled backward, hands over his ears, just as doors were cracking open, up and down the hallway. Jason took the opportunity to sweep the grocery sacks fully into the apartment with his foot.  

When the door was shut and the bolt pulled, Jason whispered, “Holy shit,” half in awe and half in terror.  

“Jason. Don’t swear.” Catherine fell onto the sofa, trembling all over. She didn’t stop trembling all night.

“You okay?”

The kid nodded. Then shook his head, tears springing to his eyes. He looked fourteen, maybe fifteen tops. A screwdriver rolled accusingly by his foot.

“You were never going to jimmy the door open like that,” Jason offered. “Not enough leverage.”

The memories had been coming back to Jason in more unpredictable waves ever since Alfred had started visiting. (Sometimes, Jason avoided these visits for months, just to keep the flashbacks at bay.) But what surprised Jason was that the memories weren’t always of Bruce and nights spent in pixie boots.

“That your dad or something?” Jason gestured to the man now cradling his arm by the dumpster.

“Are you going to kill him?” the kid whispered.

“Would you like me to?” Only half joking.

“He’s my cousin,” the kid said, answering the first and second questions together.

“Teaching you the family business?”

The kid shrugged.

“He’s not very good at it,” Jason observed. “You should consider a different line of work. Or school.”

The man had been swearing under his breath, but now the cursing was getting louder. More personal.

Jason casually kicked the back of the man’s head. “You got anyone else you can stay with?” he asked the kid.

He was not surprised when the kid shook his head. Of course he didn’t.

“There’s one of those new Neon Knights youth shelters on the corner of 15th.” Jason pointed. “They don’t ask a lot of questions.”

“What’s gonna happen to Joe?”

“What’ll happen to old Joe? Hm.” Jason crouched over the writhing body. “In and out of jail for a couple years. Cross the wrong person, sign up for the wrong job.” Jason shrugged. “Probably get killed before he turns forty. If I see him around you again, it’ll be a lot sooner than that.” He nudged Joe with his boot. “Gimme your shoelaces, Joey.”

Joe released a string of invectives. “How? You broke my fucking arm!”

“Yeah?” Jason said, pleasantly. “So that definitely shows I’m a reasonable guy you should be arguing with right now.”

The kid sucked in a breath. “I owe him,” he whispered.

Jason eyed the bruise on the kid’s chin. “You don’t owe him anything. Promise.”

The kid pointed at the bruise. “This ain’t from him.” He didn’t elaborate. “Joe’s saved my life.” The kid bent down and unknotted the man’s laces. Then he met Jason’s eyes. “Like, for real. More than once.” Jason believed him.

“Well, thanks to you, I won’t kill him. Now you’re even.” Jason knotted the laces together and secured Joe’s legs.

The kid shook his head. “I’ll go to the shelter if you want, but you have to let Joe go.”

“So then you can just sneak back to him later?”

“I know he’s not a good person.” The kid picked up the screwdriver. “But he sticks up for me. Other people don’t do that.” The kid slipped the screwdriver into his back pocket, where clinked against some other tools. He pulled down the back of his T-shirt to hide them. “I’ve been to a youth shelter before. It wasn’t terrible. But it was crowded. I’d rather have one bad person who watches out for me than a bunch of ‘good’ people who don’t have the time for me. You know?”

Jason had his phone out, ready to call the cops. So he saw Talia’s text as soon as it popped up: News on our visitor. Your place in Burnley. 1 p.m.

In her letter to him, Talia had written about Jason’s “fate.” Jason eventually realized that destiny and fate were the words Talia used for what others might call “maternal instinct”—for her desire to help a hurting, vulnerable thing, instead of crushing it under her heel. As she had been taught to do.

Talia was nothing like his mother. (Small mercies. Look at how the newest Robin turned out.)

But sometimes there was a similar heaviness across Jason’s chest when he thought of her. A warm weight that he knew he needed to push off but wasn’t ready to discard yet.

“Yeah, kid. I might be familiar with that.”

Chapter Text

Brown laughed and nudged Damian sharply. By his elbow was a small display containing an early program and some original composition notes for Die Fledermaus.

“I was unaware that you knew German,” Damian said approvingly.

“I don’t really. Just basic phrases. But I used to know music. ‘The Flying Mouse Man’ probably wouldn’t strike the same fear into criminals, huh?”

“Yes, well . . . it’s a very puerile operetta, even in terms of operettas.”

“I suppose. But the overture is fun.” Brown hummed a bit under her breath.

“You said you used to know music. That’s not really a knowledge one loses.”

Brown shrugged. “I haven’t practiced piano in a long time.”

“Why?”

“Well, I was ‘dead’ for a year. Also, we don’t have the space for a piano in the new place. . . .” Brown was rambling again. None of these excuses were the real reason. That was fine. Damian hadn’t played the violin in over a year. And he was not about to discuss what he felt whenever he picked up the instrument. 

But perhaps this explained why she had seemed so eager when Damian had suggested the Gotham Metropolitan Museum for their “field trip.” (Grayson had insisted that Damian get out of the house for some civilian activity.)

“There’s a piano near the entry,” Damian pointed out. A big grand that had been colorfully desecrated by some local artist and had a sign next to it that begged “Play me!”

“I don’t think anyone wants to hear that.”

“We have suffered through eight different renditions of ‘Heart and Soul.’ Literally anything else will be an improvement.” Interactive exhibits were torture.

“If people start throwing tomatoes, I’m blaming you,” she tossed over her shoulder as she drifted over to the piano. Her warm-up suggested that it had been a while since she’d played, but Damian noticed that one of the security guards already looked relieved. Damian could only guess what kind of indignities his ears had experienced since the exhibit began. And soon, even her fingers’ minor hesitations smoothed into confident muscle memory.

The entryway was partially removed from the exhibit, creating a slight screen between the potential pianists and the rest of the visitors. But standing between the piano and the doorway gave Damian a view of the entire exhibition hall—full for a Monday morning, but not overly crowded, not for Gotham. A private school group, a few retirees, some obvious music nerds—nothing unexpected. Brown started in on a bit of Brahms (one of the piano concertos?), and a few heads turned their direction, even though Stephanie was out of their sightline. 

A head near the “Waltz Craze” display turned toward them, and Damian scuttled back toward the piano. “Wrap it up,” he whispered.

Brown didn’t look up from the keys. “Wow,” she whispered back. “Rude. I’m sorry I’m not up to Damian-Wayne standards. But this was your idea.”

“No, you’re surprisingly adequate,” Damian said, absently. “But Todd is here.”

***

“I don’t know a Todd.” Did Damian have a friend she didn’t know about? (Or an enemy?) Either way, she probably did need to wrap up. Even though she was enjoying herself more than she had anticipated. I’ve missed this.

“Jason Todd. Keep up, Brown!”

“Well, maybe if you used first names, like a normal person . . . oh my god!” She spun around on the bench. “Jason’s here? Why is he here?”

Damian blinked at her. “Did—did you just give Brahms a jazz ending?”

Maybe. The guard closest to her was clapping anyway.

Stephanie leaned over and whispered into Damian’s ear. “Did you just tell me that the Red Hood is in the next room?”

He rubbed his ear with his shoulder. “Calm down. You’re spitting. He’s by the waltz display.”

Stephanie and Damian pretended to examine the ancient Qurac lute as they watched Jason move through the room.  

So this is the asshole who almost killed Tim. Hoodie and jeans. Tall. Messy black hair. She’d seen his photo, but they hadn’t crossed paths yet. Half of her was curious about the Robin no one would talk plainly about—they always whispered like Jason was some kind of martyr. Or demon. And half of her was terrified—would he be a soulless mastermind, the sort of monster Gotham specialized in? Would she be reminded of her dad? Someone who could have been human if only he tried?

Some days, those villains scared Stephanie the most. She could sort of understand how, say, crocodile DNA might mess with your ability to play well with others. But when humanity was just right there—and every time, over and over, you refused to reach for it. . . .

She pulled herself back to the present. “I guess we need to call Dick?”

“He won’t make it in time. Todd is almost through the exhibit.”

“We are not following the Red Hood, in civilian clothes, while you are grounded,” Stephanie hissed.

“I am well aware of our situation!” Damian hissed back. “But we are the only ones who can find out what he is doing! I will cut him off in the alley when he leaves. You can follow me or not.”

“I swear you Batboys share one braincell.” Stephanie stepped away from Damian and walked back toward the Strauss display. “Jason!” she called out brightly.

The man looked up, surprised. He was younger than she had expected, could have been one of her classmates at Gotham U. “Do I know—” As she stepped closer, the surprise turned sour. “Oh, goody. . . .”

“Imagine meeting you here!” Stephanie was aware that she was now within “stabbing distance,” but she was gambling on Jason wanting to keep a low profile.

Jason glanced toward the crowded exit. “What are you doing here?” He folded his arms. The hoodie was big on him, but it didn’t fully disguise his build. (Most of the idiots she took down as Batgirl relied too much on physical strength. But Jason had to be smarter than your average muscle-head—he’d been trained by Batman—and that combined with brawn was terrifying.)

Damian was just behind her, reaching into his sock for something—probably something pointy—so Stephanie pulled him in for a side-hug. “Oh, you know, instilling a love of the Arts in the younger generation. Ow!” Damian kicked her in the shin. She supposed she deserved that. “How about you?”

“Just judging the Eurocentric sidelining of atonal music.” She had no idea if that was a joke.

“Listen,” Steph lowered her voice, “one Bat might show up at a new exhibit by chance, but three. . . ? Even I find that suspicious.”

Jason pulled up his hood, and without looking at her, growled, “I’m not a ‘Bat’ anymore, so don’t get friendly. I know where you live, and I don’t follow the family ‘code.’”

“Mm.” That was definitely a threat. But she was getting those on a nightly basis now. Probably she’d be more scared if Jason didn’t sound so much like Damian at his most grumpy.

She must have looked unimpressed because a few seconds later Jason sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “Listen, I know you report everything to Dickie-boy anyway, so maybe tell him that the League of Assassins is in town, and I don’t want them here anymore than he does. I don’t know who they’re after, but whoever it is has an interest in ‘ostrich music.’”

League of Assassins is really, really bad. Wait. . . . “Did you say ‘ostrich music’?”

Jason shrugged and showed her a small piece of paper he pulled from his pocket. Yep. “Ostrich music.” Music for ostriches? Music about ostriches? Music by ostriches?

“Cobblepot?” she wondered. He hadn’t been leaning on the “bird theme” much lately. More the “head of a vast and ruthless criminal organization theme.”

Jason tapped a finger against the glass. “That was my first thought. But how often is the League of Assassins interested in Penguin? He’s pretty localized, even if his investors aren’t.”

“Who’s your informant?” Damian demanded, lunging in front of Stephanie.

Jason gave a short laugh.

Damian bristled. “Give me a name, Todd, or I will gut you in the parking lot and leave your entrails for the pigeons!”

Jason leaned against the case and wheezed. “Geez, kid, does that dial have a setting below one hundred?”

“No,” Stephanie answered for him, stepping in front of Damian before he could decide to make good on his threat. “I’m assuming you know how to leave us a message if you turn up anything else?”

Damian moved back in front of her, but there was something desperate and . . . protective? in his stance. “He is not an ally, Brown.”

“Damian. . . .”

“I’m not. So I’m assuming you won’t return the favor and let me know if you find anything useful?”

Oh, no. “I’m not getting into the middle of any Bat-family disputes. But I’m pretty sure Dick’s not going to give you info unless you can promise not leave dead LoA members scattered across downtown. If you want to leave me a phone number or something, I’ll pass it on.”

Jason stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Alfred knows where to find me.”

Stephanie shot Damian a surprised look, but the boy just threw up his hands. “I know! Apparently, Pennyworth has lost all sense.”

“Watch your mouth, kid.”

Stephanie shook her head. “No, see, that’s practically affectionate coming from this one.”

“Tt.” Damian folded his arms but didn’t disagree. “Watch yourself, Todd. I will not be so charitable if I meet you in uniform.”

“O-kay. Fun times, good talk. Thanks.” Stephanie dragged Damian away by the arm. “I guess we should go look for some ostrich-themed clues. Right, Damian?”

The closest things to “ostrich music” in the exhibit was an ostrich feather opera fan. But Stephanie and Damian took photos of everything vaguely bird-related, just in case. It was a bit too much of a coincidence that this exhibit had opened at the same time as Jason receiving his tip. Gotham didn’t do coincidences. 

Damian complained several times about the pointlessness of searching for clues based on such sparse information and offered to follow Jason and beat his informant out of him. But as he grumbled, he also pointed out Haydn’s “The Lark” and the non-bird-themed but potentially useful display on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders music. He was more engaged than he had been during the whole field trip, so Stephanie figured she could still tell Dick that it had been “educational.”

But now he seemed antsy, and Stephanie figured it was probably time for lunch. When she suggested as much, Damian glanced uneasily toward the foyer—where the restrooms were.

“How about I just sit at the piano while I wait?”

He flushed but nodded. And Stephanie squashed the temptation to shout something embarrassing after him. Too easy.

After about ten minutes of piano-playing bliss, she wondered if something was wrong. After fifteen minutes, she knew. Jason had left well before they had finished combing the exhibits, but that didn’t mean Damian wouldn’t still try to find him. In order to exit the building from the restrooms, Damian would have had to pass by her. But that was assuming he was a regular person who used doors.

You’re really going to make me earn this paycheck, aren’t you? She had a very clear picture of herself sneaking into the men’s restroom and then standing on top of wobbly stalls as she climbed into the drop-ceiling to crawl after a four-foot-tall former assassin.

But as she approached the restrooms, she saw a familiar back in a small alcove, shrouded by exhibit banners.

“I don’t know anything more, unfortunately,” Damian was saying. “But I will keep you updated.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

That responding voice, cheery and high-pitched, belonged to a child. What on earth had Damian gotten himself into? Was he recruiting ordinary children as snitches now?

“So, how’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Damian was shrugging now. “I know. I’ve been involved in this new case.”

Silence.

In a lower voice, Damian admitted, “I’ve been grounded.”

“Aw, that sucks, Damian. I’m sorry.”

He knows Damian’s name? Wait. . . .

“Colin Wilkes!” A woman all in black fluttered onto the scene “What did I say about staying with your museum partner?”

“Sorry, Sister Agnes.” When the boy turned to address the nun, Stephanie could see a shock of red hair and the sort of well-worn, charity-shop clothing that always reminded her of her early childhood. “I just really had to pee. I told José that I’d catch up to him.”

Sister Agnes looked deeply skeptical. “That was twenty minutes ago.”

Colin had the angelic smile of a kid who was a little too used to being in trouble. “Well, then I ran into Damian.”

Sister Agnes turned to Damian, her gaze softening a little. “And is Damian a friend of yours?”

With very different looks on their faces, both Damian and Colin opened their mouths to answer. Stephanie knew she had to save these idiots from themselves. “Sorry, I took so long,” she said, stepping out from behind the pillar. “The line was horrible.”

Damian blinked at her.

“Oh, you must be the Sister Agnes Colin mentioned!” Stephanie held out her hand. Do nuns shake hands? Crap. I hope so.

Sister Agnes returned the handshake firmly. “Yes. And you are?”

“Stephanie Brown. I’m the Waynes’ au pair.” That was probably the wrong term. But it sounded good.

Stephanie could see the wheels turning as Sister Agnes looked between Damian and Stephanie. She was thinking, The Waynes?

“It’s sooo nice to see Damian making friends his own age!” Just because this was true, didn’t mean she couldn’t play it up. She wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “It’s been hard, you know? What with him moving to Gotham from abroad, and Bruce having to be gone so much for business. . . .”

It was pure delight to watch the confusion, surprise, and murderous rage dawn on Colin, Sister Agnes, and Damian’s separate faces. Yeah, that’s right, Sister. Those Waynes.

***

Stephanie had barely gotten the keys in the ignition when Damian snarled, “What did you think were you doing, Brown?”

“Um, I could ask you the same thing, Mister Suddenly-Forgot-Secret-Identities-Are-a-Thing.”

Damian slumped down in his seat and looked out the window. “I met Colin on an undercover mission; the circumstances were extreme.”

“An undercover mission during which you met a perfectly normal boy and revealed your secret identity to him?” Wow. I sound like Mom. Don’t know if I’m horrified or proud.

“Colin isn’t— It was a kidnapping ring. I had to ‘be a child’ in order to bust it.”

“Damian. You are a child.”

Damian made a face. “I had to be a different kind of child.”

“And that’s where you met Colin. I can’t believe Dick let you do that.”

Silence.

“Dick didn’t let you, did he?”

“I would prefer if you kept this meeting with Colin to yourself. Grayson is aware of my previous mission, but . . . he does not know all the details.”

“Like the fact that a random kid now knows who Batman and Robin are.”

“Colin is not some ‘random kid.’ I have found him a highly reliable ally.” 

“He’s your friend,” Stephanie translated.

“If he were merely a friend, he would not know my identity.”

“Wait, you call him Colin not Wilkes, right?”

“Habit. When I met him, I didn’t know his surname.” Then Damian flushed a little. “When I met him, I assumed Colin was his surname,” he admitted.

Ah. Damian was smart, but he didn’t always realize how “un-normal” his communication style was for a ten-year-old boy. Stephanie pulled into the parking garage and paid the attendant. “Okay, fine be mysterious about your friendship-building adventure. But I don’t think Dick’s going to be as mad as you think he will be. In fact, I know he’d be happy you made a friend.”

“I told you, Colin isn’t—why are we at Gotham Mall?”

“Have you ever eaten at a food court?”

Damian grimaced. “No.”

Stephanie slid out of the car and tossed her keys into the air. “That’s why.”

***

Grayson had promised they would talk today—about the Chaos Shard and whatever they were hiding from him.

When Damian found him, Grayson was eating apple slices at the Batcomputer. Damian attempted to grab one covertly, but Grayson just pushed the dish toward him. “Didn’t get lunch?” he asked.

“I ate. I don’t know if it qualified as food.”

While standing in the noisy, pulsing lines of the food court, Damian had wondered if Grandfather’s first experience of modern civilization had involved a mall. That might explain his desire to raze humanity to the ground and start over.

Gotham City Pretzels had been tolerable, and the kimbap place, surprisingly decent. But Damian was genuinely concerned about the “Gotham-style chili cheese fries” Brown had ordered for him. They were inedible. Brown had just shrugged and pulled them over to her side of the table. (“You are aware that Pennyworth would happily feed you if came by the penthouse?”) And the milkshake from Quaking Shakes had a disappointing, artificial sweetness. (He and Grayson had a better milkshake spot they frequented on slow nights. Damian wondered if Grayson still visited it without him. Or worse, visited it with Drake.)

Grayson nodded. “The true Gotham experience then.”

Damian glowered. He had trained in every climate and major world city, but crowds and cityscapes had never been his preference. The only the part of “the Gotham experience” he enjoyed was the part currently closed off to him. “Enough chitchat. What else do you know about the Chaos Shard? And have you finally decided to allow me to do something?”

Grayson pulled an apple slice from the bowl and chewed it slowly, his expression closed. Finally, he said, “Tim has an informant who told him the League is in town.”

“I know.”

“You know.” Voice flat.

It was obvious Grayson thought he had uncovered this information through forbidden means.

Damian hurried to explain: “We ran into to Todd at the museum this morning—when Brown confronted him, he wanted that tidbit passed along to you.”

Dick sat up in his chair. “You saw Jason?”

So Damian explained the morning and Todd’s warning and the strange slip of paper about “ostrich music.” The only thing he didn’t mention was his meeting with Colin.

“I’m sorry your trip was interrupted, but good work. Great work.” Grayson flipped through the photos on Damian’s phone.

“The Shard?” Damian prompted.

Instead of responding, Grayson transferred the photos to the Batcomputer.

“Spit it out, Grayson.”

“I’m afraid to ask to you because I’m afraid you’ll think you have to say ‘yes.’” Grayson finally looked up. “Talia is in Gotham. She’s probably the reason the League is in Gotham, and it might be connected to the Shard. We think she’d be the most likely to talk to you.”

“Then I will talk to her.”

“Mm.” Grayson reached for another apple slice and then stopped mid-reach and leaned back in the chair instead. “She’s been hanging out around Newtown. I figure that if we suit up tomorrow night and make our regular run across the bridge, she’ll find us. This will also create a distraction for Tim, who will be at the museum.”

“You don’t like this plan,” Damian observed.

“It’s not fair,” Grayson finally said.

Damian did not wince. Obviously, in Grayson’s eyes, he had not earned even this temporary and reluctant reprieve. He still had a week and a half of his sentence left to serve.

Grayson leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I told you that you’d never have to see Talia again unless you wanted to. I meant that. You don’t have to do this.”

Something inside Damian churned. Maybe it was the chili cheese fries. “Mother may not wish to see me,” he confessed. The words felt small and weak coming out of his mouth, and he didn’t know why. This was not new information.

“That’s possible,” Richard admitted. “I can never guess what Talia’s going to do. Do you want to try? Or should we just call this a dead end?”

“Tt.” The League getting their hands on a Chaos Shard was significantly more upsetting than whatever Mother might (or might not) say. “I think the answer to that should be obvious, Grayson.”

Chapter Text

“What did the doctor say?” Jason dropped his school bag outside the door to Catherine’s room. He didn’t want to wake her, but he needed to know.

She was sitting up against the headboard, still in her work clothes, eyes shut.

Catherine hummed for a minute and then opened her eyes. “Nothing new. Don’t worry.” She pulled herself up into a sitting position against the headboard, and then she closed her eyes, pressing her hands against her temples. “Sweetie, do you mind heating a can of soup for dinner tonight?”

“Sure. What do you want: tomato or chicken noodle?”

“You decide. I’m probably just going straight to bed.”

Jason rummaged in her dresser and pulled out an orange bottle. “Take one.”

Catherine shook her head and then winced slightly at the motion. “I’m okay. I think I’ll save them for when I really need one.”

“It says ‘as symptoms occur’—right here on the label.”

“I think they’ll have to be for emergencies now. The doctor’s not going to prescribe them anymore.”

Jason gaped at her. “Why? You’re not better! Did you tell him you’re not better?”

“Yes, but he says it’s too dangerous for me to keep taking them long-term. So I’ve got to wean myself off.”

***

Tim sat on the floor, propped against his bed. There were several files about the Chaos Crystal and the LoA minimized on Tim’s laptop. But the ones currently open were about the concept of a Vanishing Point at the “end” of time and the entropic force of Omega Energy. (But was it really an “entropic force”? That was part of what Tim couldn’t quite grasp.)

Maybe he was going about this wrong, trying to combat an advanced scientific power with a complicated computer algorithm and the Justice League’s cadre of legitimized time travelers.

Maybe fantastical forces should be fought with other fantastical forces. Maybe it was time to call up some magic users? But who?

John Constantine, unsurprisingly, had responded to neither written messages nor phone calls. And Tim needed someone who might be willing to work “outside the rules” but was powerful enough to combat Omega Energy. Preferably someone who had previous experience with time travel.

There was no point in bringing Bruce back if it destroyed the planet immediately after. But maybe Bruce had already solved this problem. Maybe the first order of business was just to find Bruce.

Sometimes, Bruce would let Tim ramble, solving a problem out loud, without offering a word of input. Just grunting at the right times. And often, this was all Tim needed. Other times, Tim would finish, and add, almost breathless from the speed of his outpouring: “What do you think?” And Bruce would lean back, slow and deliberate, hands folded under his chin. Then he might say something seemingly unconnected: “How many windows did you say the prison had?” But it would be the attention-focusing question Tim’s investigation needed.

Tim wished he could talk to Bruce about the problem of finding Bruce.

He groaned and shut his laptop, leaning forward until his head rested on the machine.

“What are you doing?”

This is why you should never leave your door open, Tim.

There was an element of suspicion beneath Damian’s words. But a few weeks ago, this would have been asked in a much more derisive tone.

“Trying to absorb information through osmosis,” Tim said.

Damian made a noise that might have been a laugh. “Do you desire assistance?”

Tim raised an eyebrow.

Damian huffed. “Cassandra refuses to spar anymore today. She said I should see if you needed help with ‘detective things.’”

Thanks a lot, Cass.

Damian’s eyes roamed the room.

He’s bored, Tim thought. But Tim didn’t have time to entertain grounded Robins. He had to leave for the museum in about an hour. And he really should be trying to find a connection between those bats and this reality-altering jewelry.

Actually. . . .

“We never finished the handwriting analysis of the note with the pied bats.” There had been no fingerprints or oils or interesting dirt particles to examine. Handwriting was the last clue.

Damian nodded and left the room. He returned a moment later with his laptop and sat down at Tim’s desk, as if he had been invited. They worked in silence for about thirty minutes. And just as Tim was thinking that this was almost pleasant, Damian broke said silence: “That’s not your mother.”

Tim followed Damian’s finger. There was photo of him and Dana, playing Monopoly, on the shelf next to the sixth edition of Warlocks and Wizards. Tim had forgotten it was there.

“Uh, no. That’s my step-mom, Dana.”

Damian nodded. “You never talk about her.”

Tim didn’t think he talked about any of his parents much around Damian. But maybe he talked about Dana the least.

After his dad’s funeral and Dana’s move into the psychiatric hospital in Blüdhaven, acquaintances would tell Tim, “I was so sorry to hear about your dad—and Dana.” As if they were both already gone.

Tim wondered if he had inadvertently acted that way too. He had been so caught up in trying to move forward (in trying not to feel the full weight of everything, all at once), that visits to Dana felt like being dragged back into the pit of grief and guilt. Even then, as he had held Dana’s hand and said the right things, he had been vaguely aware of setting some part of himself away, on a far shelf, where it couldn’t be broken or break anyone else.

Dana had been so sweet and warm, and Tim’s secret life had destroyed her.

Tim had originally been surprised and a bit amused by Dana’s desire to be involved in his life. Wanting make sure Tim was registered for school in time, that he had the clothes he needed, that he was eating well—all things Tim had been taking care of for himself for years. And odd little check-ins: “How do you feel about that?” “Are you nervous for your first day at a new school?” “You know your dad’s just worried about you, right?” Tim had assumed this would wear off as she got used to her role, as she discovered that Jack didn’t expect her to pay so much attention to Tim. But later, when Dana’s care showed zero signs of flagging, Tim found that he looked forward to it.

For months, he had been mentally toying with the idea of calling her “mom.” He had decided Janet wouldn’t mind sharing the title. And maybe Dana wouldn’t either. But it was too soon.

And then it was far, far too late.

They’d never found a body. There had been a lot of bodies that were never found in Blüdhaven. The loss had been so public, so vast, that Tim’s personal grief had seemed small in comparison. (And then there had been Conner. And Bart. Griefs began to blend together.)

***

Drake didn’t look much younger in the photo than he was now. But he was clearly playing some kind of game with his step-mother.

Talia had played games with Damian when he was small, before Grandfather had started pulling her away for more and more missions. But all of these “games” lead directly into training. Camouflage and stealth lessons were merely a more intense version of hide-and-seek (with more dire consequences for losing). Toy bows quickly became real ones. Wooden soldiers were replaced with flesh and blood.

“What is the purpose of Monopoly?” Damian asked, peering at the box in the photo. “Did you acquire business acumen?”

“What?”

“It’s a simple question, Drake. What is the purpose of Monopoly? Why did your step-mother desire for you to play it? What skills could it have provided you at that age?”

Now Tim was squinting at him. “I think she just wanted to hang out and have fun for an evening. Why all this sudden interest in my family? And board games?”

***

Was it Tim’s imagination, or did Damian look embarrassed?

“I am just ‘making conversation,’” Damian said defensively.

“No, you’re not. That’s not a thing you do.”

“I’m just curious about the sorts of games other children may have played when they were growing up.” Damian glowered and turned back to his computer. “The handwriting database scan is complete.”

Okay. I guess this conversation is over.

“There are no matches,” Damian said. “This task was pointless.”

“It’s not pointless,” Tim said with more patience than he felt. “Now we know a lot of things about who our suspect isn’t. And I know that’s not the only info you learned.”

Damian grumbled in his throat. “The suspect appears to have been writing with their nondominant hand, in order to disguise their writing as much as possible.”

“Which tells us that they were smart enough to know how not to be tracked and suspicious enough to plan against that possibility.”

“But it was important to them to see the bats appropriately cared for,” Damian added. “Perhaps they intended to come back for them?”

Tim shrugged. “Or perhaps they’re just a good person.”

“Who also just so happens to have illegal bats in their possession and a strong streak of paranoia?” There was some Alfred in that tone.

“Paranoia doesn’t make you a bad person," Tim pointed out. "It just means you live in Gotham.”

Damian wasn’t listening. His eyes drifted along Tim’s walls and came back to land on the photo.

“What?”

“You look happier in that photo than in ones with your mother.” Was that an accusation or a question?

Tim waited for an explanation.

“Did you prefer her to your mother?”

“Oh my god. Prefer her to my mother?” Drake leaned his head back against the mattress. “You know what? Ask Dick to explain. I can’t—” Drake thumped the back of his head against the mattress several times.

“I did not intend to upset you.”

Tim put his hands over his face. “I know. I don’t know if that makes it worse or better.” He groaned and then lowered his hands. “Listen, my mom and Dana were just . . . different people. I didn’t pick a favorite parent. That’s not, that’s not how families work.”

“One of my parents implanted a chip in my spine in an attempt to control me and force me to kill the person I cared for the most. I think it’s reasonable to have a least favorite,” Damian drawled.

Tim tilted his head. “Okay, fair. But sometimes—a lot of times—things aren’t so black and white with family.”

Damian clicked his tongue and shut his laptop. “I will see you tonight, Drake. I have things to do.”

As if the brat hadn’t shown up here looking for things to do.

“Tonight?” Oh, right. Damian was coming on patrol. To meet with Talia. The woman who had planted a chip in his spine. “Are you—?”

But Damian was already gone.

***       

The Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic looked closed for the night, but Jason pounded on the door anyway and an old lady doctor came out. Jason dragged her to the basement of the vacuum repair shop where they’d been sleeping.

As Catherine had gotten worse, they had moved from their old apartment into a cheaper one. And then, from that apartment into a series of “unofficial housing” arrangements. Not long after this, Jason was making their housing decisions. Catherine had barely the energy to move from one place to the next. Mostly, she slept. Jason didn’t worry about her boyfriends anymore. Most men were afraid of “catching whatever she’s got.”

But he slept with a broken pipe next to his sleeping bag anyway.

And then, one day, she wouldn’t move. Not for pleading or tears or shouting. She just lay on floor and blinked in and out of awareness.

That was the last time he saw her awake. The next time he saw her, he sneaked into the hospital after visiting hours, avoiding nurses and social workers. She never opened her eyes.

The time after that, her bed was empty.

Chapter Text

One day earlier. . . .

When Jason reached his Burnley hideout, Talia was already inside.

“I apologize for the intrusion.” She was in the kitchen drinking out one of his cups. “I would not have invaded your private space were it not an emergency. I made tea. I hope you don’t mind.”

Jason kind of did mind, but he accepted a cup. “What’s the emergency? I’m still researching ‘ostrich music.’”

“Something more pressing has come up. I need this.” She pulled out a photo.

Jason looked at it and then back at Talia. “I think you’ll find classier stuff at Claire’s.”

Talia’s face lacked the intense disdain, but he’d seen the new Robin made the same squinty expression when someone referenced something he was unfamiliar with. “This is currently housed in the Gotham Historical Society Museum. Given enough time, I could figure out how to free it. But I don’t have that time. Someone else is after it.”

“Your friend?” Jason ventured.

Talia sipped her tea. “I’m informed that they plan to steal this soon. Although I don't know how, I suspect they may have means I am unaware of. The museum’s security was set-up by Timothy Drake.”

“And you need something who knows the same tricks.”

Talia nodded.

Jason realized that when she had said she needed a “specialist,” she had already known she was going to ask him to steal this. Talia had numerous specialists at her disposal, but no one with such an insider’s understanding of Batman & Co. “Look, I’m not ungrateful. But I can’t keep dropping everything to run after every item you want.” Rumor had it that Penguin was running weapons up in shipments of limes for the Iceberg Lounge. Jason had been looking forward to foiling those particular plans.

Talia set her cup back in its saucer. “I found Tom Silnas.”

The cigarette smell was headache-inducing. It clung to the apartment walls all day. Even though Catherine had opened a window.

Jason took a long, deliberate drink before prompting, “Yeah?”

She slid him a file. “He’s in a private nursing home in Maine, living under the name Tom Metzger. It was difficult to trace. There’s no paper trail. Silnas must have set-up this up for himself long before he needed it. Now, he has dementia. The only thing he consistently remembers is that he has a granddaughter. He couldn’t tell me anything about the work he did for the Falcones. And believe me, if he had been capable of providing information, I would have extracted it.”

Jason didn’t doubt that for a second.

“If you tell me what information you were seeking from Tom Silnas, I will find it for you. A trade,” Talia offered.

“No. I’ll do my own legwork from here on out.” And you can do yours. “But thanks.”

“This”—she tapped the photo with a finger, her gaze locking onto Jason’s—“is more important than I can tell you.”

“That could mean anything.”

Talia’s eyes darkened. “Yes, but I had hoped, after all this time, you might trust my judgment on what is truly vital.” There was no question what she was referring to.

And Jason was grateful. When he didn’t resent being alive in the first place. But he didn’t like having his arm twisted. And Tom Silnas was a dead end. “I have other things going on right now.”

“You’ve had me as a friend; you don’t want to experience me as an enemy.” Talia’s tone was matter-of-fact.

“I’m sure,” Jason said. “Though all that training you paid for must seem like a waste if you’re just going to run me through now.”

Talia laughed. She put her hand on Jason’s cheek, and it took all of his self-control not to flinch back. “I won’t kill you, Jason. There are other ways of destroying someone.” She removed her hand. “I hear that Vicki Vale is digging into Bruce Wayne’s past, asking questions about Batman. Her instincts are good, and she’s hungry for a secret. It would be remarkably easy to direct her towards Jason Todd.”

Jason wondered if Goldie knew how close Vale was to uncovering everything. Probably. It was unlikely that a gossip columnist could cover her tracks that well.

“How’s Ra’s going to feel about that?” Jason asked. Ra’s was as protective of Batman’s secret identity as Bruce had been. Maybe even more so. “You know he’s got a whole creepy if-I-can’t-take-him-down-no-one-else-is-worthy thing about Batman.”

“In the past, I have defied Ra’s to your benefit,” Talia said. “Do you imagine I couldn’t do it to your harm?”

Jason didn’t imagine that at all.

“You’ve been living a half-life in the shadows. One foot still comfortably in the grave.” Talia steepled her hands in front of her face. A gesture eerily reminiscent of Ra’s. “Secret identities are for those with something to protect. And I keep asking myself who Jason Todd thinks he is protecting. Who do you still consider yourself bound to? But then I realized: It’s much simpler than that. You still enjoy the anonymity. Sliding in and out of bars. Eating in diners. Riding the subway. Take the mask off: be a regular person for an hour.”

Something in Jason’s gut shriveled and grew cold. The same thing he had felt as a boy when Bruce had said, calmly, in the middle of an argument, “Right now, I think you’re more angry with yourself than me, chum.” And Jason, emotionally stripped naked (and ashamed), had screamed, “Stop telling me what I feel! You don’t know!”

Jason had never put it into words before, but he did love blending into the city and disappearing. Pretending that he was a normal Gothamite, that the worst things he had ever done were steal some tires and get into a couple bar fights. Pretending that he could still be some version of the person he’d been before.

“Oh, fuck off,” Jason rasped out.

Talia smiled at him, something sad and motherly in the expression. “Before you say no, you should ask yourself what would happen if you were fully returned to life. If there was no separation between the Red Hood and Jason Peter Todd. I will not kill you if you deny me. I will simply open the door for your enemies. I will make your current life unlivable.”

The Red Hood had not been stingy when it came to collecting foes. The line of criminals eager to take a shot at him in a vulnerable state probably stretched from here to the Metro-Narrows Bridge. He would never have an unguarded moment to himself. He'd never be able to have a favorite chili dog place without putting some civilian at risk.

Never mind the bloody reverberations to the rest of the vigilante night crew.  

“I’d like to give you some time to think it over, but this can’t wait.” Her face was impassive now, watching his.

“I want a complete roster of every lackey who worked for the Falcones near Crime Alley for the past twenty years. And 30 million, plus expenses,” Jason snapped.

She nodded. Didn’t even blink. Damn it. “Half now. Half when the item is in my hands. You will be sent further instructions about the hand-off.”

“This won’t be easy. I need at least two days, maybe three. You think you can keep your friend occupied for that long?”

“Make it two.” At the door, Talia stopped. “Jason. You should wear protective gear. The cuff contains uranium particles. I would not ask this if I had another choice.”

Jason locked the door behind her and reset the code. (Not that it mattered. He’d have to redo the entire security system now. And wasn’t that just peachy?) Then he searched the apartment for bugs.

An hour later, he had every news story on the robbery, copies of the Gotham Archeological Museum’s layout and catalog, and several websites about ancient jewelry pulled up on his computer.

Chapter Text

“Huh.” Dick looked at the blood running down his arm and then back at Damian.

For all his thrill-seeking and teasing, no conscious part of Dick’s mind considered startling Damian a fun idea. But moving quietly into the Cave was now an automatic behavior.   

As a child, one of Dick’s favorite games had been trying to sneak up on Bruce. He’d jump out from dark corners of the Batcave or from behind sofas or doors. (Once, he had jumped out at Alfred on accident—which had led to a total ban on all sneak attacks outside the Cave.)

Bruce had almost always noticed him first: “Dick, get off of the bookshelf, and come help me with this sample.” “If you’re stalking a suspect, you can’t fidget so much, chum.” “Knock over that filing cabinet and you’re re-alphabetizing everything.”

And the few times Dick had managed to get close to Bruce, the best he got in response was an eyebrow twitch.

“Quick reflexes are a poor excuse for poking bears,” Bruce had warned.

Dick had wrapped his arms around Bruce’s neck and hung off of him like a too-short cape. “What if the grumpy, old bear actually likes it?”

“Hn.” Then Bruce’s lips had twitched into that peculiar not-quite-smile it had taken Dick weeks to recognize. “Not all bears do, you know.”

(This was true. It had proven both more and less fun to sneak up on Tim. Less fun because Tim didn’t appreciate the game the way Bruce had. More fun because if Tim was distracted enough, he was a really good screamer.)

It had been a long time since Dick had played that game. But the more distracted he was, the more his body fell back into old habits of movement. And he’d been distracted a lot lately.

He heard the half-strangled cry a split-second before he saw the blade. Not enough time to move out of the way, he could only turn so that it grazed his arm instead of embedding itself in his shoulder.

The attack surprised him. But it was the expression on Damian’s face that caught him off guard.

“Hey, hey, look at me.”

Slowly, the boy’s eyes met Dick’s—wide and dark, empty corridors—Dick couldn’t see the spark that normally inhabited them.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Damian’s gaze flicked to the arm Dick was gripping and then away toward the soft sound of the elevator’s doors sliding open.

“I thought I should remind you both that dinner will be half an hour earlier—” Alfred stepped into the Cave; Dick could hear the moment he realized that something wasn’t right. That small but sharp intake of breath. But being Alfred, all the man said was “Shall I fetch the suturing kit?”

“It was an accident.” Damian’s tone was completely flat. Dick hadn’t realized how much inflection the formal little boy normally used until it all completely disappeared.

“Of course. No one doubts that.” Alfred was already reaching out to pry Dick’s palm off the wound, but he absently tried to set a reassuring hand on Damian’s shoulder. A familiar gesture. One Damian usually tolerated. But now, the boy skittered back with startling speed.

When Alfred and Dick both stared at him, Damian stiffened. It was a look Dick recognized. The face of someone bracing for blow they can’t (or won’t) escape.

Dick crouched but didn’t try to get any closer. “Hey. It’s just me and Alfred, remember? Do me a favor, okay? Tell me about where we are.”

Instead, Damian said, blankly, “You’re bleeding.”

Dick shrugged, forcing himself not to wince. (The pain was starting to set in now that the adrenaline rush was fading.) “So what else is new? I’ve had worse.”

“I almost—” And then Damian snapped his mouth shut and clenched his jaw so hard that he trembled from the force.

Dick was terrified that Damian would crack his own teeth before he’d let himself express whatever was building up inside. “Kid. Damian. Sweetheart. It’s not my arm I’m worried about right now.”

Cautiously, Dick stood and stepped closer. Damian didn’t retreat. “I’m sorry I startled you. That was a dumb thing for me to do. I knew better.”

Another step. “But you caught yourself, didn’t you? When you realized it was me.” Barely an arm’s length between them now. Damian turned his head away but made no other movement.

“You’ve got some incredible reflexes.” So close, Dick could almost feel the tremors. “I’m going to put on my hand on your shoulder, if that’s okay.”

Damian didn’t respond. So after a moment, Dick slowly slid his fingers over the still boyishly bony shoulder. After another moment, he gently pressed one of the knotted, vibrating muscles. “You’ve got to relax a little or you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Tt.”

Dick had never been so relieved to hear that odd little noise. His fingers found a tight chord of muscles that ran up the boy’s neck, and cautiously, watching for signs of displeasure or fear, Dick followed that path, trying to ease what he knew had to be a physically painful tension.

Damian closed his eyes. “I’m not a ‘kid,’ Grayson.”

Dick ignored the slight vocal crack in that statement, saying, “I mean, in a purely technical sense, you are.”

“In a ‘purely technical sense,’ a kid is a young goat.”

“What? You mean that all this time you haven’t been a cloven-hoofed quadruped? Color me shocked.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Dick wasn’t sure how Damian managed to express the action of rolling his eyes with the lids still closed, but somehow, he did. “How bad is it?” he asked quietly.

Dick cupped the boy’s cheek. Some of that tension had drained, but he could still feel it thrumming in Damian’s jaw. “Alfred will look at it in just a minute. But it’s not serious. I know it was an accident.”

“Accidents are unacceptable.”

“And yet they happen anyway.”

Damian cracked open a quizzical eye. “We’re not supposed make mistakes. Even you . . . you told me, ‘When we make mistakes. . . .’”

“‘People die,’” Dick finished for him. Bruce had drilled that into his head. “That’s true. And yet, we will still make them.”

Damian gaped. “How can you . . . how can you accept this?”

“I can’t. But it’s the reality of what we do. Even Batman and Robin are human.”

“No,” said Damian, his voice low. “We must be better than that.” His face was taking on that distant look that had frightened Dick so much earlier.

“No one died.” Dick gestured to his arm. “Not even close. The best we can do is learn from these kinds of mistakes so that we don’t make them in the field. So . . . in the future, I’m definitely not going to sneak up on you.” This was Dick’s way of trying to say that he didn’t blame Damian for this incident.

But Damian, for all his quickness at picking up perceived slights, struggled with other subtleties. “And in the future, I’ll be more aware of my surroundings,” Damian vowed.

Dick tried not to sigh. “I’m sure you will be.”

***

Earlier that day. . . .

“I’m just sayin’, we installed the security for the Gotham Metropolitan Museum and the Iceberg Lounge. And those are real high-class joints.”

The receptionist sighed. “Listen, Mister. . . .”

“Peterson,” Jason supplied, leaning against the counter.

“Mister Peterson, our security is supplied by a donor who happens to have serious connections to WayneTech.”

“WayneTech? They might make decent phones, but they aren’t exactly known for their security systems.”

“We have a special relationship with their current CEO.”

He’d read about the Jack and Janet Drake Foundation. What kind of interest does the Replacement have in place like this? Is it purely sentimental? “Yeah, and I heard how well that worked out for ya.”

She laughed. “We lost three posters and a book out of the gift shop. The Gotham Metropolitan Museum loses twice that much to shoplifters on the daily. We also have a very attentive security staff.” She nodded toward one of them, who was glowering at Jason from beneath his cap.

Jason tipped his own “Kord Security” cap and stepped away from the reception desk.

He wandered the gift shop a bit, eyeing the book selection. It was small. Mostly the work of Gotham Archaeological Society members. Diary of a Gotham Witch caught his eye. Apparently, some Puritan lady named Anne had gotten up to some not-Puritan-approved shenanigans.

Flipping through, he found that it was mostly observations about the local wildlife and complaints about her neighbors. Yeah, Goody Witherspoon sounds like a snob. You should curse her cabbage.

But then he found it.

Annie, is this prophecy or a recipe?

Very quietly, he took a photo of the page. Then he stuffed his cap in his pocket and wandered through the rest of the exhibit.

***

The cut had required stitches but nothing major. They’d both seen much worse.

Dinner had been quiet and tense, reminding Dick of the early days when even his friendly patter had failed against the wall of Damian’s silent disdain. This was not disdain. Dick knew exactly what this was.

But patrol might still solve that. It was probably unhealthy, but sometimes, knocking a few heads together jarred some guilt loose too. Of course, if all this extra tension was about meeting with Talia, patrol might just make everything worse. But if Dick suggested staying home now, Damian would view it as a punishment. There was no winning here.

Normally, Damian beat Dick to the Batmobile. But tonight, Batman had to go looking for his partner. He was sitting in the changing area, dressed, except for his mask, which was still in his hand.

“You coming?”

“I didn’t want to presume. . . .”

“Robin.” Batman took the mask out of his hand and settled it onto the boy’s face. “I’m not having second thoughts. I know you would never hurt me on purpose.”

“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” Robin snapped, running to the car before Batman could respond.

Batman gave them both a few minutes of silent driving, before he said, “If you want to be mad at yourself, I can’t stop you. But we have a job to do tonight. And in order to do that well, we have to trust each other and ourselves. And I do trust you. So try to trust yourself.”

Robin didn’t respond.

Still, the first half of the night went surprisingly well. It was easy to fall back into their familiar rhythms, into the joy of leaping into the night together, the thrill of waiting for the line to catch. He needs this, Dick thought, not for the first time. We need this.

This was better than patrolling Gotham alone. Dick had never loved the city, as an entity, the way Bruce had. Growing up in the circus, moving constantly, Dick thought of home as people, not a place. (How shattering, that first revelation of how thoroughly home could be ripped from your grasp.)

After working in Blüdhaven, Dick had finally begun to understand how Bruce felt about Gotham. The way a city could have a heartbeat and a personality that was more than the sum of her parts. And then, of course, he had lost Blüdhaven. Even now, driving past certain exits on the highway made Dick’s chest constrict. The outskirts of the city and its suburbs still stood, and about 500,000 refugees from nearer the blast zone had survived to rebuild their lives in surrounding cities. But Blüdhaven had never returned.

That wouldn’t happen here. Batman and Robin wouldn’t allow it.

Batman had been prepared to rein in some pent-up aggression, but if anything, his Robin was a little slow tonight. Oh, certainly still swift when it came to disarming that mugger. Or protecting that homeless man from the knife fight that broke out right outside his alleyway. But Batman noticed that the mugger still managed to elbow Robin, hard, in the neck before Robin took him down. And one of the fighters actually stabbed at Robin, though the cheap blade bent against the suit’s armor.

“I’m fine,” Robin bit out, before Batman could say anything.

“You better be,” Batman said, handing him an extra ziptie. “If something happens to you, who knows what kind of trouble I’d get into.”

***

“Damian.” Mother appeared on the warehouse rooftop as if it were her own parlor and they were her guests. She assessed Damian’s uniform. “Robin has not been seen much lately.”

“Do you imagine the son of Talia al Ghul is seen by anyone, unless he desires it?”

If Grayson was surprised to hear Damian refer to himself this way, nothing in his body language betrayed him.

The corner of Mother’s mouth lifted briefly.

Damian felt something in his chest loosen. Which reminded him that this was the moment he needed most to be on guard. “Given our last exchange, I had not expected to see you again so soon, Talia.”

“No weakness. No hesitation. No mercy for fools. And never address me as Talia again. Understood?”

Her face barely twitched. Which was how Damian knew his arrow had grazed the gold.

“I’m not here for my own pleasure. I came to offer you an exchange—information for information.”

Damian folded his arms. “What could you know that we would wish to discover?”

She waved her finger in front of his face. “You are not in a position to negotiate. I know who is gathering bat-related flotsam in your city. I will give you a name if you will tell me what became of the Scepter of Kings.”

Damian started. He had not thought of the item since that year. . . . “I assume grandfather took it? Last I saw, it was being carted off by Ubu. What do you wish with it? I understood it’s value to be symbolic.”

“You are a child who understands very little. Even after all this time.” Her gaze flicked to Batman. “I suppose you have not even told him about the Year of Blood?”

Please. Do not tell him. Damian did not allow himself to plead, or even move, but Mother gave him a brief contemptuous look anyway.

“No, of course not,” Talia murmured. “You have no concept of the value of things. Or their cost. You are ashamed, but of all the wrong actions.”

A dark shape was moving forward, but Damian stopped him with a single hand motion. “Who is in Gotham, Mother?”

“Where is the scepter? There are worse hands than mine for it to fall into.”

They needed her information. But if Mother wanted the scepter. . . . Did she plan to overthrow the current leader of Bialya? Was a definite war more important to prevent than a possible rewriting of reality? (Assuming such a thing was even possible? And assuming Mother actually knew anything useful relating to the Chaos Shard?)

The line in Damian’s ear came to life with a familiar voice: “Guys, I’m in place, but I might I need backup. . . .”

Of course, he did. Drake had the worst timing.

Batman moved his head, once—I’ve got this—and Damian casually turned off his earpiece. As Batman moved to the far end of the roof, Damian attempted to divert Mother’s attention by demanding, loudly, “It is a League rival? Is this person Red Hood’s informant? We know he has one.”

An odd look flickered across Mother’s face. Almost amusement. And Damian knew he had made a mistake. “No.”

“You’re lying.”

“You are only one who has lied tonight.” Mother clicked her tongue. “You never used to be so craven.”

He never used to have so much to protect. Instead, he said, “Deception is merely another tool, or so you taught me.”

“I taught you that it’s the tool of last resort, used when all real power is depleted. Have you forgotten, or are so near the end of yourself so soon?” Her eyes followed Grayson, her anger now plain. “He does not see you. He does not understand who you are and what you need. I have always understood you, Damian.”

“I used to lie to you all the time,” Damian spat out. It was the only blade his tongue could find. “As a small child. You never knew.”

Mother shook her head. “You have no idea what I know. I know you down to your very DNA. I chose each strand. If the Grayson boy ever realizes who you really are, he will not be able to accept it. It is too dark and grand for his small morality.” Mother moved, as if to step toward him.

Damian did not flinch, but Mother froze anyway, foot hovering. Then she smiled, though there was nothing happy in the expression. “You were my baby,” she whispered. “And he doesn’t deserve you.”

And then she was gone. Damian ran to the edge of the roof, furious that she had gotten the last word (again), furious that she had chosen those words. He would have preferred an accusation, a threat, a challenge.

Anything that didn’t force him to bite down on his tongue, afraid that it would cry out after her against his will.

***

“Red Robin, report.” Batman kept his tone steady, knowing any hint of panic would be picked up everyone else on the comms.

Tim had been hiding in the Gotham Archeological Museum since just before closing. He would turn off the security from the inside, swipe the winged cuff, replace it with a (very nice) duplicate, and hide the original in a secret vault in the Cave. A fairly straight-forward job. The most difficult parts were the multi-layered security steps that Tim had to circumvent. (“Maybe you’ll think about the poor burglars and everything they have to go through the next time you design a security system,” Dick had teased.)

“Um, guys. . . .” Tim’s voice was muffled. “The Red Hood is here.”

Dick heard Oracle swear and then mute herself.

“Has he spotted you?” I shouldn’t have sent Tim in alone. Tim could handle—had handled—dozens of assassins on his own. But any time he and Jason were in the same vicinity, Dick saw “JASON TODD WAS HERE” scrawled across a wall in Tim’s blood.

“No. He’s pretty focused on breaking into the entryway right now.”

“We haven’t seen anyone else enter the building. You got eyes on anyone else, O?”

“No. He’s alone,” Babs’ response was clipped. Dick could tell she was annoyed with herself for missing the Red Hood. “And he’s wearing some kind of covering that masks his heat signature. I’ve switched from thermal imaging back to our regular surveillance feed. No one saw him enter the building. He must have been waiting inside.”

Like Tim.

“Do not engage!” Batman ordered. “C., Robin, and I are headed that direction. We will trail him when he leaves the building.”

“I’d love to not engage him,” Red Robin said dryly. “But what do you want me to do when he tries to put his hands on a stone that, you know, disintegrates mortals?”

“He may already know what it is and what it can do.” That wasn’t a comforting thought, the Red Hood with a reality-warping stone. The Red Hood with allies who knew how to use that kind of weapon.

Dick saw Talia leave out of the corner of his eye. Later, he would ask Damian if he had learned anything new. For now. . . .

“Hang tight. ETA fifteen minutes.” If they were lucky.

***

Easy for Dick to say. He wasn’t the one in the collections vault, watching his predecessor break into the museum his parents had funded.

With all the security down for Tim’s own “heist,” it must have been easy for Jason to break in. There were no outward signs that the security was down (this was the part that taken so much work—keeping up the appearance of active alarms and video feed, working around the unharmed security guards).

Which meant Jason had known the security would be taken down. Which meant that he had been watching either the museum or Tim. (Or both.)

Which meant he already knew Tim was here.

On his security feed (the real one), Tim watched Jason examine the mechanisms for the gate between the gift shop and the entryway. Then Jason shrugged and quietly lifted the gate high enough to roll beneath.

Note to self: Next time, relock the gates you behind you.

Jason approached a small local history display near the front door. A few minutes later, he was stuffing a book into his bag.

Maybe we aren’t after the same things after all.

Then Jason approached the “Wonders of the Ancient Middle East” exhibit.

Never mind. Time to get moving.

Chapter Text

“I wondered if you were ever going to make an appearance.”

There was no response, but Jason could feel the Pretender glaring at him from the shadows.

“The problem with you guys is that you might be cautious but you’re predictable.” Jason found the release button at the bottom of the display case, nearly flush with the podium.

Actually, the kid’s whole releasing-Jason-from-prison thing had been the definition of unpredictable—Jason still wasn’t sure how he was supposed to the read that. “Remember, I used to eat and breathe the Bat-playbook.” He removed the bullet-proof glass from the back of the case, casually scanning the ceiling for thermal signatures. “There’s not a trick you know that I didn’t learn first.” Then he pulled a bracelet out of his bag. “Heck, I even know same jewelers. You’ll be getting a bill for two decoys by the way.”

That was a lie. Jason had his own guy for that kind of work now. (And the $15 million from Talia made it easy to get the right quality stuff, quietly.) He’d bet anything that paranoia had led the Bats to attempt to recreate the cuff themselves. Arts and crafts day in the Batcave. You make a few thousand batarangs, you start to fancy yourself a metal worker.

Replacement didn’t take the bait.  

The pressure sensor in the case had been turned off, so Jason slid his hand in to lift out the cuff. A shuriken dinged against the corner of the glass as he ducked out of its flight path.

There you are! Jason spun, unholstering the .45 his other hand had been resting on. “I was trying to leave a clean scene.”

The kid was in front of him now, bo staff extended. “Don’t touch it! You don’t know—”

Step. Creak. Step. Creak.

By the time the security guard’s flashlight beam scanned the exhibit, they were both pressed into far corners of the room, blending into the dark: Jason, holding his bag; Tim clutching the loose back panel of glass.

The flashlight swept the room and then swept it again. It hovered over the bracelet’s case. The bracelet was still there, but the light must have reflected oddly without the back panel of glass.

The guard’s walkie-talkie crackled on. “Hey, Jimmy? See anything weird on E2’s monitor? Okay. No, I’m probably jumpy after the other week. Yeah, I’m gonna do the full exterior perimeter sweep and see if anything, or anyone, is out of place. But I’m gonna need you to disarm E2’s gate when I come back through. Thanks.”

Great. A deadline.

After the footsteps faded, Jason waved his hands. “Gloves,” he hissed. “They exist.”

“It’s literally caustic to mortals.”

Jason slid back toward the case. “Then good thing I brought a Ziploc.” He actually had a portable containment chamber, but whatever.

“Step away, Jason.”

Oh, it’s “Jason” now. Learn that trick from Bruce? All business until you want something. “I tried to save you, Jason. I’m trying to save you now.”

Jason raised his weapon. “You’re going to let me leave with the ugly bracelet, or I’m going leave behind a much messier crime scene for Dickie-bats than I intended.” Actually, he couldn’t shoot the kid without alerting the guard and making it obvious that the bracelet had been stolen. (And he needed to keep this theft quiet for as long as possible.)

The kid took a step forward, staff under his arm now, hands out in front of him. “Listen. This is bigger than Gotham, okay? This basically has the potential to destroy the universe. And if you give it to me, I can make sure it never ends up with the people who want that.”

The kid had balls. Jason was impressed, but that did not lessen how annoyed he was. These heat-signature blocking duds were uncomfortable. He just wanted to get this job done and go home to eat overpriced take-out in his boxers.

“I know you don’t agree with Bruce’s methods, but I wouldn’t have broken you out of Blackgate if I didn’t also know that you still care about saving people, Jason.” He took another step closer.

“Jason” again. Screw it. I should just shoot him.

His brain barely had time to register the third figure in the room and a familiar green smell before everything went dark.

***

Cass didn’t see where the cuff ended up. (“The secret-secret-vault,” Tim had told her; she’d ask him about it later.) She was more interested in what they were going to do with Jason.

His helmet looked different this time.

“I think it’s samarium nickel oxide,” Tim said with awe in his voice. “It blocks thermal imaging.”

“Don’t touch it!” Dick ordered. “It’s probably wired.”

Family tricks.

In the end, Alfred had peeled off the strange black, zippered outfit; Dick had unloaded the gun; and they left Jason on a cot in his undershirt, boxers, and helmet with his hands ziptied behind him. (It was obvious how little Alfred approved of this, but he didn’t argue.) It would only be a few minutes’ work for Jason to undo the ties. But it might be enough time to slow him down. To get some answers.

They had a lot of questions about what he’d wanted with the bracelet. Who he was working with, or for. What he knew. And why he’d stolen an old diary of nobody famous.

When Stephanie checked in after patrol, Jason still hadn’t woken. “How hard did you hit him?” she asked Cass.

Cass shrugged. “He was trying to decide whether or not to shoot Tim. I didn’t wait for him make up his mind.” But it had been the resignation in Tim’s body language that made Cass act. Jason hadn’t decided what he was going to do, but Tim’s body was already expecting a bullet.

Stephanie was staring at Tim. “You okay?”

“Not even a bruise,” he said, not looking at her.

That wasn’t what she wanted him to say, but Tim just continued not looking at her.

Jason’s body hadn't moved, but his breathing had changed.

“But why is he here?” Stephanie was asking everyone now, but Dick didn’t turn away from the computer, and Alfred continued to sterilize the night’s medical equipment.

Jason’s right shoulder twitched, slightly.

“Because they are imbeciles!” Damian snarled. “Todd is—”

“Awake,” Cass pointed out. “And free.”

Cass continued to sit on the edge of Jason’s cot. Everyone else took a step either away from or toward the cot. Now they formed a small, tense circle around it. Jason sat up, dropped a baby-sized razor blade on the cot, and pulled off the helmet, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

He pointed a finger at Cass. “You are a menace,” he said. “But I don’t have time for flattery. I’ve got a hunk of jewelry to hide and a reporter to terrorize.” He scanned his circle of captors and stopped when his eyes landed on Dick. “Pants,” he demanded. “I’m not fighting crime in boxers.”

“First, you’re going to answer some questions.” Voice hard. Batman voice. Also, a little bit Nightwing voice.   

Jason took a deep breath. More tired than angry. “Listen, I tell you stuff, shit goes down. And not just my shit. You know Vicki Vale is researching the Bruce Wayne–Batman connection?”

“What? How close is she?” Stephanie demanded. “Wait, why is nobody else in this room as shocked as I am?”

Tim shrugged. “We’re keeping an eye on it. She’s made some impressive leaps, but she doesn’t have a lot of evidence to back it up. And her career’s been tanking for years. I’m not sure her theories will hold much weight with anyone who matters.”

Hands on hips now. “And you didn’t think I should know about this because . . . ?”

As Stephanie’s movements got bigger, Tim’s got smaller, more precise. “Because she hadn’t made any connections regarding you yet. And we had other things to worry about.”

Cass wondered if Tim knew that Steph wanted him to give her back the big feelings—not stuff them into little boxes like this.

“You guys were never going to tell me, were you?” You guys but only looking at Tim now—one hand still on a hip, the other gesturing sharply across the Cave.

“Do you want to hear this story, or do you two need a minute?” Jason asked dryly.

“We want to hear this story,” Dick said, at the same time that Oracle’s voice came through on the computer with “Please continue, Jason.”

Cass hadn’t realized Barbara was listening in, and from the look on Stephanie’s face, she hadn’t realized it either.

“Talia came and asked me to break into the museum and bring her that ugly bracelet, to keep it out of the hands of some ‘friend’ of hers who is in town.”

“You cannot give it her!” Damian gripped the hilt of his sword.

“Ya think? Nah, I’ll just hand the League of Assassins a damn Chaos Shard and go about my day job. Who exactly do you think I am? But if Talia knows I’m not actually ‘helping,’ she’s going to give Vale evidence about the Jason Todd–Red Hood connection. Which I’m guessing isn’t going to be great for you guys either.”

“What evidence does she have?” Dick asked.

Jason shrugged. “I don’t know. But Talia’s never struck me as a bluffer. This isn’t a short story, and the longer I’m here, the more likely it is that one of Talia’s spies discovers I’m not at my usual haunts. Mix that with none of you lot currently being on patrol, and things begin to look suspicious. Which means this becomes your problem.” A warning and a dare in one.

“Tell us.”

Jason looked around the room, as if waiting for someone to disagree with Dick. No one did.

“Okay. Buckle up, kiddies.” Jason reached over and opened up the old diary. “Hey, where’s the magnifier that used to be connected to the Batcomputer?”

There was a grumbling sound and then a zoomed-in image of the page appeared on the Batcomputer.

“Creepy, Barb,” Jason said appreciatively. Cass had never heard anyone else call Oracle “Barb.”

Jason sat down in the Batcomputer chair and propped his feet up on the desk. Damian muttered something. No one else reacted. Jason put his hands behind his head, but Cass read disappointment in his grin. “Now, this is the diary of one Goody Annie. Or not-so-goody, according to her neighbors, since she was later hanged for being a witch.”

“What does this have this have to do with anything?” Damian exploded. “He’s deliberately wasting our time! He’s probably leading League assassins here as we speak!”

Jason counted off on his fingers. “Okay, well, first off, short-stack: Annie’s a woman in colonial America who can read and write well enough to keep a journal, so that should be considered worthy of your attention all by itself. And second, this page is the reason Talia al Ghul has had a spy, pretending to be intern Nancy Mather, at the Gotham Archeological Museum for the past two months.”

There was a long silence. Jason leaned back in the chair and examined everyone’s wide eyes.

“Really? I’m the only one who figured that out?”

“Two months,” Tim whispered, palm on his forehead.

“I mean, she’s spent almost all her time in the collections vault. And I don’t know who she is, but she’s definitely not Nancy Mather. And yeah, I’m disappointed in you all, so I can only imagine how the Boss-man would feel. Anyway, could you zoom in on the center of the left page?”

Oracle could and did.

I hear the ∫onge of the river in it∫ cradle, of the citie like a Mother, of the Demon like a ∫hadow which coverth both their faces. Where is the Protector of the People? The Bat-god is dead. Dark days cometh and are coming. When they gatherth them∫elves as a mantle over the city, till even the Moon hideth her∫elf from their deeds, the Protector will returne, the Demon will rise. But only if fir∫t are gathered a mating pair of bats brindled with light and dark, a winged band with a bright wi∫hing ∫tone, the revenge ∫ong of the bat, the ∫taff guarded by wyrm-bats, and the life breath of ∫pring’s mu∫ic, a ∫onge mo∫t mi∫sed. Fates bringth, but ye must gather. Do also build your altar upon the foundations of the olde familie, draw the ∫ymbol on your altar, and heartily ∫oak all with blood. 

Even without the tiny, crowded handwriting, Cass would have found it impossible to read. The spelling was wrong, the letters . . . off. It felt like when she was first trying to learn to read and everything was just worms twisting around on the page.

“During the first break-in, when the thieves couldn’t get into any of the exhibits, a transcription of this diary was stolen from the gift shop. I thought it was just pettiness. But now I think someone was looking for the original. And when they couldn’t bypass the security, they settled for a copy.”

“And the posters?” Dick asked. Not believing yet, but ready to be convinced.

“A distraction; they’re right next to the books. Look—” Jason highlighted a section of the screen “—‘a winged band with a bright wishing stone’? Tell me that doesn’t sound like our tacky carnival prize. I think Talia’s ‘friend’ has a copy of this book, or at least, this page. And now, Talia does too. Talia had been intercepting messages between this ‘friend’ and their sycophants. Originally, Talia was just asking me to find and get rid of things. Like a pair of pied bats. Obviously, that’s the ‘bats brindled—‘”

“You killed them?” Now Damian unsheathed his sword.

Jason tilted back in the chair and stared at Damian. “No,” he said finally. “Much to your mom’s disappointment, I might add. I dropped them off at the Wildlife Center. Which they were then stolen from. But then your mom’s people got a copy of ole Annie’s apocalyptic recipe, and apparently, Talia’s decided to try to steal the rest of the ingredients first.”

“You don’t think she’s just after the Chaos Shard?” Dick asked.

Jason shrugged. “No idea. And even if she’s after the Shard, she might not know how to use it . . . yet. But this prophecy might let her ‘use’ the Shard, without the risk. She wouldn't have to hold it, just chuck it on an altar with all the other stolen items.”

“But what is this prophecy about?” Stephanie asked.

Jason shrugged. “End of the world? End of Gotham? Summoning demons? Your typical occultic Saturday night stuff.”

Tim was biting the edge of his lip. Cass poked him.

“Ow.”

“You know why.”

“I have a guess,” he corrected. “‘Protector of the people’? ‘Bat-god’? I think she wants her own Batman,” he said quietly. “Or at least, some version of it that she can control.”

“That does seem to be an al Ghul tradition,” Dick said, rubbing his face.

Damian glowered at the words blown up on the screen. “If you can control it, it’s not Batman.”

No one argued with this.  

“If that’s true, then maybe Talia didn’t recognize the Chaos Shard,” Tim said, hopefully.

“Damian did,” Dick pointed out. “He said the League may have a machine to control the Shard.”

Damian shrugged. “I learned about it from an old tutor, not Mother herself. He died later as part of a sect war within the League. His side lost. I don’t know what weight Mother gave to his theories, or if she had even heard them.”

“So maybe she’s just after a magical ingredient list? Could she really be that superstitious?” Tim asked.

“Or maybe Talia’s opponent is.” Dick offered. He was already pacing. “Someone is after all the items on this list. Which means they are after the Chaos Shard, whether or not they know what it is.”

“But that can’t work, right?” Stephanie said. “Like, there’s no such thing as a bat-demon.”

Dick and Tim exchanged a look (uncertainty, dread, resignation). Damian stared at the wall (anger, terror, shame).

“Guys?”

Alfred had said nothing this whole time, but now he approached the computer, one hand on the back of Jason’s chair. “Perhaps our biggest concern may be that whoever is trying to raise demons—real or otherwise—will do so by next Saturday night.” He pointed at the screen. “‘Till even the Moon hideth herself from their deeds’? If I were a particularly superstitious person, I think I would be looking toward the coming lunar eclipse for my ritual.”

The only sound in the Cave was Dick still pacing.

Tim looked like he was about to say something else, but instead, he stared at the ceiling.

“So, anyway. . . .” Jason spun the chair away from the computer and planted his feet on the floor. “That’s why you need to give me back the bat-bracelet, so I can keep it out of Talia’s evil scavenger hunt.”

“Where exactly did you plan to hide a Chaos Crystal?” Dick demanded. His rotations were getting shorter; his turns, sharper.

“See, that’s how secrets work, Dickhead. When you tell people, they aren’t secrets anymore.”

“Is it more secure than the Batcave?”

“Oh, the Batcave that half of the Justice League and every al Ghul ever has managed to break into? Yeah, I hope so.”

“We’ve had several security upgrades since then,” Tim pointed out.

Normally, Dick moved his hands when he talked. Now, only his feet moved. “And what are you going to do when Talia finds out you haven’t stolen the cuff for her?”

“Oh, but I am stealing it. Tomorrow night.” At Dick’s frown, Jason smiled. Wide and toothy. “It’ll be less than stealthy I’m afraid. But I only had two days to get the job done—a smash-and-grab will have to do. Plus, the alarm jammers I planted tonight.” Pleased with himself.

Dick was less pleased. “And when Talia notices it’s a fake?”

“If she notices, she won’t necessarily pin that on me. But that’s why I have to go. I’ve got a ‘hot tip’ for a local reporter.”

“What are you going to do to Vicki Vale?” Dick wasn’t pacing now. Feet planted. Fighting stance, even with hands down.

“What do you think? You think I kill random citizens now?”

Dick just crossed his arms.

“You know, I’m actually able to differentiate between, say, the leader of a human trafficking a ring and a desperate reporter I just happen to find annoying.”

Arms still crossed, Dick said nothing.

Even when a face didn’t move, sadness could sneak into the corners—mouth, eyes, eyebrows—and pull it down. It took Jason a couple seconds to shake off this weight. “Listen, I figure Vicki Vale may be desperate, but she’s also a Gothamite. If she has to choose between making her hometown even more hellish and getting a good story, she might be talked into writing a story that redirects attention.”

Dick's eyebrow raise was stolen from Alfred. “And if Vicki, in the spirit of Gotham, doesn’t decide to put the public good above her career? Or if Talia is able to get her information to another, even less scrupulous reporter. . . ?”

“I don’t know what the rest of you have for backup plans, but Gotham isn’t the only city with problems. The Red Hood can relocate, reinvent.”

Looking around the room, Cass knew that she wasn’t the only one who noticed how forced that shrug was.

After a long silence, Dick breathed out, the hard worry replaced by a softer one. “Redirecting attention is not the worst idea, actually. If we had another way to do that, would you be interested?”

“What?” The roundness of surprise made Jason’s expression less sure, less cynical.

“We’ve got a potential identity leak, an occultic bat-themed ritual, and a reality-warping stone on our hands. Do I include you in this plan or not?”

“Grayson!” Damian gasped. “You can’t trust him.”

Dick didn’t say anything to that. And he didn’t look away from Jason. It wasn’t trust on his face. It was challenge.

Jason must have been able to read that too because he frowned and pushed himself to stand. “Tell me what this plan is first.” But as he said the words, he put his hands in his pockets, and his back relaxed—like he already wanted to say yes, like a challenge was his favorite thing.

Damian was nearly vibrating with fury—and horror. Stephanie looked doubtful (and doubtful about expressing that doubt). And the gears in Tim’s head were turning so fast, Cass could almost hear them squeak.

“Actually, there are some other people I have to talk to first.” Dick looked to Alfred. “If we—” he gestured to rest of the Cave’s inhabitants “—talk for a minute in the medical bay, will you be. . . ?”

“I will be perfectly safe,” Alfred said firmly.

“Oh god,” Jason muttered under his breath. “No, I’m planning to eat Alfred’s liver while you’re all six fricking yards away gossiping about me.”

“You even breathe on him, and I will gut you from sternum to navel!” Damian leapt forward, sword drawn.

Alfred did not step between them. He merely glanced from Damian to Jason and then back again. “As a citizen of the reality currently at risk, a little more focus on the task at hand is what will make me feel safer.”

Damian huffed and sheathed his blade. “Make this quick, Grayson!”

***

“. . . so, that’s the plan.”

Dick surveyed his team. They sat on the metal gurneys in a loose circle. Damian, Tim, Stephanie, and Cass were all practicing their poker faces (with various degrees of success), but they kept shooting mini-glances at each other, trying gauge how the others were going to react.

“I know it’s not perfect,” Dick allowed. “But we have to act quickly.”

“We’re just supposed to accept this foolishness in the name of haste?” Damian peered around Dick’s shoulder to spy on Alfred and Jason.

“No. We’re going to vote—unanimous acceptance or nothing. This isn’t just ‘work’; this will mess with our civilian lives. If anyone feels this is too dangerous, we’ll come up with another plan. Cass?”

She nodded, once, sharply. “Yes. Needs to happen.”

“Stephanie?”

She rubbed her hands against her knees. “It actually doesn’t affect me that much, civilian-life-wise, so I guess I’m okay with it.” She glanced at Tim. “If other people are. But I’m not sure I should vote. Why isn’t Alfred voting?”

Dick gave her a half-smile. “’Cause we already know what he wants.”

Damian glowered. “He is being sentimental. I refuse to allow you to put him in danger.”

Tim squinted. “So we’re just going to abandon the only decent plan we have because Damian is uncomfortable?”

Dick shot him a warning look.

But Stephanie said, slowly, “I’m surprised you, of all people, are ‘comfortable’ with this plan. This isn’t some weird brand of Bat-denial, right? Not to be mushy on the main, but I kind of prefer you not-dead.”

Tim laughed a little. "Me too, actually. But I'll be okay. I know Jason’s dangerous. But I also know we can take him, if we have too.” He laced his fingers behind his neck. “Apparently, Damian’s the only one who doubts that.”

Dick pointed his finger. “Don’t.”

Tim’s eyes widened just a little too innocently. “Don’t what?”

“I know what you’re trying to do, but—”

“What I doubt, Drake, is your ability to come out of an interaction with Todd without dying.” Damian’s words were over-enunciated—a sure sign that he was uneasy. “How many times have you had to be rescued from the Red Hood’s clutches now?”

“I’m touched by your concern,” Tim said dryly. Then a smile flickered across his lips. It was gone almost immediately, but Dick knew it was a bad sign. “Cass, at least, has shown that she’s more than capable of taking down Jason.”

Cass grinned and bumped Tim’s offered fist.

“Don’t encourage him,” Stephanie said.

“Have you forgotten how I dragged you away from Todd’s collapsing lair?!” Damian was standing on the gurney now.

“No, but apparently you have.” Tim tilted his head as if in thought. “But then you never really fought Jason on your own, did you?”

“Tim, stop goading him,” Stephanie snapped. “He’s allowed to be worried.”

“The only thing I’m worried about is the level of idiocy I’m surrounded by! Just because I’m not afraid of snakes, doesn’t mean that I would allow a nest of vipers to live in my sock drawer!” Damian’s gaze swept the circle, furious, but when it landed on Dick, there was something hurt and pleading behind the anger.

Dick didn’t know what to say to him.

But then Cass climbed onto the Damian’s gurney. It swayed a little but didn’t move. (All the wheel brakes were set.) She stood on her knees. Damian was only a little taller than her this way. Her expression was somber. “Look at me. We will not let anything happen to the others. I will promise to protect them, if you will promise help me—and to allow this plan.” She held out her hand. “Deal?”

“This is a foolhardy, sentimental plan,” Damian said.

“Yes,” Cass agreed, still holding out her hand.

“Then why are you agreeing to it?”

“Because if I don’t, they will just come up with dumber plans—but separately.” Cass squinted at the group. “This way, all the dumbness is contained—not a surprise.”

Damian gripped her hand. “If you are all determined to be idiots, then I will help you protect the other idiots.”

“Great,” Dick said. He couldn’t even muster up fake cheer. “I guess next we try to convince Jason.”

As everyone else left the medical bay, Dick put his hand on the Tim’s shoulder. He felt like he should probably say something like “Don’t be an a-hole to Damian just because it’s strategic.” But instead, he found himself blurting, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Tim shrugged. “It makes the most sense given the circumstances.”

“That’s not what I asked. If anyone here should have concerns about Jason. . . .”

“Apparently, I eventually get over other Robins trying to kill me.” Tim’s grin was teasing but Dick found that he couldn’t return it.  

Chapter Text

“That’s how you know it’s a good plan—” the Replacement had said, “everybody hates a different part of it.”

Jason hated about twenty different parts of it. But here he was. In some kind of conference room/holding cell in Wayne Enterprises, waiting for his cue.

He had slept for maybe two hours last night (on a cot in the Cave). He’d spent the rest of the night hammering out the details.

Even with the phone in his hand this morning, ready to call the press conference, Tim had thrown out, “You sure you don’t want to get Hush involved?”

Distaste had washed over Dick’s face. Jason wasn’t sure whether it was general distaste for Tommy Elliot or just the thought of letting him play Bruce again. “I’m sure.”

These were the sort of awkward loose ends you were left with when you didn’t kill the people who needed killing.

But given that Jason was currently playing the role of “awkward loose end,” he decided not to bring this up.

Now, the left side of Dick’s mouth quirked up. “Hey, don’t look so glum. Alfred made a bunch of those jam cookies you used to like for after lunch.”

“Lunch?” What the heck did lunch have to do with anything?

But Dick was already stepping outside, toward the microphones and cameras set up at the WE entrance. They were “out-scooping” Vicki Vale. This wasn’t just “controlling the narrative”—it was emotionally blackmailing the narrative.  

The door stayed propped partway open, and Jason heard the words distantly, as though he was under water and the words were traveling down to his clogged ears. “. . . warehouse explosion . . . recently discovered . . . escaped a human trafficking ring . . . traumatic memory loss . . .”

Jason didn’t exactly love the “human trafficking ring” angle. But there was actually a human trafficking ring along the Qurac border that the Justice League didn’t have the jurisdiction to bust. In return for the international pressure that finding a son of Bruce Wayne put on local governments, Martian Manhunter had been willing to shape-shift into “concerned father Bruce Wayne,” wrapping up details overseas, dealing with Interpol and the FBI. It gave them an excuse not to have Bruce around for a while.

Hopefully, Jason would be gone before the real Bruce returned from his time vacation to kick him out of his Cave.

“. . .shocked and overjoyed, of course, but also still trying to find our footing as a family . . . taking things slowly . . . family appreciates the public respecting our privacy, and especially Jason’s privacy, during this time. . . .”

If Jason took a shot every time Dick used the word family, his liver would probably eject itself from his body. (He really wished that was an option right now.)

The door opened fully again. Dick had moved to the far side of the podium and was smiling encouragingly at him. Jason started shaking his head and stepped further back into the room.

“How good are you at acting?” Dick had asked last night. “We can say that you’re not up to making a public appearance, and that would definitely be believable. But if you did make a brief public appearance, and you seemed, you know, a bit distressed . . .” Dick spread his hands apologetically “. . . then it would be easier to get to keep the regular press off our backs. At least, for a while.”

“Any Gotham Globe reporter stalking ‘poor recovering Jason Todd and his family’ will look extra sleazy,” Tim added.

Gotham was not kind—she distrusted her celebrities and her philanthropists alike—but unlike most fast-paced American cities, Gotham also had a long memory. It was too much to say that Gothamites loved the Waynes. Jason spent enough time on the subway to hear people take Bruce’s name in vain whenever their phones dropped a call. But he had also, over time, heard people remark on Wayne Enterprises staying in the city after the earthquake, when other businesses had fled. And they remembered that the majority of scholarships and clinics and emergency supplies tended to come from foundations that could be traced back to the Wayne name. And they had (skeptically) watched Bruce take in kids (“Our Angelina Jolie, if she was male and dumb,” a bartender had explained to Jason, and he had tried not to choke on his beer). They had, from a distance, watched as these kids grew up. And Jason had been surprised to find that, sometimes, Gothamites still remembered the child who hadn’t grown up. Jason had heard everything from “How do you lose a teenager in another country? If Wayne wasn’t rich, CPS would be all over his ass” to “Listen, the man lost both his parents and then one of his kids—if he wants to spend the rest of his life getting drunk with models in exotic resorts, I figure it ain’t my place to judge.”

“I’ve got this,” Jason had assured Dick. If he could pull off the “gee whiz, Batman!” schtick, he could manage five minutes of PR.

He had a pocketful of cards with “approved” phrases on them. But he wasn’t ready, he realized. He wasn’t ready to be Jason Todd Wayne again.

Bruce straightened his tie and tried, for the fourth time, to tame the cowlick that wouldn’t stay tamed. “You won’t even have to say anything, okay? You’re lucky, chum. ‘Brucie’ has to wander around all night and make small talk. All you’ve got to do is smile and people will think you’re adorable.”

“I’m too old to be ‘adorable.’” Jason folded his arms and hoped he wouldn’t sweat through this dress shirt as well.

Dick’s smile was taking on an edge of panic. But no one else had noticed Jason’s wavering yet.

“I’m going for ‘devastatingly sexy.’”

Bruce snorted and poked his side. “Behave.”

(“Watch yourself, boy,” had been Willis Todd’s version of “behave.”)

He had behaved. And at the end of the night, Bruce had put his hand on his shoulder and said. . . .

(It had mattered so much back then what Bruce had said.)

Dick stepped back up to the mic and said something that had the crowd laughing. And Tim was saying something near Jason’s ear and shaking a water bottle in his direction.

“You’ve been a bad boy.” Laughter. Red lips pulled into a parody of parental disapproval. “You must be punished.”

Ah, frick. Not now, brain.

Dick looked out at the crowd and then at Tim and made a quick motion with his hand. Tim moved toward the door, but Jason shoved him aside and walked out because fuck him. Fuck both of them. He’d endured the Joker. He’d died. He could survive a dumb PR stunt.

He stomped toward the microphones. It was hard to tell with the laughter ringing in his brain, but the tenor of the crowd seemed to change once he stepped into view. He was pretty sure Dick was desperately attempting to telegraph something with his eyes, but Jason refused to look at him.

He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure what to say.” He was glad he’d refused the water bottle. His dry throat made licking his lips seems like a nervous twitch. He was supposed to be nervous. Not quite method acting, but it’ll do. “I’ve lost a lot of memories, some that I’m not sure I’ll ever regain.” Shame I can’t lose the right memories.

He scanned the crowd. He must be doing a decent job because even Vicki Vale looked sympathetic. Which was irritating, but also the point of this whole exercise. Jason was carefully avoiding whatever fake expressions of familial concern Dickie-boy was making, so he let his eyes roam to the front of the crowd. Which was a mistake. Because that’s where Alfred was standing. And that concern was a little too real.

Eyes front and center again, staring down those camera lenses like they were gun barrels. “I suppose it’s some kind of fantasy: somebody shows up and tells you, ‘Surprise, you’re the long-lost adopted son of billionaire Bruce Wayne?’ I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a movie with that plotline.”

Some titters across crowd. Both of Alfred’s eyebrows went up. Dick started coughing, pointedly.

So he was going off-script. What were they going to do? Kill him again?

“But honestly, it’s just been kind of weird. Like, the DNA matches. I know I was that kid. The facts are there. But I don’t really remember being that kid. I don’t feel like that kid.” Alfred’s jaw was working, and Jason regretted looking his direction.

“So it’s just going to be an adjustment, okay?” He let his voice break, just a little, just enough for a nice soundbite on the six o’clock news. “I’m going to need some time—” He stared at a cloud above his head and told himself this was good, naturalistic—and that the crowd blinking in and out of his vision was not a particular concern. He really wished he had accepted that water bottle now. He glanced down hoping there was one in the podium.

Dick let out a shout. And Jason’s first thought was annoyance. Really, Goldie? He was doing a great job. They were eating out of his damn hand. And his second, attention-sharpening thought was that it was a bad sign that his sniper was not using a silencer. His body had processed the sound before his brain had, and his quick duck to look for water ended in a crouch behind the podium.

The crowd was screaming. Panic was part of the message. But the crowd didn’t cover the sound of the second bullet pinging off of the podium. The other part of the message obviously hadn’t been fully delivered yet. The podium was reinforced (someone had tried to take out the Replacement recently, so that made sense), but it wasn’t going to hold up forever. And his assassin didn’t seem particularly concerned about secrecy or civilians. Or wasting ammo.

Dick was squatting behind a pillar, just out of sight. He nodded to someone behind Jason. When Jason met his eyes, Dick dropped a familiar hand signal and rebalanced on his toes.

No— Jason mouthed, shaking his head vigorously. But it was too late. Dick was somersaulting forward, with such unexpected momentum that, even though Jason was bulkier, Dick managed to pull him along for a full rotation and half. And Jason didn’t dare fight him, didn’t dare pull out of the spin and leave them both exposed on the steps of WE.

And then a door slammed shut. Tim was locking it behind them.

Instantly, Jason was on his feet. “What the hell was that? Alfred’s still out there.”

“They weren’t shooting at Alfred!” Dick looked about two seconds from smacking him upside the head. Instead, he hissed in Jason’s ear: “Why didn’t you look at me? Just once?! Cass saw LoA members in the crowd—I was trying to signal you!”

“I told you! Talia said she wouldn’t kill me!” She hadn’t promised anything about Alfred.

“And you believed her?!”

Behind them, Tim was talking rapidly. “. . . employee head count; figure out if anyone is missing. Protocol 6.” He followed Lucius out into the hallway. An alarm was ringing somewhere. Figures that Wayne Enterprises would have a plan in place for this scenario.

As soon as Lucius and Tim were out of sight, Jason ran back to the exit door.

Dick blocked him.

“Don’t think I won’t happily give you a concussion.” He could apologize to Alfred later, when he sure the man was alive.

“And then what? You’re not in uniform. You don’t have ‘raised in the circus’ as an excuse. If you give away your identity, this whole thing was pointless, and you’ll put Alfred at risk.”

The WE doors were thick; Jason couldn’t hear a thing through them. He had no idea if the shooting was continuing.

Dick’s posture relaxed a little. “Trust Cass and Damian. They care about Alfred too.”

Jason had something to say about “trust”—but the hallway door was reopening.

“Let’s all just agree right now: the next press conference is an indoor event.” Tim picked up another water bottle from the table.

“Gas,” Dick argued.

“Ventilation upgrades are a whole budget line, Dick.” Tim held the water bottle out to Jason. As if Jason cared about that right now.

The door opened a little wider. “Perhaps the next family crisis can just be announced via press release.”

“Alfred!”

“Yes, young Robin hustled me, rather unceremoniously, to safety.” Alfred tugged on his jacket’s collar.

Alive. Alive. Alive. Alfred’s face blinked in and out of focus, and Jason braced himself against the wall.

Alfred snatched a water bottle from Tim’s hands and shoved it into Jason’s. “Sit.”

“’M fine,” Jason said, as he sat.

Dick was listening to something in his ear. “An hour,” he promised the room at large, before rushing out.

***

It took four hours to wrap up the whole mess. Alfred’s lunch had to be served as dinner instead. Damian suspected it was supposed to be some sort of "officially no longer dead" celebratory meal. Whatever it was, was weary and tense. Five civilians were dead, fourteen more were injured, most in the stampede to escape.

Only one League assassin had been caught. But that was an accomplishment by itself. It was rare to capture someone from the League alive. Damian had to act quickly to remove a false tooth containing a suicide pill. (Many League members considered this a better option than potentially being made an example of for their failure.)

The assassin was a young man, probably in his early twenties. Damian didn’t recognize him. In the GCPD holding cell, he spat on Damian’s boots, a mixture of blood and saliva. Damian suspected this was simply because the man saw him as “Robin, disrupter of plans.” Nothing in his bearing or dress suggested a high enough rank in the League to recognize him as “Damian Wayne, betrayer no longer worthy of the al Ghul name.”

The assassin would not speak to anyone. But Damian doubted he knew anything beyond his own orders.

The fact that Mother had acted so quickly must mean that she had also been watching the museum. How much she knew was still a mystery, but it was enough for her to believe she had been betrayed.

The night before, Damian had refused to leave the Cave. Just because Grayson had decided to play the fool didn’t mean Damian was content to leave him to deal with Todd’s sinister machinations alone.

They had “compromised.” Grayson would extend Damian’s Robin-reprieve for twenty-four hours, allowing him and Cassandra to surveil the crowd (and Todd). And Damian would lie down on a cot at the far end of the medical bay and sleep for a few hours. (“I promise I will not let Jason kill anyone between now and when you wake up,” Grayson had said. And Cassandra had put her hand on her heart and nodded.)

It didn’t matter. When he had slept, Damian’s rest had been so interrupted by dreams (drum beats and proud voices and wings and blood) that staying awake probably would have been more restful.

Richard was Damian’s favorite.

He could admit this now. (Not to Grayson, of course; the man would be unbearable.) At first, Damian had felt guilty—preferring this interloper over the Father he barely knew. Preferring him even over Mother, who had given him everything, who had made him.

And still, sometimes, he hated Grayson. 

Because things came naturally for Grayson. Things Damian had been taught were not even skills but weakness.

“You were right,” Grayson had said later, during the ride back to the penthouse. The weight of those five civilians hung on him, as dark and obvious as the cowl. But still, Grayson said this part easily, as if the words didn’t cost him anything: “We needed you today.”

Damian crossed his arms and drawled, “The same way you apparently ‘need’ Todd now?”

All easiness gone now. The jawline beneath the cowl was taut. Damian expected something about how he was being “difficult.” But instead, Grayson said, “You know you can love someone and not trust them, right?”

All the air left Damian’s lungs at once. “If the Grayson boy ever realizes who you really are, he will not be able to accept it.”

But then Grayson said, “I didn’t get to know Jason really well before . . . you know, but he was still family. He was a good kid. And there’s always going to be a part of me that hopes that someday I can trust him again. But I know I can’t right now. So, no, it’s not the same way I need Jason. I know can trust you.”

“Good,” Damian had said, nodding sharply. His boots, he had noted absently, were still flecked with blood. The laces would have to be soaked.

Chapter Text

As far as Stephanie understood it, stage one of the plan had been the big “psych! Jason Todd is alive, actually” press conference.

Stage two was figuring what all of their “magical MacGuffins” were supposed to be. (“Gotta catch ’em all!” Tim had joked. “You know I don’t watch Game of Thrones,” Stephanie had replied, just so she could watch his face change colors.)

Stage three was to find at all (or at least most) of these items, host some kind of Wayne-charity-gala-event around these items, see who showed up, and catch them in their bat-demon-raising tracks. (There had been a long debate over whether or not it was enough to simply disrupt the ritual by hiding/destroying one of the needed items—as Talia had apparently attempted to do in the beginning. But the “prophecy” instructions were so vague that there was no reason to believe their occultic foe couldn’t find replacements. “If you can’t find fresh hen’s teeth, frozen salamander hair will do.” Or that anything less than capturing the ringleaders would fully remove the League of the Assassins from the city.)

Unfortunately, they were still stuck on stage two. And the civilian cost of stage one was making everyone anxious to get this part right.

“Ostrich music?”

“I know,” Stephanie said. “Repeating it doesn’t make it any less strange.” Tim’s response had been funny the first two times, but now the repetition was getting old.

Tim ran his hand through his hair. “That can’t be right. There’s got to be some kind of transcription error. Or translation error.”

“If the message hadn’t been in English, Mother’s spies would have transcribed it in its original language,” Damian pointed out.

“I was kind of figuring that it might not be the original message.” Jason was cleaning the treads on his boot with a batarang.

They all stared at him.

“We don’t know where these instructions originated.” Jason gestured at the screen with the dirty batarang. “Only that by the time Talia’s spies picked them up, they were hearing them in English.”

“Some kind of game of translation ‘telephone’?” Dick suggested.

“I’m still lost,” Stephanie admitted.

“Switching between languages is good way to throw people off your trail—especially if you and your contact understand a language so well that the ‘literal’ translation of word won’t throw you off,” Dick explained.

As if that explained anything. How could “ostrich music” be more useful in another language?

“Strauss!” Tim shouted, just as Damian was opening his mouth.

“I was about to say that!” (Stephanie hoped no one told Damian how cute he was when he pouted; he’d probably stop.)

Dick’s eyes lit up. “Straus, the German for ‘ostrich.’”

Yeah, that was definitely what Stephanie thought of when she thought about Germany. Ostriches.

Stephanie wasn’t stupid. She swore she wasn’t. She’d done really well in high school Spanish, thank you very much. And Babs had forced her to take a crash course in “important phrases” in world languages. But just an hour around the Bat-clan made her feel like they had all been sneaking off to take super-secret spy lessons while she’d still been learning to tie her shoes.

(Okay, so Damian and Cass had actually been taking super-secret spy lessons since they were babies. But Tim was supposed to have had a normal childhood, right? How did he know the German for ostrich? When did that come up regular conversation? Guten Tag. Mein name ist Timothy. Wo ist der strauss?)

“I just want you to know that I hate you all so much right now,” Steph declared.

Tim shook his head. “Save your hatred for when we find out which Strauss piece we’re looking for. There are a lot.”

“Of Strausses and compositions,” Damian added.

As if she didn’t know that. Richard Strauss. Johann Strauss the Elder. Johann Strauss the Younger. Heck, maybe one of those lesser-known Strauss brothers. Ugh. It would be just their luck if they were looking for some obscure polka or a sentimental aria . . . or a “puerile operetta”?

“Guys. . . .” She waved both her hands, interrupting a discussion about the relationship between march music and world domination. “It’s not marches, or ostriches, that we’re looking for.”

They stared at her, waiting. Savor it, Steph. Who knows when you’ll get another moment like this?

“Wrong animal. It’s flying mice.”

Dick, Jason, and Tim slow-blinked. But Damian smacked his forehead.

And Alfred looked amused. “Well done, Miss Brown.”

She lifted up onto her toes, beaming. “Die Fledermaus by Johann Strauss II. ‘The Bat.’ Sometimes known as ‘The Revenge of the Bat.’ It was at the exhibit.”

“But—” Dick rubbed his temples. “Why? I get the cuff. I even get the live bats. But why have an occultic ritual involving a bit of music from nobody’s favorite opera?”

Stephanie deflated, dropping down onto her heels.

“Okay,” Tim argued. “But we have an upcoming lunar eclipse and a bat-themed musical piece by Strauss newly in town. And the prophecy said ‘the Fates’ would bring the items together. That can’t be a coincidence—at least, not in the eyes of our ‘collector.’ Especially when the prophecy relies so heavily on the concept of song.”

Stephanie could have kissed him. (Except for . . . you know, all the complications that went with kissing Tim.)

“Yeah,” Jason threw out, “I always associate bats with their beautiful singing.”

“What about the ‘the life breath of spring’s music, a song most missed’?” Dick asked.

Jason tapped his nose with the flat side of the batarang. “You know what else was at the music exhibit—”

“Vivaldi!” Damian spat out, breathlessly. “The Four Seasons. ‘Spring.’”

Dick nodded. “And what season’s more missed than spring? Okay, so we have to see if we can borrow these pieces because we’re having a music-themed gala in a little over a week to support. . . .”

“The Neon Knights,” Tim said firmly. “Our afterschool arts program needs the money.”

“More dance classes,” Cass added.

“More dance classes,” Tim agreed. He pulled out his phone. “This is going to be absolute nightmare, you know that, right? Normally, we need three months, minimum, to plan one these.”

Dick shrugged. “It’s a Wayne family gala. People will come. Especially since they’ll be hoping to get a view of the returned prodigal.”

“Is ‘Bruce Wayne’ going to make it?” Jason asked.

“No.” Dick’s smile was tight. “Unfortunately, he’s still tied up in Qurac.”

“What a shame,” Jason said, lightly. “People are going to start thinking he’s a neglectful father or something.” He popped on his helmet. “Well, I gotta go see how many safehouses I have left.” (Two of them had been blown up last night. Jason was pretty sure they were the only two Talia knew about. But Alfred and Dick had tried to convince him to stay at the penthouse anyway.)

Dick stared at the screen as Jason’s motorcycle engine faded into the distance. “I’d feel better if we knew what ‘the staff guarded by wyrm-bats’ was.”

Stephanie was turning to ask about gala dress codes when she saw Damian looking downright sick. As soon as she caught his eye, he shook the expression off and glared.

Chapter Text

Dick would never be able to say for sure what had woken him. These days, he was a heavy sleeper—when he had the chance to sleep—and it had been a long day for both of his personas. But around 5 a.m., he jerked upright in bed.

The room was quiet and dark. After a moment, he slipped out of bed and into the hall, listening intently.

After another moment, he padded down the hall and stood by Damian’s door. (With Jason away at one of his safehouses, Damian did not have to be convinced to sleep in his room.)

Not a sound. No light coming from underneath the closed door.

Cursing himself, Dick quietly pushed open the door. If he woke the boy after a day like this one. . . .

Even in the dark, he could see Damian sitting up in bed, his arms wrapped around his legs.

“Leave,” Damian hissed.

“Dames? You okay?”

“I didn’t call out. I never do.”

“Sure,” Dick said soothingly. “I was just up. I just thought I’d. . . .” Dick paused trying to think of a phrasing that wouldn’t sound too paternal, too condescending. He gave up. “Can I turn on the light?” he asked instead.

In answer, Damian, without looking, reached out and clicked on his bedside lamp.

Dick slipped into the room. In the glow of the lamplight, Damian’s face had a sweaty sheen and his bedclothes looked damp and wrinkled.

“I’m going to put my hand on your forehead,” Dick warned.

“Tt.” Damian continued to stare ahead, gripping his legs.

“You do feel a bit warm.”

“It’s nothing to be concerned over, Grayson. I am not ill. And I am not some innocent child who requires comfort after nightmares.”

Dick paused. Not “I am not some child” but “I am not some innocent child.”

“ You have no idea what I am capable of, Grayson.”

“Maybe not,” Dick said finally. “But you still deserve comfort.”

Damian buried his face in his knees. “I hate being here sometimes.”

It had been a long time since Damian had said he hated being with them. Dick tried not to sound hurt. “Is there something Alfred or I could do to—”

“Mother thought Father was the ideal man. The man I should model myself after. And then I came here, and nothing was as I expected. Father disagreed with everything Mother had taught me. All my previous training, experience, was pointless in his eyes. But I determined to show him I deserved his respect. I would learn all that was important to him. And then he— I thought I could carry on his legacy. Isn’t that the least a son can do? But everything I learn . . . it, it. . . .” Damian looked up now. And Dick was shocked to see two streams of tears running down the boy’s face. 

“Oh, Damian. C’mere.”

But with a shake of his head, Damian scooted back and wiped his face. “Everything I learn, makes it worse. I— Compassion was weakness. And now it’s not. Now it’s ‘necessary.’ And obliterating your enemies proved how wrong and weak they were—but now I just see—all the time—” The boy’s breath was hitching, but when Dick reached out to rub his back, he shied away.

“Sorry.” Dick withdrew his hand and sat on the far edge of the bed. “What do you see?” he asked quietly. Even though he already knew.

Instead, Damian said, “I know what ‘the staff guarded by wyrm-bats’ is. I didn’t want to believe it was the same thing, but the other night Mother asked me where the ‘Scepter of Kings’ was. I told her I didn’t know. That was a lie.” Damian had told Dick that the conversation with Talia had been "fruitless." Dick had suspected that Talia had planted other seeds when he wasn’t listening.

The edge of the mattress was sloping uncomfortably, but Dick didn’t move.

In the semi-dark, Damian’s breath sounded especially loud.

“I feel like there’s a story here,” Dick finally prompted.

Damian gripped his knees even tighter. “You’ll hate me.”

“I won’t hate you. I promise.”

Damian shook his head.

“Damian, I know you grew up in the League of Assassins. I know you killed people. I know how the LoA works. I also know that you tried to kill Tim when you first arrived here. And that you murdered the Spook.”

Next to him, Damian shuddered.

They had talked about Damian’s change from assassin protégé and al Ghul heir to Robin, what that change meant. But Dick had never mentioned the boy’s past crimes so blatantly before. He wondered now if Damian had thought he didn’t know.

“I also know that you were a child. You are a child now. Whether you appreciate that fact or not. And I know that you didn’t always fully understand what you were doing. Or have much of a choice in doing it.”

Damian was back to hiding his face in knees. “I wish I didn’t have to understand now.”

“Do you really?”

“Tt. No. I don’t know. Just I wish I could go back and change things—a foolish desire.”

“Maybe, but an understandable one. Making amends for the past is the best anyone can do. Do you know what I wish?”

Face still buried, Damian shook his head.

“I wish you weren’t so afraid of telling me and Alfred these things. We love you. Don’t scoff. It’s true. And it’s not weak to need to talk about your feelings. Do you remember the rule about injuries?”

Damian lifted his head enough so that Dick could see his eye roll. “‘If you hide an injury or illness and don’t get treatment for it, you’re benched for the next patrol.’ Which is ridiculous, Grayson.”

“Is it? What about that ‘small’ knife wound on your back that you didn’t tell Alfred about? What happened then?”

“It was small! And it was purely happenstance that it became infected.”

“Would you like me wake Alfred up and tell him that?”

Damian reached out and grabbed Dick’s arm. “Don’t! My ears have barely recovered. That’s the real danger of hiding an injury.”

“I’d almost agree with you. But I remember that the infection you got was pretty bad too—if Alfred hadn’t caught it in time, it would have spread to your spinal cord.”

Damian ducked his head.

“I’m not bringing this up to make you feel bad. I know you’ve learned your lesson. My point is that the past, if you never talk about it, can be like a hidden injury. It can spread infection to other parts of your life. I don’t want to see you suffer that kind of pain alone.”

Damian looked up again, suspicious. “Are you going to start punishing me if you suspect that I am not being forthcoming about my feelings?”

Dick started. “What? . . . No! I don’t even know how that would work, never mind how it would help.” What a horrible thought. But everything in Damian’s world was split into victories and defeats, punishments . . . and rewards. “What if we did the opposite of that? Every time you feel ready to share something about your past with me or Alfred, your trust is rewarded in some way.”

“Like extra patrols?”

Dick made a face. “I was thinking of something more civilian.”

Damian considered this. “These will not be . . . pleasant conversations. I doubt you will feel I am worthy of any reward after I have shared some of these memories with you.”

“I’m not interested in ‘punishing’ or ‘rewarding’ you for past actions. I just want to help you talk about your memories before they eat you up inside. That’s what I’d be rewarding. So would you like to test one out? Maybe whatever has you up so late tonight?”

The boy went so pale so abruptly that Dick was sure he had overstepped.

“I don’t know how,” Damian whispered.

“Okay, maybe start with something smaller.”     

Damian’s expression suggested that there were no “small” stories to tell.

But after a moment, in a shaky voice, he began, “When I was a child, I had a painting tutor of sorts. . . .”

***

Damian had been right. It was not a pleasant story.

Dick had been prepared for acts of extreme violence (perpetuated by or against Damian—or both). He had not been fully prepared for casual and dismissive cruelty. Even though it explained so many other things about Damian.

A long, heavy silence filled the room.

“I’m so sorry, Damian,” Dick said quietly. “I’m sorry you were asked to make that choice.”

“I made the wrong choice!”

Dick jumped. He couldn’t quite believe that this hysterical shout had come from Damian.

Damian’s hands were in his hair, tugging, hard, fingernails digging into his scalp. “And I didn’t even care. I thought it served him right. I thought— What kind of monster blinds a man and then continues on with his life?”

“Not a monster. Just a confused little boy. Who I’m going to hug now—if he’ll let me.” Please, kiddo. This is killing me.

Damian didn’t respond, but he did lean into Dick’s shoulder, breathing unevenly, and that was all the invitation Dick needed. He folded the boy against his chest. It was like hugging a board. Damian’s hands were still twisted in his hair, and the only movement he made was to yank at his sweaty locks. Dick moved his own hands from the boy’s back to his head, gently coaxing Damian’s fingers to unclench a little. Damian’s fingers curled around Dick’s and squeezed, hard. After a moment, Damian’s breathing sped up. Dick might have said the boy was sobbing, but there were no more tears. Dick wondered when the last time was that Damian had cried. He wondered if Damian had been right. Maybe it would have been kinder if he had never learned enough to understand the horrors of his childhood. 

“Okay. It’s okay. . . .”

“It’s not okay! It will never be okay!”

“You’re right; you’re right; you can’t change what happened. But you will be okay. You have so much time to grow and learn better and do better. And you’ve already grown so much. And I’m so proud of you. . . .” If someone had asked Dick later, he wouldn’t have been able tell them what he had said that night. He just held his brother and rocked and repeated every true, good thing he could think of in the hopes that eventually Damian would be able to believe some of it.

At some point, when Damian’s breath was still hitching, but starting to even out in a way that made Dick feel less frightened—Alfred pushed the door open. He was still in his dressing gown, but he had made tea.

He did not mention the situation, though he patted Dick’s shoulder briefly before he offered the tray to Damian.

Dick’s eyebrows went up when took he took his first sip. He’d been expecting something else. “Chai?”

Alfred nodded. “I’m sure it’s not up to the standard Master Damian is used to, but hopefully it is still a comfort.”

“It’s . . . acceptable,” Damian murmured. “Better than the boiled dishwater they’re passing off as authentic at that teashop on 5th.”

After a long quiet moment, in which everyone drank the milky, spicy comfort, Damian took a deep breath. “Grayson, I know what I would like in exchange.”

“Yeah?” Dick ran a hand over the boy’s hair and promised himself that he would fulfill whatever Damian’s first choice was, no matter how expensive or impossible. (Later, they could discuss what rewards might be reasonable, but for now, he just wanted the boy to have something to look forward to.)

“In order to collect the Scepter of Kings, we must encounter my old tutor. I would like to make amends—whatever amends can be made.”

“Damian . . . of course. But I’d help you do that anyway.”

Damian shook his head. “This is what I want.” Damian set his cup on Alfred’s tray and slid back under the covers, marking the end of their conversation.

“Okay.” Dick pulled the comforter up so that it covered Damian’s shoulder. “Morning sparring session is cancelled, by the way—in case there was any doubt.”

Eyes already closing, Damian grunted. “No, Grayson, I expect you on the mats in 72 minutes. If you don’t show, you have conceded defeat.”

“If you do show, I’m making you go to bed early for the rest of the week.”

Eyes completely closed now. “It’s Friday, Grayson.”

“I know.” Dick bent down and kissed his forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Damian’s eyes fluttered open, confused.

“For trusting me enough to share that,” Dick explained.

They were some ways down the hall, walking toward the kitchen, before Alfred asked, “And how are you doing, dear boy?”

Dick rubbed the side of his face and yawned. “I’m . . . overwhelmed? I can’t possibly be everything Damian needs, but I also can’t imagine trusting him to anyone else.”

Dick knew the pause was a pointed one, but he didn’t he understand why. And he was too tired to parse out Alfred’s mysteries tonight.

“Ah, so like a parent,” Alfred offered.

Dick stopped mid-stride and stood in the hall.

Alfred turned patiently, tray in hand, and waited.

“Did you ever . . . ?” Feel like this. With Bruce.

“All the time, my boy. All the time.”

“I’m not his dad,” Dick said finally.  

Alfred set the tray on a hall table and considered his words for moment. “After a time, I allowed myself to stop fretting so much about titles and roles, and I just responded to the need that was in front of me. Perhaps everything related to care does not require definition.”

But Martha and Thomas Wayne were never coming back, and Bruce, hopefully, is.

But this time, Alfred seemed unable to read his mind. Or if he did, he had nothing left to say in response. He just patted Dick’s shoulder, hoisted his tray, and left Dick standing in the hallway.

***

The air was warm, and the breeze was caressing. Dick closed his eyes and leaned against the Batplane. With little effort, he could pretend this was an exclusive vacation spot. With a little more effort, he could pretend that he was the sort of person who didn’t get jittery after a day of rest and soft breezes.

Damian had wanted to be alone when he opened the vault. And Dick hadn’t needed to be told why.

They should do something like this someday. Go somewhere warm and experience some family-friendly version of all the fun Bruce Wayne was supposedly always having. Parasailing. Deep-sea fishing. Scuba-diving. Or go somewhere cold and snowy. He and Jason had gone skiing once. That had been a good trip.

It was strange to think that Dick had done more “normal” things with Jason than he had with this child he was half-raising. But of course, Bruce had also been there, carrying, not just the burden of Batman, but the weight of being the “real” adult—the one who dealt with misbehavior and homework and mood swings. Bruce had been far from the perfect parent (even when you subtracted the spandex and vigilantism). But he had been there. Once he committed to something (Gotham, a child, a terrible aesthetic), Bruce was committed forever.

Dick had spent the last few weeks trying to tamp down the bubbling hope of Bruce’s return. But he wanted so badly to look across the table at Bruce during Justice League meetings and be the only person in the room (except maybe for Clark) who knew when Bruce was trying not to laugh. He wanted to shout, “Hey, B! Watch this,” knowing he was about to turn another of Bruce’s hairs gray.

And he wanted Damian to know his dad through more than stories and casefiles. He wanted Bruce to see that he had been right to go back for Damian. At the same time, he wondered if Bruce was going to be disappointed when he returned. So much of Dick’s work lately was just maintenance: Trying to keep Gotham from (literally) burning itself down (or becoming another Blüdhaven). Trying to keep up with the day-to-day tasks of being responsible for a child like Damian. Trying not to lose sight what was happening with WE or Tim or the Justice League or the old Titans crowd.

Instinct told Dick to open his eyes, so he did. In the far distance, an old man crested the rise that hid the rest of the island from view.

“Ravi may not want to come,” Damian had warned. “He’s been serving the al Ghuls for longer than I’ve been alive.” (Dick had kindly not pointed out that this wasn’t a very long time.) “And for . . . many reasons, he may believe that his loyalty lies with them and not with me.”

But here he was, trudging toward the Batplane with a small pack over his shoulder. Dick glanced around the island and wondered if it was really a restitution to take this blind old man away from a tropical paradise and bring him to Gotham, New Jersey, of all places.

Then something else appeared on top of that crest: red and clawed and the size of a wooly mammoth. The old man seemed unaware as he continued his shuffling pace. Dick sprang forward.

“Grayson!” Damian was astride the creature’s neck, holding up a gold staff with a large blue stone. “I have retrieved the scepter!”

Dick skidded to a halt, spraying sand across Ravi’s sandals. “What the hell?!”

Damian grinned. “I believe the witch, Anne, referred to him as a ‘wyrm-bat.’ I call him Goliath.” Damian clicked his tongue, and Clifford the Big Red Monster huffed and lowered his head. Damian slid to the ground and handed Dick the scepter.    

“It belongs to the people of Bialya. It is symbolic of the power of their rightful ruler, which is why we—why the al Ghuls wanted it. Given the current political situation, I have no idea how we will return it without starting a civil war.”

Dick looked at the scepter and then back at Goliath. “That’s not going to fit in the plane,” Dick joked weakly.

“Lord Damian?” Ravi’s voice held the cautious respect of every long-lived al Ghul servant, but Dick had been around Alfred long enough to recognize a disapproving undertone, however subtle.

“It’s the shock, Ravi. Grayson is not usually so dense.”

Goliath flapped his leathery wings, and Damian shot Dick a look: You are embarrassing me.  

Dick reached out a hand to help the older man into the plane. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ravi. Lord Damian has told me so much about you.”

***

“Grayson?”

“Mm?” Dick’s eyes kept drifting toward the window, where Goliath was easily flying alongside, and then to backseat, where Ravi sat, hands folded quietly in his lap, milky gaze staring at nothing.

“The gala is the sort of event one might invite friends to, yes?”

“Yeah.” Dick jerked his gaze away from the window. “Wait, no. You can’t bring a bat-dragon to the gala.” Or maybe he meant Ravi. (Dick had assumed that a stolen al Ghul servant would be safer away from a party that might include LoA guests.)

“Tt. I am aware, Grayson. I wish to invite a human. His name is Colin.” 

“Who’s Cullen? Have I met him?” Dick racked his brain, trying to place a “Somebody Cullen” in their address book of heroes and detectives.

“Brown has,” Damian said primly. “He was at the music exhibit with his class.”  

“Your friend is a . . . child?” Dick clarified.

“So am I. Or so you keep reminding me,” Damian said archly. “May he come?”

May he come? Oddly polite for Damian. Damian had not even asked about bringing Goliath back. Dick wondered if he assumed that Alfred the Kitten represented a blanket approval on all pets, no matter how strange. Or if having a friend was such uncharted territory for Damian that giant bat-dragons seemed normal in comparison.

Dick dipped the plane to a lower altitude as they neared Gotham Harbor. “Sure,” Dick said. “That makes sense.” The Scepter of Kings rolled between the seats and glinted in sun. “Invite your friend . . . Lord Damian.”

“Pennyworth will be disappointed if I have to stab you before we get home.”

***

Earlier that day. . . .

Alfred attempted to make last-minute preparations for their potential houseguest while Dick prepped the Batplane and Damian completed his cool-down stretches. (Morning sparring might have been canceled, but Damian had his own, unwavering, daily regimen of exercises.)

“Are there any preferences we should be prepared to accommodate?”             

“Al Ghul servants are not encouraged to have preferences.” The boy’s right hand gripped his left shoulder, as if to absently rub away some pain or tightness. But then he seemed aware of his fingers’ movements, and he dropped his hand. “Before he was blinded, he enjoyed painting, but I think any reminder of that would not be viewed as hospitality.”

Blind. “Was blinded.” Deliberately. Just behind Damian, out of the boy’s line of sight, Dick shook his head. Alfred did not ask how this played into Damian’s desire to “make amends.”

“Other interests then?” Alfred was not expecting a useful answer, just giving his mind a moment to process this new information.

In the middle of a back bend, Damian lifted his head and cocked it to the side. “Ravi is very old, Pennyworth. I don’t think he has hobbies.”

“Ah, yes. I had forgotten the way age erases all interest in life.”

Damian merely nodded, not recognizing the sarcasm.

“How old may I ask is ‘very old’?”

Damian shrugged. “Who can say? He was ancient when I first met him.”

Splendid. They were preparing for a man anywhere from thirty-five to one hundred years of age.

Alfred was reminded of when Dick had been around nine years old, and in relation to a school assignment, had asked Alfred what people ate for breakfast “in Victorian times.” Alfred had replied that some books in the library that might assist with those queries, and perhaps young Master Dick would like help finding them? And Dick had asked, voice heavy with disappointment, “You don’t remember?”

Nothing stung quite like the innocent arrows of the young.

“Does he read Braille?”

Damian stood and folded his arms across his chest. “I—probably not.”

“Did he read English? Arabic?”

Damian shook his head—frustration etched across his brow. Then his eyes brightened with memory. “English,” he said firmly. “And Bialyan.”

“Bialyan, I’m afraid, is beyond my abilities,” Alfred said, “so English it will have to be.”

Both of Damian eyebrows went up.

“Labels with raised letters,” Alfred explained. “If we wish to give your old tutor his freedom from the al Ghuls, we must also give him the tools to navigate freely.”

Damian’s face contorted for moment, and then he abruptly turned, and with a shout, kicked one of the benches that surrounded the mats.

Dick and Alfred silently watched the bench fly across the room, hit the floor, skid several feet, and then tangle itself in the rack of weights. This time, when Dick opened his mouth, it was Alfred who shook his head.

Damian sat down on the mat and unwound the tape on his hands with his teeth. “You don’t have to say anything. I expected it to be difficult.”

Alfred approached the mat with a water bottle and towel. Not meeting his eyes, Damian accepted them.

“I sense a ‘however’ in that statement,” Alfred prompted.

Damian rubbed his face with the towel, his words slightly muffled. “I thought it would be a different kind of difficult.”

After a moment, Damian stood and retrieved the bench. It was a sign of how long the boy had been with them (and how much had changed in that time) that he did not have to be asked.

“There’s a chip,” he admitted.

Alfred joined him in examining the thin splintery gouge along the bench’s edge. “Then perhaps you can sand it down upon your return.” The benches were old, and the gouge was small—the repair did not matter as much as the act of repairing.

If only that could be said for all damage.

He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “In my experience, there are two kinds of bravery: the bravery to do a large, almost impossible thing in the necessary moment, and the bravery to do a series of small but difficult things over and over, every day.”

“And you, of course, you believe the latter to be the most important.” Damian’s lips twisted into a grimace.

This was a question Alfred had wrestled with for years without ever solving.

“I think the question is not ‘Which tasks are harder?’ but ‘What tasks are before me today? And what is required to do them as well as they deserve?’”

When Damian’s eyes swept his face, Alfred didn’t know what he was looking for.

“I would never forgive someone if they blinded you, Pennyworth.” He tossed the towel into a hamper and stalked toward the changing area. “I hope you’re ready, Grayson. Otherwise, I’m leaving without you.”

***

“This is the absolute last time.”

Goliath rolled in the hay and huffed happily. He looked like nothing so much as a ridiculously miscalculated attempt at crossing a red panda and a demon. Secreting him into the old stables on the far south-east side of the Manor had been the only possible solution.

“I am happy to accommodate a reasonable assortment of furry friends, but I require at least some notice. Did the Batplane plane comms break down? Or did you imagine that I can summon a ton of dragon chow at will?”

Dick, at least, had the grace to look embarrassed.

Damian did not. “Ravi refused to come without Goliath. And Goliath can find his own food.”

“And how well do you imagine that will go? Are Batman and Robin prepared to solve the Case of the Sudden Decrease in Gotham’s Pet Population?” Alfred could only hope they had the sense not to bring home something that put Gotham’s human population at risk.

“No eating pets, Goliath,” Damian ordered.

The creature rolled over onto its back and whined in its throat. Alfred had no idea if this was simply in response to the tone or if it signified actual understanding.

The next morning, Alfred’s heart was in his throat when Damian attempted to introduce the kitten to the beast. Alfred was certain Goliath would yawn and accidentally swallow the cat.

Instead, his namesake bristled up like porcupine and swiped at the beast’s snuffling nose.

Goliath yelped and huddled against the far wall of the stables.

“He’s a one-hundredth of your size, you coward!”

But Goliath would not come any closer, and Alfred the Ferocious Kitten would not stop spitting and hissing.

“You don’t have to pick a fight with everyone you meet,” Damian informed the cat without any sense of irony. The cat would not calm until Damian carried him out into the sun.

“Pennyworth,” Damian said, abruptly. “Would you say Ravi seems happier here or at the penthouse?”

Their eyes followed Ravi, who was bracing one hand against a birch, listening to something unseen.

Ravi had been set up in his own wing of the penthouse—somewhere he could live semi-independently (and privately) but still have immediate access to aid, if he desired it. When Alfred had knocked that morning to ask if Ravi would be joining them for breakfast (or rather, for the stream of individuals through the kitchen that passed for “family breakfast”), Ravi had said he needed nothing but to check on the well-being of his charge.

“Master Damian is quite well this morning, but I am certain he would be happy to speak with you.”

Ravi’s face brightened with humor. “No, forgive me. I meant Goliath. He is the one whose care I have been entrusted with.”

“Ah. We will be making a trip out to the Manor shortly. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

Several feelings crossed Ravi’s face at once, but each was too fleeting to read. “We are very high up, aren’t we?”

“Twenty-three stories.”

Ravi had nodded, his expression sad. “Perhaps that explains it. Even with the windows open, I could not hear them.”

Alfred did not think it useful to mention this sadness to Damian. What he would say was “Well, you know our guest better than I. But he asked me this morning if there were no birds in Gotham.”

“Tt.” Damian rubbed Alfred the Kitten’s ears. “That’s probably as close to a complaint as he will get.”

"It shouldn’t be too much extra work to air out Master Tim’s old quarters in the carriage house." Alfred would be spending plenty of time on the property this week after all.

"Another for your 'series of small but difficult' tasks?" Damian asked.

Alfred couldn't quite interpret his tone, so he just responded with "Mm."

Damian set the cat in the grass and watched it scramble after a wood bee. "I will assist you."

Chapter Text

After the press conference and the destruction of two of his hideouts, Jason put two hundred thousand dollars and a burner phone in Tony’s disbelieving hands and told him to get out of town and not tell anyone where he was going. (“It’s the sword lady, ain’t it?” Tony had whispered.)

The next morning, Tony’s Chili Dogs suffered an “electrical fire.” Jason hoped that, wherever he was, Tony wasn’t following the local news.

This was only Talia’s opening salvo. Soon, he knew, the other shoe would drop.

***

Dick had tried to prepare Jason for the flood. “At worst, the LoA will kill you. But Gotham’s paparazzi? They want to eat you.”

“Isn’t that what this press conference is for?” Jason had asked, shrugging into the jacket Alfred had purchased last minute. (All Dick’s had been too small through the chest and shoulders. Much to Jason’s delight.)

“No, this is to satiate the regular press: the wolves and Vicki Vale. Nothing shakes off the vultures.”

Jason had glanced at the price tag still dangling from his sleeve and rolled his eyes. “The tragedy of wealth. I think I remember how to handle this crowd.”

But the evening after the press conference/shootout, someone had recognized Jason at a hot dog stand. Soon, he was ambushed.

Dick knew this because he was being sent copies of the TMZ footage every five minutes, by everyone from Lucius Fox to Barbara:  

“Jason! Jason! Why aren’t you with your family right now?”

Jason had made a show of looking at his watchless wrist. “I could ask you the same thing.” Then he had wiped his hands on his pants and tossed his half-eaten dog into a trash can, staring directly into one of the cameras. “It’s 11:52 p.m. Do you know where your village idiots are?”

Even with the double-middle-finger exit, it wasn’t too bad. Some Wayne Enterprises shareholders weren’t happy, but Jason didn’t work at WE. And current public opinion seemed to be on Jason’s side. Gotham appreciated attitude.  

Then on Wednesday morning, while he was still in the shower, Dick got a phone call from Tim.

“They’ve found one of Jason’s safe houses.”

“The LoA?” Dick fumbled for a towel.

“No, Gotham Gossip.” Tim paused. “Though I’d bet anything that this was leaked to someone by Talia.”  

The footage was mostly bleeps. Which was fine. But then somebody asked something Dick couldn’t quite hear. Something about Bruce.

If it had just been some broken cameras, that would have been okay. But now there was a reporter with a black eye and a story. Now there was court date.   

When Jason showed up in the Cave that evening, he barely got his helmet off before Dick snapped: “Did Bruce just skip the lessons on restraint with you?”

Alfred frowned at him, and Tim flinched.

But Jason grinned. “That was restrained.” He tossed his helmet from hand to hand. “Or are you just now realizing that inviting the black sheep back into the fold might not be the best for the family reputation? You always were a little . . . slow, Dickie.” He clicked his tongue, slid his helmet back on, and rode off. (Only then did Dick wonder why Jason had shown up in the first place.)

But to Dick, the worst was the grainy recording titled “Another Jason Wayne Tantrum?!”

Despite the poor video quality, Dick recognized the brick alley outside a popular skate park. It was a sort of alcove filled with vending machines.

Shoulders hunched inside an over-sized sweatshirt, Jason lurched into view. The footage was taken from far away, and you could hear somebody behind the camera whispering, “Oh my god. Is that the Wayne kid?”

Jason fed a dollar and change into one of the vending machines. He glanced around, and apparently deciding he was safe, pressed a button and then leaned his forehead against the glass.

A can dropped into the slot and then rolled out, onto the ground between machines.

Jason thumped his forehead against the machine. Then he shrugged.

There shouldn’t have been enough space for Jason to slide between machines, but Dick wasn’t surprised when he did.

Only a shoulder and an arm were visible now. Dick could see Jason wriggling left and downward—and then he stopped. The arm went rigid.

“What is he doing?” the same off-camera voice asked.

There was long, frozen moment, and then Dick saw Jason’s right hand grip the side of one of the machines. One minute, the vending machine was there. And next minute, it had disappeared to the tune of metal hitting concrete.

Jason just stood there, panting, his arms trembling from the effort.

“Holy shit!” the amateur videographer whispered as Jason shuffled off in the direction opposite the thrown machine. The soda could barely be seen, still rolling on the ground.

That night, Jason rode into the Cave again. “League found my place in Chinatown, and Gossip tracked me, while I was in disguise, to a local motel,” he said. “I’m bunking here.” As if it were his idea. As if they hadn’t been trying to convince him to stay at the penthouse since this whole thing began.

This time, Dick didn’t say anything about the video. He just asked if Jason has a preference about rooms.

“I’m not going upstairs.” Jason sneered, as if penthouse suites were not luxurious enough when compared to a literal cave. “I’m sleeping here. Work around me.”

It was probably naïve to leave Jason alone in the Cave—even with all their safety measures, their tentative truce, in place.

But it quickly became obvious that Jason would not sleep as long as anyone else was in the Cave with him. He propped himself up against one of the laundry bins, bleary-eyed, cleaning knives that had already been cleaned several times.

Soon, Dick was the only one left in the Cave. Tim had disappeared ages ago. He had stopped working alone at the Batcomputer ever since Jason started showing up in the evenings. Cass had texted to say that she was collapsing on Steph’s sofa after a long night of patrolling in Burnley. And Alfred had already cajoled Damian upstairs, where he slept on the sofa near the Cave entrance instead of in his room. (It was probably a sign of how emotionally exhausting these past few days had been that Damian only threatened Jason with graphic dismemberment once before leaving.)

Dick shut down the giant glowing screen.

In the semi-dark of the Cave’s emergency lights, Jason’s features were less defined, less angular. He looked more like the kid Dick remembered—vulnerable beneath all the bravado. Dick wished he had spent more time with that kid. He wished things hadn’t been so weird between him and Bruce when Jason had been starting his Robin career.

Dick had plenty of memories of patrolling with Tim, going to baseball games, long phone conversations, knuckling Tim’s scalp while the younger boy protested. . . . Dick’s memories of Jason were also warm and strong, but fewer and farther between. And stained by later realities.

He wished he had told Jason that he had thought of him as brother—back when those words might have meant something to him.

Jason was scrolling through his phone, deliberately ignoring Dick. They might as well be strangers at a bus stop.

“Hey, have you been keeping your vaccines updated?”

Now, Jason looked up. “What the—? Yes? No? I don’t know. That wasn’t exactly the first thing on my mind when I crawled my way out of out my own grave.”

Dick glanced at the ceiling before starting up the stairs. “Never mind. The risks are pretty low, even here.”

“Risks for what?” Jason pulled away from the wall and glanced around. “Ah, fuck. Don’t tell me you guys picked up some weird Cave virus while I was dead.”

Without turning around, Dick paused partway up the steps. “Bruce used to make us get the booster shot every year. But he was always paranoid about that stuff.”

“What stuff?”

Dick turned. He was mostly in shadow now, but he grinned anyway, knowing Jason would hear it. “Rabies.” He could see the moment Jason’s eyes widened, remembering. Apparently, Bruce had made Jason get those shots as well.

“’Night, Jay. Don’t let the bats bite.”

Dick was already running up the stairs, so he wasn’t sure what Jason threw after him.

***

A clean, cold smell. I’m in the Cave. Jason must have gotten injured. He didn’t feel bad, but maybe Alfred had given him the good drugs. Which meant that he must be pretty hurt, and Bruce was going to be . . . weird for a while.

Bruce. Had he come? Maybe the hopeless clock ticking down had just been some drug-induced nightmare. Jason always bad dreams after a mission went sideways.

Jason cracked an eye open. Bruce wasn’t slumped uncomfortably in a chair by the cot. When Jason swiveled to see if Bruce was tetchily typing away on the Batcomputer, the view of the new Cave brought the full, crushing weight of reality onto Jason’s head.

Bruce wasn’t here. Hadn’t come in time. Wasn’t even the Bruce Jason had once remembered him being.  

Jason swung his uninjured legs over the side of the cot and slapped the sides of his face. Mornings were the cruelest. The flashbacks were strong. The barrier between dreams and reality was too thin. And being in the new Cave and the penthouse had brought back a waves of . . . Jason didn’t even know what to call it.

Jason had no memories attached to the penthouse or the new Cave. But the other day he had watched Goldie casually drop his hand onto the shoulder of the Old Pretender and the Young Pretender in turn. Nothing extraordinary in the gesture. (The “acceptable” sign of affection for American dads everywhere.)

But a series of images had fluttered, uninvited, across Jason’s brain.

“ Batman” was still examining the museum crowd, eyes above Jason’s head. But Bruce had one hand in his pocket, the other on Jason’s shoulder, nodding as the boy talked about a school assignment. . . .

The angry grip on his cape had switched now to two heavy hands on his shoulders. “I promised to let Gordon in on the bust. You jumped the gun! What’s worse you nearly got yourself killed doing it. . . .”

The cowl was off. “You’re hurting, kid. You’ve got a lot of anger and pain inside you. It’s going to take some time for you get rid of it.” Bruce put his still gauntleted hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Let me help you work this out. We can start by talking about your parents.” As he twisted away, Jason shouted. . . .

Jason had accidentally asked “Mr. Wayne” if he could stay up and do some Robin-homework. A verbal slip-up he hadn’t made since his first week. Permission came with a squeeze on his shoulder. “. . . but do get some rest, and it’s ‘Bruce,’ okay?” And Bruce looked so proud that Jason forgot to feel embarrassed. . . .

“Am I . . . washed-up as Robin?” Even before Batman responded, the hand told him this, too, was going to be okay. . . .

At least these hadn’t been the usual flashes of death (his own and others’), laughter, and crowbars.

But these small scenes of affectation (real or imagined) were more disorienting.

I’m still here, Jason reminded himself, planting his feet on the floor. Jason wasn’t always grateful for this fact, but he liked to think of his continued existence as a middle finger. To Gotham. To the Joker. To Bruce. To the universe. Even when he was running low on everything else, Jason had more than enough spite to keep him going.

I’m here. That’s good enough for now.

Jason’s brain was a bomb—some days, the most innocuous thought or image or feeling could set it off.

“I don’t know who I should be. . . .” This Jason’s voice was young and pleading, sounding unusually close to tears.

Jason’s head was being pressed against a bulky sweater covering a ridiculously hard ribcage. It was not very comfortable. But Jason leaned into the hold, griping the arm that was cradling his head.  

“Be yourself, Jay. Sometimes . . .” the voice hesitated, like it was not used to putting these kinds of thoughts into words. “. . . it’s the most heroic thing anyone can do.”

 Jason had no idea if this was a memory or a fantasy or remnants of a nightmare. Probably the latter.

 “Don’t need your permission, old man,” Jason said aloud to the empty Cave.

***

“I’m glad you’ve decided to open up the Manor again,” Kimberly, the Neon Knights event coordinator, said neutrally. Her expression said: At least you’ve done one thing correctly.

Tim couldn’t tell whether Alfred was acting when he shot her a commiserating grimace. Tim decided he didn’t want to know.

The prophecy had said “build your altar upon the foundations of the olde familie.” There were many old family homes in Gotham. (“Perhaps you could ask if the Cobblepots are willing to host the next occultic ritual?” Alfred had said.) But the Manor would be the easiest to use for bait.

Because they had no idea how long the evening was going to run (fighting ninjas before or after cocktails?), Alfred was opening up and airing out the bedrooms. He spent more time at the Manor than the penthouse these days. Tim felt bad for Alfred, but he was relieved to be back. The penthouse would never really be home. This was the place where Tim had felt the most wanted, even when his parents were alive.

Kimberly spun slowly in the grand ballroom. Tim could see her calculating capacity.

“Six. Days,” she said. “You want to throw together a major fundraising gala in six days?”

“I know it’s not much time,” Tim tried to apologize. “But both the Gotham Archaeological Museum and Gotham Metropolitan have promised us pieces from their collections. . . .”

Kimberly looked this close to calmly and professionally strangling Tim with his own tie. “You’re going to be paying last-minute booking fees on all the catering and decorators and music.” She was too composed to put her hands on her hips, but she did peer down her glasses at him. “So all of that has to be calculated into the ticket costs. But you’re just going to have random music-themed exhibits that guests could see for much cheaper at the museums we’re borrowing them from? And then you’re going to give a speech about the importance of the Arts for the Neon Knights and hope that you draw enough attendees and big donations to justify driving me to edge of a nervous breakdown instead of just writing a nice check yourself?”

Tim choked a little. “It’s . . . it’s for my brother,” he tried. He could feel Alfred’s eyebrows going up behind him. “He—the Arts were—are—a big deal to Jason. You know, he grew up near Crime Alley, right? And when he was living on the streets, he used to spend hours sneaking into museums or reading at the public library—” Jason was going to kill him. For real this time. Not because this was a terrible lie but because this was actually true. Tim had read about it in Bruce’s files. (Tim didn’t know if it was sweet or sad that Bruce wrote those kinds of things into his files.)

Kimberly gave him a calculating look. “And will Jason be speaking at the gala?”

“Uh, sure,” Tim said. “He’d love to.”

He did not miss the sharp sound Alfred made through his teeth.

But Kimberly, for the first time since she arrived, looked genuinely pleased. “Charitable donations stemming from morbid curiosity? This could work.”

***

Jason didn’t hate the idea as much as he could have. Alfred assured him that the Neon Knights Arts Center was very real.

He didn’t even hate the weird conspiracy theories that were circling his reappearance: “Jason Todd Wayne Was Never Missing—Just in Rehab/Prison/Witness Protection This Whole Time,” “New Jason Todd Is Actually a Lex-Corp Spy,” “The New Jason Todd Is Actually Some Poor Homeless Dude Forced into the Waynes’ Latest PR Stunt,” and “Jason Todd Was on a Secret Space Diplomacy Mission—and His Brain Got Wiped” (this was Jason’s favorite—so bizarre and yet somehow well within the realm of possibility).

A gossip rag released a multi-page spread positing that Jason Todd was the Red Hood. They had a security camera shot that clearly showed Jason in a Gotham bar almost a year before the date the Wayne family had “officially” found him wandering the streets of Libya. More damning, they had an image of the Red Hood entering the safe house where Gotham’s paparazzi had last swarmed Jason Todd. That was impressive. The Red Hood prided himself on his ability to notice and lose a tail. Thanks, Talia.

But the fact that it had been released by a tabloid said that the established press was buying some version of the official Wayne PR.

Bruce’s lawyers had already released convincing photos of Jason being “found” in Libya, as well as a statement from both the FBI and Interpol about the work that had been done to bring Jason home. Jason didn’t ask how this been accomplished—it was a little scary what money and a couple magic-wielding/shape-shifting allies could get you.

And Vicki Vale had written a long piece on the history of the “missing” Wayne child and how that loss had affected Bruce Wayne—and Gotham. It was beautiful. If it had been about someone else, Jason might have found it genuinely touching. As it was, he found it hilarious.

Actually moving was the exposé Clark Kent and Lois Lane had cowritten about modern-day slavery and human trafficking around Qurac. (Clark had originally been miffed not to get the scoop on Jason’s return. But they’d needed the goodwill of Gotham’s press first.) Clark and Lois had somehow gotten an interview with a nineteen-year-old domestic worker who’d been freed through the recent Justice League bust. She’d been living in a shed in a wealthy family’s compound since she was eight years old. Her story alone made Jason glad he’d agreed to all this publicity hoop-la.

Gotham’s public, of course, was a little harder to convince. “Jason Todd is Red Hood” definitely had some devotees online.

There was also a popular message board that was intent on proving that Jason was actually Red Robin, which was a little insulting. (First, did the Replacement have to steal ALL his former identities? Second, how could no one notice how fricking short Red Robin was? How could anyone with eyes look at civilian Jason and think, “Yeah, those muscles are going to fit into that skinny-ass suit”?) When he complained about this, the Replacement looked suspiciously innocent. Jason would have bet any amount of money that Tim was sneaking onto nerd forums and fanning these fires.

But he wasn’t truly mad until he read Gotham Gazette’s “About Town” section on Thursday morning. The byline was the Gazette’s own editor-in-chief, John Hall, so Jason knew this was going to be big:

Jason Todd Wayne’s “Abnormal” Behavior is Actually Sadly Normal

We had saying in my schoolyard. I bet you’re familiar with it. I’ve seen it on T-shirts in tourist kiosks. Hell, I’ve said it to new hires from out-of-town: “You may be tough, but you ain’t Gotham tough.”

Outsiders know Gotham for three things: our crime, our crime-fighters, and our Waynes. Different aesthetics, similar resilience. Gotham doesn’t have time for the timid.

We’re supposed to be tough and cynical in Gotham, not stupid. But lately, I’ve heard everything from “cloning technology” to “lizard-people body doubles” as explanations for Jason Wayne.

Admittedly, what little we see of Jason only raises more questions. He’s angry and unpredictable. Even at the press briefing, many noted that, though bright and engaging, he seemed distracted. The long pauses in his speech have led some to speculate that this Jason is actually an actor being fed lines through an earpiece.

Others suggest that Jason is real, but he has returned from some place so unsavory that WE actually hired assassins to take him out before his secrets could ruin stock prices. (And that the assassination attempt of WE’s acting CEO, Timothy Drake-Wayne, a few weeks prior, was merely to draw off suspicion.)

I even had a colleague tell me: “He doesn’t remember the past few years? That’s convenient.” But memory problems are common after either a brain-jarring explosion or a traumatic event. And the terrorist attack Jason survived counts as both.

The psychologists and psychiatrists I spoke with for this piece all said that diagnosing someone who wasn’t their patient violated their code of ethics. But Dr. Gerry Newton of Bristol Behavioral Health Services was willing to give me a list of PTSD symptoms to examine on my own: changes in mood or behavior, trouble concentrating, trouble sleeping, trouble remembering where you are, difficulty maintaining relationships, difficultly experiencing positive emotions, depression, intrusive memories of traumatic events, maladaptive daydreaming, dissociative flashbacks, outbursts, irritability, and self-destructive behavior.

It’s a familiar list.

Two years ago, Louis E. Grieve Memorial High School was attacked by a Black Mask gang. You probably remember the story (if you can disentangle it from the four similar events that occurred that year). After a thirteen-hour stand-off between the gang and GCPD, Gotham’s other claim to fame opened up an escape route through the school’s basement and sneaked the hostages to safety. One of those hostages was my son.

He was fine—not even a scratch. I had never been so grateful in my life.  

And then . . . he wasn’t fine. Skipping classes. Shouting and slammed doors. Not sleeping. Blanking out in the middle of a conversation.

He went from a friendly, straight-A student with an interest in social studies and baseball to a child I didn’t know. Had my boy been saved only to be lost after all?

I’d bring up the changes with his teachers or with other parents. And they’d tell me, “Well, that’s teenagers for you.” Or “Who doesn’t have nightmares?” Or even “He’d better toughen up, if he wants to keep living in Gotham.”

Thanks for that.

When I watched Jason’s press conference last week, I saw a bit of my own kid up there.

I don’t know what’s going on in the Wayne family. But I know Gotham. And I know what she does to our best and brightest.

When we finally got my son to a professional, she told us that kids in Gotham have the highest PTSD rates of anywhere in the Western world. How’s that for tough?

But I guess some Gothamites find a lizard clone easier to accept than the idea that a kid who survived Gotham’s streets, a terrorist attack, and an attempt at human trafficking might be less than polite to stalkers with press badges.

And yes, I saw the Gotham Gossip video. I also saw the terror on the kid’s face as the camera flashes kept coming.

My son is doing better. He’s studying social work. In New York. He says he doesn’t know if he’ll come home after he graduates. And I can’t blame him.

Gotham may not be for outsiders, but she sure has a way of devouring her own.

The two options were Dick and Tim. Dick had spent more time in the Cave, could have come down while Jason was sleeping and heard things. But no, Tim was the sneaky one. The one with plans. Probably had cameras hidden everywhere.

Finding the floor with the bedrooms on it was easy. Jason had never been there, but he’d seen floor plans. Right now, however, he was having some trouble remembering which door led to which bedroom.

But not moving was bad. It gave Jason time to think. And his breathing was labored in a way that had little to do with running up stairs. Why waste a good shot of adrenaline? Jason thought and kicked open the nearest door.

Tim scrambled out of a cross-legged position so quickly that his laptop fell off the bed and onto the floor with an unhealthy crunching sound.

“You’re a real little shit, aren’t you?” Jason asked, pleasantly.

Tim blinked at him. Then he sighed. Like Jason was a walk-in appointment at a loan office that didn’t accept walk-ins. “Did something happen?” he asked.

“I read your little Gotham Gazette op-ed.”

Chapter Text

Tim also had read the Gotham Gazette piece. And thought, This is why you’re a newspaper editor, Mr. Hall, and not a psychiatrist. Somebody learns the term for one diagnosis, and suddenly, everyone they see has that problem. But he’d thought the article would still be to their advantage. It painted Jason in a sympathetic light, and they needed as much of that as they could get right now.

Apparently, Jason hadn’t read the article in the same way. And somehow, this was Tim’s fault.

Jason hadn’t unholstered it yet, but there was definitely a gun at his back, under the jacket.

And there was a threat in his eyes that Tim hadn’t seen since the day Jason had broken into Titans Tower.

Jason stepped closer, his face twisted in fury—and anticipation.

Cass hadn’t come back from Burnley yet. And Dick was out chasing an LoA lead. There would be no backup. Tim needed a weapon and about fifteen seconds of distraction.

***

The Replacement’s brow scrunched up. “And?”

“And is this your idea of getting the hounds off our trail? You’re going to get Vicki Vale off Batman’s back by helping Talia sic every Gotham reporter on Jason Todd?”

Tim tilted his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said calmly. Far too calmly. “Maybe you could explain it to me?”

Jason was towering over the kid now. “Don’t you fucking use the hostage situation voice on me. Tell me the truth.” He grabbed the front of the Tim’s T-shirt. “You’ve been spying on me and then feeding info to the Gotham Gazette. This isn’t the redirection I agreed to!”

Tim held his hands up. There was a small spark of fear under that calm.

Good.

“I haven’t been spying on you, Jason.”

Jason felt his eyebrow twitch. “‘Trouble sleeping.’ ‘Forgetting where you are.’ ‘Dissociative flashbacks.’ How the frick would John Hall know about all that from one press conference and some thirty second videos?” The kid was slick, but he’d overplayed this hand.

Tim was shaking his head, but there was something not quite natural in the gesture. Like his eyes weren’t fully on Jason’s face.  

Jason realized too late to turn. (These kinds of surprises had been happening far too much lately.)

The weight on his back didn’t knock him over, but it didn’t need to—it came with a knife now pressed adamantly against his throat. “Back away, Todd.”

In that half second of distraction, Tim had leapt from the bed and pulled a bo staff from God only knew where. “You heard him.”

Jason grimaced, even though the motion caused the knife to scrape uncomfortably against his skin. “I’d rather you let him slit my throat than feed my psychological profile to the press!”

Damian scoffed, his breath hot against the back of Jason’s neck. “As if that would be fit to print.”

“Back—wait, you’re actually having dissociative flashbacks? For how long?”

***

The non-response was all the response Tim needed.

He’d stopped feeling sorry for Jason (and guilty about taking his place) after that day in Titans Tower. He had thought about Jason the same way he thought about someone like Two-Face or Mr. Freeze: not without pity for his loss, but no longer as a victim either—not when Jason so willfully destroyed so many other lives.

Some days, Tim even hated Jason. Not for the fight, but for the way something in Bruce shattered every time another death could be chalked up to the Red Hood. Bruce would give you anything! Tim had wanted to scream at the man. All you have to do is come back. That’s all he wants. You are all he wants.

And despite everything, Jason would rather be angry than loved.

But maybe Bruce could still have Jason back after all.

PTSD was a thing people could get treatment for. And if it was caused/exacerbated by the pit, then maybe the longer he was away from the pit, the more sane Jason would be? Tim had spent a lot of time studying the Lazarus Pits, and he still didn’t quite understand how they worked. Ra’s was supposedly “mad” from using the pits over and over. But Tim had always found Ra's frighteningly sane—at least, in the clinical sense. (In the moral sense, Ra’s had more loose screws than a hardware store.)

Jason hadn’t written on any walls in blood—Tim’s or otherwise—since that day at the Tower. Maybe Jason was mellowing out the longer he was away from the pit.

Or maybe not. Given the current situation.

But Jason hadn’t responded with the same fury to Damian, even with the knife against his neck. He didn’t seem to feel much antipathy toward Steph either. And Dick had even mentioned that the Red Hood had admitted that he didn’t want to kill Nightwing.

So maybe it was just Tim who was the trigger. Of course it was.

Trusting Jason was a stupid idea. Releasing Jason from prison had been a stupid idea. Agreeing to this “Wayne family PR stunt” was probably also a stupid idea (though Tim didn’t think they’d had any less stupid options). Bruce wouldn’t have done any of these things.

But he would have wanted to. Desperately.

***

Tim looked . . . surprised. Genuine surprise was hard to fake. Jason couldn’t see Damian, but he almost hear the curiosity.

“You weren’t involved in the op-ed?”

“No! Why would you think that I was?”

The kid was hard to read sometimes. He could still be lying. But something in Jason’s gut told him that he was tilting at windmills.

He probably owed the kid an apology. And a new laptop.

Jason slumped.

Then, as soon as his new scarf relaxed slightly, Jason jerked both of his arms backward, elbowing Damian in his ribcage.

He’d never been great at apologies.  

Damian dropped the knife, but not before it nicked Jason’s throat.

The kid released a roar of rage—and dug his teeth into the gap between Jason’s jacket collar and his neck. The phrase “a pain in the neck” suddenly made terrible sense. The number of nerve endings there was just cruel.

Jason reached one arm behind him to try to scruff the feral child, and with the other arm he was already bending forward, reaching for the knife—

Tim used the bo staff for leverage and kicked Jason’s chest with both feet, knocking Damian loose and sending Jason sprawling onto his back.

Jason was now half in Tim’s room and half in the hallway. Which gave him a perfect view of Dick’s startled face just turning the corner.

***

Dick took in Damian glowering and clutching his sides, Tim pressing his staff against Jason’s chest, the sluggish bleeding of Jason’s throat, and the suspicious smell of overheated electronics.

“Grayson!”

I just got home, guys. Dick was seriously considering continuing down the hall as if he had heard and seen nothing. It’s only a little bit of blood.

And Tim looked exceptionally calm.

No, wait. Too calm. The “don’t let the villains see you sweat” kind of calm.   

“Todd attempted to murder Drake! Remove him!”

Tim shook his head. “But he may have killed my laptop,” Tim said. A correction and a complaint all in one. Dick recognized the faintest of tremors across his shoulders.

Jason made no attempt to get up. Just stretched his arms out above his head and then winced. “I can see why you were worried about rabies. Your lapdog bit me.”

Damian scrubbed at his tongue with his sleeve. “Why are you whining, Todd? It was a far worse experience for me.”

Tim grimaced in sympathy—though Dick wasn’t sure who the sympathy was for. “Thanks, Damian.”

Damian nodded sharply. “The next time Todd attacks, I expect you to do the biting.”

That might have been one of the most civil conversations Dick had ever heard them have.

Wait. “The next time Todd attacks”? He eyed the pained way Jason was lying on his back. Like there was a hard object near his waistband. “You brought a gun into the house.”

Jason snorted. “Oh, like Alfred doesn’t have his stash of rifles.”

“Alfred’s never tried to kill Tim! You agreed!” He wrapped his hands around the bo staff and jabbed it against Jason’s chest. “If we were going to do this, then you were going to play by our rules—”

Jason grabbed the staff and jerked it upward. If Dick had been less agile, it would have clocked him in the chin. “If I’d been shooting at Tim, he’d be shot already.”

Dick glanced at Tim, and Tim gave him a small shrug. And then a nudge: I’m fine. I’ve got this.

Dick let go.

Jason pushed against the staff again, but this time it was half-hearted, and Tim didn’t relent. After a moment, Jason gave up and propped himself up on his elbows. “I won’t bruise the new birds—I’ll let them die of their own unnatural causes. I don’t remember agreeing to play nicer than that. And I especially don’t remember agreeing to you spreading a, a psych evaluation of me to the fourth-most-read paper in the country!” Jason’s lips pulled back in a snarl.

The Gotham Gazette? Oh, this morning’s op-ed.

It had been a while since Jason had sat under the Gotham microscope. Dick tried to remember the first time he’d read a story about himself—how upset he’d been by this person who wasn’t him but bore his name and face.

Actually, no, the first time, it had been a story about Bruce.

Dick tried a paraphrase of what Bruce had said then: “Listen, reporters are always going to print the most sensational version of ‘the facts’ that they can get away with. They’re trying to sell papers. As long as you know who you are, you don’t have to let other people’s lies change you.”  

“Thanks, Dr. Phil,” Jason said.

Tim ran a hand down his face. “That may be the opposite of our problem—”

“I’ll pay for your stupid laptop, all right?”

***

Dick didn’t seem any more responsible for this article than Tim had been. Jason knew when it was time to cut his losses—and when it was time to create a diversion.

Jason groaned. “I mean, you’re the WE CEO now. You can probably afford to hunt laptops for sport. But it’s always the principle of the thing with you guys, isn’t it? I bet you walk around the office making sure all the lights are shut off before you leave too.”

Tim blinked at him. “O-kay,” he said slowly and pulled back the bo staff. As an afterthought, he added, “Most of the lights are on a timer now.”  

Jason sat up, making a show of examining his shoulder.

“That’s it?” Damian sounded incredulous.

Tim shrugged. “My files are automatically backed up to a secure off-site server.”

Damian flung his arms into the air and kicked the baseboard. “If I came in here, threatening people, and destroyed Drake’s laptop. . . .”

Dick massaged his temples. “Dames. That’s not— If Tim is okay with— You know I can’t ground Jason; he’s an adult.”

“Then throw him out!”

Jason felt his lips part automatically into a grin at Dick’s look of unease. Yeah, Dickie. Throw me out. “Not easy as you thought it would be, huh, Goldie? Trying to reform the whole set of violent, subpar Robins before Bruce gets back?”

This time, Jason was prepared for the attack, but so—to his disappointment—was Dick, who grabbed Damian mid-leap and spun him away, toward the wall.

And now Dick was crouching, saying something in Damian’s ear while the kid stared straight ahead, stone-faced. Jason could only catch a handful of words: “. . . thank you . . . protecting . . .but . . . talked about this. . . .”

Something about both Dick’s posture and the kid’s expression was familiar.

***

“We talked about this,” Bruce was saying in that grave, gravelly voice of his. The words were clear even though his face was fuzzy and out of focus.

They had talked about a lot of things since Jason had come to the Manor three weeks ago: what gun powder residue could and couldn’t reveal about a weapon, why rollerblading on the stairs was a bad idea, how to calculate wind resistance into grappling hook trajectories, and what the heck a croquembouche was. Jason had no idea which one Bruce was referring to.

For some reason, Jason was sitting on the floor in the kitchen, back against a cabinet. Bruce was crouching in front of him. Normally, Jason didn’t like having someone this close when he was feeling so . . . out of sorts. But this was Bruce. So it was okay.

Except obviously something wasn’t okay. Otherwise, why would he be on the floor? And why Bruce was holding out, of all things, a partially unpeeled banana?

Jason tried to push it away—he felt sick to his stomach and the banana wasn’t helping—but his arms were weirdly weak. That wasn’t right. How was he going to become Robin with weak arms?

“What happened?” Jason asked as Alfred appeared in his periphery. He had a terrible feeling that he had messed up in some spectacularly stupid way.  

“Why didn’t you eat your lunch?”

Jason blinked at the non sequitur. Then he noticed a Ziploc-ed tuna fish sandwich on the counter. It had been in Jason’s sweatshirt pocket. He hadn’t found a good place to hide it yet.

On the weekends, Alfred made lunches for him and Bruce to eat at their leisure. And Jason figured no one could accuse him of stealing—his name was on them.

But he didn’t want to explain. He’d been trying not do anything that would place a big neon sign over his head that read “Street Brat Ain’t Got No Class.” Hiding carrot sticks behind your bookshelf probably screamed Crime Alley levels of tackiness.

“Wasn’t hungry,” he tried.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.

Shi—shoot. He probably sounded ungrateful. “Sorry. I was just coming in here to get some.”

“It’s after 3 p.m., chum.” Bruce’s brows were nearly touching now.

Alfred pressed a glass of juice into Jason’s hand. “Less talking, more restoring blood sugar levels, please.”

Jason accepted the juice automatically. It was only when the glass was empty that he realized how good it was. Some of his fuzzy-headedness was clearing up and his stomach was settling. He snatched the banana from Bruce.

“Hungry after all?” Bruce asked dryly.

Jason caught the tail end of the sharp look Alfred gave Bruce. He wasn’t sure why Bruce looked embarrassed. He wasn’t the one inhaling food like a vacuum cleaner.

Bruce lowered himself into a sitting position. His legs were so long that the soles of his shoes touched the cabinet near Jason. “Remember, I told you that training was going to burn a lot of calories and you had to eat more if you wanted to build muscle.”

“Yeah,” Jason agreed, placing the empty peel into Alfred’s insistent palm. “But I am. Like, a lot more.”

Bruce nudged his knee. “But not your lunch.”

“But not your lunch for at least the past two days,” added Alfred. When they both looked up at the butler, he explained: “I checked to see if your school shoes needed polishing. I found half a sandwich in each heel.”

“Fuck.” Jason had not considered that there might be any reason for Alfred to mess with his shoes.

The expression on both Bruce’s and Alfred’s face made Jason realize his internal monologue had not stayed internal. Well, double-fuck. And Jason had been trying so hard too.

On instinct, Jason scooted out of reach. And banged the back of his head on the edge of the cabinet.

Alfred made a sympathetic noise between his teeth. But Bruce pulled his legs back underneath him.

When Jason squinted at him through pain-bleared eyes, all Bruce said was “Let me take a look?”

Carefully, Jason nodded.

One of Bruce’s stupidly giant hands covered the entire back of Jason’s head. But his fingers felt like cautious breezes parting Jason’s hair. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“Not anymore.” Not since eating something.

Bruce hummed knowingly in the back of his throat. “Any particular logic behind putting off eating then?”

Jason felt a flush spread up his neck.

“If something else would be more enticing, I could change the menu,” Alfred offered. “Better that than to have you collapse on the kitchen floor again.”

Did they really think Jason was going to be that precious about food? He had literally eaten out of dumpsters. And fought people for the right to do so.

“No, it’s good. It’s all good!”

Now Bruce’s fingers were gently scratching at his scalp. No one had done that since Mom had died. Even when she was really sick and couldn’t do anything else, Jason would lie next to her and she’d massage his scalp and call him “my good, sweet boy.”

Now, Bruce’s fingers felt so nice Jason wanted to cry.

So instead, he pinched his arms and stared ahead. Face set. Not meeting anyone’s eyes. “It’s dumb . . . I eat so much now. But I’ve been waking up hungry in the middle of the night. So I’ve been saving stuff. You know, for later. So I can get back to sleep.”

Bruce’s hand paused. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Jason remembered Willis yelling at his mom because the milk was gone. And it had been gone because Jason had woken up hungry and finished the last dregs in the bottom of the carton. And yeah, Bruce could afford to buy a whole dairy farm if they ran out of milk. But that didn’t mean he would want to. And it didn’t mean that there still weren’t things worse than being hungry sometimes.

Jason shrugged.

And then Bruce just withdrew his hand and got up. To Alfred, he said, “There’s no skin broken, but I’m going to get him an ice pack.”

To Jason, he said nothing at all.  

“I figure my stomach will . . . readjust or whatever soon,” Jason said, for Alfred’s benefit. But he still couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact.

“No,” Alfred said with conviction, “it will not.” He knelt in front of the boy. “And now would be a good time to practice not ignoring your body when it’s telling you it’s hungry.”

“I think I’m always hungry,” Jason confessed in a whisper.

“Of course you are. You’re a teenager. Add that to the training regimen you’ve committed to, and I’m surprised you aren’t gnawing on the furniture."

A banging sound and a muffled growl came from the far end of the kitchen.

“What is Bruce doing?”

“I am deliberately not watching,” Alfred admitted.

A moment later, Bruce returned with an ice pack—and arms full of pantry staples. “Here,” Bruce said, laying them on the floor next to Jason the way a dog might lay down a stick he caught.

Now, Jason was clutching his stomach for an entirely different reason.

“They’re nonperishable,” Bruce tried to explain over Jason’s howling laughter. “If you need to keep food in your room, this has to be better than storing tuna salad in your closet.”

“Bruuuce. . . .” Jason pounded his right fist against the tile and tried to catch his breath. “How am I going to eat—” he turned over one of the packets and broke into another howl “—dry vermicelli and a bag of chickpea flour?”

“Perhaps you are intended to choke it down with your jar of marinated artichoke hearts and a hearty helping of—good heavens, Master Bruce—red wine vinegar straight from the bottle?”

Jason giggled.

“It was what I could find,” Bruce protested. “It’s food,” he added petulantly.

The array of ridiculous ingredients gave Jason the same warm feeling that Bruce’s fingers on his scalp had. Jason stood and set them on one by one the counter, snickering at each item.

Bruce pressed the ice pack against Jason’s head. “I just want you to eat.”

Jason leaned back against Bruce’s side. Bruce made a noise of protest when the ice pack made contact with his shirt, but he didn’t move away, just anchored the boy more securely with one arm.

No longer feeling like the most ridiculous person in the room made Jason generous. “It’s the thought that counts, right, Alfred?”

“Not with nutrition, I’m afraid.” But he patted Bruce’s arm as he pulled a box of protein bars out of the cabinet.    

***

That had been real. Jason hadn’t thought of it in years. But he remembered it with the same dull certainty with which he remembered his middle name and how to tie his shoes.

“You still with us?”

It took every ounce of self-control for Jason not to punch the veneer of concern off Dick’s face. And now Tim was shooting Dick a clear “see, I told you” look.

He’d apparently been “gone” for long enough for them to discuss him.

“Unfortunately.” Jason sat up. There was no longer a staff at his throat. In fact, both the bo staff and Jason’s gun seemed to have vanished. Jason was pretty sure he was not going to get that one back.

It was a relief to see that the mini-bat was still glaring at him with the same level of vitriol as before. Maybe more. Never change, kid.

“Listen—”

“Nope. Listening was not part of our agreement. Neither was talking. I have issues. You have issues. The kid definitely has issues. But I’ll fight off the League of Assassins singlehandedly before I have a heart-to-heart with any of you about them, capiche?”

Dick’s expression said that he absolutely did not/was not going to capiche.

But Tim interrupted with “Cool. Dick, there’s so much set-up to do at the Manor, I think I’m going to stay there until the gala.” And Jason recognized a strategic retreat when he saw one. Apparently, he really had the kid spooked. Jason didn’t know whether he felt vindicated or ashamed. Maybe a little of both.

Dick must have recognized the retreat too because he stared at Tim.

“Babs has enough to do. And it’s easier to get the Cave fully up and running from, well, inside the Cave.”

Some kind of silent argument was taking place between them now. Damian just increased the intensity of his scowl. If hatred had been heat, Jason would have burst into flames like an ant under a magnifying lens.

“It’s just a few days,” Tim said, finally. “And I’ll be here for our strategy meeting at 1900 hours. Speaking of which, I have a lot to do before then, so. . . .”

Dick swallowed whatever arguments he had been going to deliver. Then he breathed out slowly, and far too dramatically, and looked at his phone. “So do I. And I’m late. No more guns upstairs,” he threw out as he jogged down the hall.

It was cute the way he assumed Jason was going to take orders from him.

“Military time is pretentious, Timmy.” Jason stood and stretched. “Just say 7 p.m. like a regular human.”

“Just be there please,” Tim said. He looked old. Seventeen going on eighty.

If the kid had been someone else, Jason might even have felt sorry for him.

Chapter Text

On Thursday evening, the Watchtower’s computer finished running Tim's program.

Tim scheduled a meeting with Rip Hunter, Superman, Booster Gold, and Green Lantern (and Skeets) for Friday morning. It was last minute, but he knew everyone would show.

The gala was on Saturday. If all went well, on Sunday, Tim would be inside the Time Sphere, bringing Bruce home.

But of course, all did not go well.

Clark leaned forward over his folded hands. “We can have everything set up to leave tomorrow.”

Tim jerked up from his notes. “Tomorrow? That’s not the plan.”

“I think I speak for everyone when I say your work—” Clark waved at the hologram board Skeets was projecting “—has been invaluable, Red Robin.”

No. . . .

“But we know you have your hands full in Gotham, and we think we can take it from here.”

No, no, no!

“I think I could rearrange my schedule for this,” Tim said tightly. Even though he had no idea how Dick would take that. (He hadn’t told Dick they were this close to finding Bruce—because there were some other complications he hadn’t worked out yet.)

Clark was saying something about this being a Justice League mission (unofficially), so therefore, it should be headed up by JL members.

But Tim’s attention was on the expressions around the table: Rip was hard to read, but Clark looked sympathetic, and Booster, embarrassed. And Hal looked guilty, twisting his ring on and off again. (Even Skeets whirred unhappily.) They’d already met without him, and they’d picked Clark to break the news.

“You think I’d be a liability? On this mission?”

“Not intentionally,” Clark broke in. “But you may be too close to read the situation correctly.” You won’t be able to do what needs to be done, if it comes to that.

“I think you’re forgetting whose protégé I am if you think I’ll let my emotions get in the way,” Tim said dryly.

“Listen,” Rip broke in. “Your data is incredible. But it doesn’t really show that Batman has shed all the collected Omega Energy—or what we’re supposed to do with him if he hasn’t.” That was surprising. Rip hadn’t struck Tim as a “numbers guy”—and Tim had thought he’d done a good job of burying that particular dataset.

“You think Batman hasn’t figured that out yet?” Tim was talking to Rip but looking at Clark. “You think he’d let you pull him out of the timestream if there was even a chance that he was putting the world at risk?”

“Batman is still human,” Clark said softly. “He’s still capable of making mistakes. I think you know this better than anyone. You know I want him home as much as—”

“I’m not letting you sideline me! Not on this!”

“Red Robin, you already knew about the Omega Energy issue, didn’t you?” Being scolded by Superman was like being told off by your favorite teacher.

Tim swallowed.

“The fact that you didn’t mention this probability suggests you’re already letting your desire to bring Batman back cloud your judgment,” Clark said. Something sad and kind crinkled the corners of his eyes. “And I can't blame you for that. But you have to trust us to—”

“No!” Tim stood, slamming his hands down on the conference table. Hal dropped his ring in surprise, and Skeets had to fly out of the way as it bounced off the table and onto the floor.

With a sigh, Tim reached beneath the table and then placed the ring back in front of Hal. More quietly, he said, “You don’t understand. I’m his Robin,” he whispered. “It’s my job to—to—”

He was the closest to Hal, and that’s whose hand he felt on his shoulder a moment later. “We’ll bring him back, Red Robin. I promise. Trust us.”

Tim didn’t look around the table. He didn’t want to see whose face suggested that wasn’t a promise they could keep.

Instead, he took a breath and removed Hal’s hand from shoulder. “I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?” He set his jaw. “Just don’t forget how much trust you owe Batman.”

Tim left the room without looking back. He didn’t need to see their grimaces of sympathy.

As soon as he was alone, Tim pulled Hal’s ring out of a pocket and examined it. Work fast, Boy Wonder. He didn’t have a lot of time before Hal noticed the ring currently gracing his finger was just a fan collectible.

When Hal’s ring was in “inactive mode,” it fit loosely on his finger. Tim had spent several meetings watching the man fiddle with it when he was bored. I bet he doesn't act this way if Batman is leading the meeting.

Later, Tim would “run into” Hal in the Tower’s dining hall. Apologize for losing his composure. Shake hands. Elastic Man would trip over a (purposely) badly placed chair, bumping Hal’s table. Tim would use the distraction to return the correct ring. Try not to feel guilty when Hal cleared his throat and said Batman would be proud of the man he was becoming.

Right now, Tim only needed to steal from one more hero to make this work.

Cass had been right. On their own, they risked coming up with dumb plans. And this was a very dumb plan. But Bruce could be mad at him after he was home safe.

All rarely went well, but that was fine. Tim had learned to make plans based on things going wrong.

***

Jason didn’t stick around after the strategy meeting, so Tim allowed himself a few minutes at the newer Batcompter before he prepared for patrol.

“Can you swing through the Old Gotham–Robinson Park run tonight? Just a shortened version? I might be back late.”

Tim spun his chair away from the desk.

“I know, I know.” Dick was already pulling on the cowl. “But it’s an emergency. Donna called.”

Tim stood up. “What’s wrong?”

Dick hesitated halfway into the Batmobile. “It . . . it’s personal.”

“Like, personal-personal or destroy the universe personal?”

“Thanks!” Like Dick hadn’t heard him. And then the door slammed and the Batmobile zoomed off.

“Great. Perfect.” Tim laid his head on the Batcomputer keyboard.

“Stressful day?” Cass asked.

He didn’t ask where she had come from. He didn’t even lift his head. “Stressful life,” he said.

“Very,” she agreed solemnly, making herself comfortable on top of one of the filing cabinets. “We should quit,” she added. “Start a, um, froyo stand.”

Head still on the keyboard, Tim turned to look at her. “You’d hate that. You’d get bored after two hours.”

“So would you.”

“Yeah, so I guess we’re stuck with saving the world, or whatever is we do.”

Cass slid easily off of the cabinet and came to stand by Tim’s chair. “Secrets make you more stressed,” she pointed out.

“Yeah,” he agreed. But he didn’t offer her any.

“Also, Jason?” she tried.

 Tim sat up. “What’s his . . . deal? Like, what do you read off his body language?”

Cass frowned. “Do you think I have magic mind-reading powers?”

“No.”

Cass put a hand on her hip.

“A little, maybe.”

“Not how it works.” Now, Cass had both hands on her hips. “Also, that feels like . . . cheating.”

“Cheating?”

She shook her head. “No. Wrong word. Like secrets. Like . . . gossip?”

“If I knew that someone might be thinking about killing you, I’d tell you,” Tim wheedled.

“You think Jason wants to kill you?” Cass looked surprised. So maybe not then.

Tim shrugged. “Not lately. But I mean, he almost did before.”

Cass’s eyes widened. Apparently, she hadn’t known this. “I thought Damian was . . . being Damian. Why isn’t he still in jail?”

“Er, ’cause I sprung him.”

Cass just stared at him for a long time.

“In hindsight, it seems dumb. But I thought he deserved a second chance. It was for Bruce. It’s what Bruce would have wanted.”

“Batman hated killing.”

Tim had to smile at the conviction in her voice. “Yeah, but he loves Jason.”

Cass braced her hands on either side of his chair. “He loved you too.”

Tim figured he must be radiating more uncertainty than normal. He’d have to work on that. “I know. But the thing with Jason is I’m not sure he was himself when he first got back. Like, I think the Lazarus Pit made him . . . not irrational—he was smart, he could plan rings around us sometimes—but just extra rage-filled or something? He wasn’t like the kid Bruce and Alfred described. He wasn’t like the Robin I used to see.”

Cass’s frown deepened. “I don’t think the pit works that way.”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be a temporary ‘madness.’ But it’s not like we have a lot of experience with the pits either.”

Cass’s expression was unreadable. Tim wondered where the hesitation was coming from. Did she know that Tim had come this close to using one of the pits? To try to bring back his Dad, Connor, and Stephanie? He’d never told her about that.

“I could ask him,” she offered abruptly. “See what his body language reveals.”

“Yeah, no. I don’t think that’s going to go over well.”

“What’s he going to do?” Her lips twitched upward. “Kill me?”

She had a point. Still, pissing Jason off was never a good idea. “I don’t think this is a problem you can solve, Cass.” And anyway: “Since when do you hang out with Jason?”

“Tomorrow.” Cass made a face. “Clothes shopping. For your gala.” There was definitely an accusation in her voice.

Tim placed on hand on his chest. “My deepest apologies,” he intoned.

She flicked his forehead. “You are a mean brother.” Cass spun toward the exit before Tim could attempt to retaliate.

“I’m going to bruise.” He rubbed the stinging mark.  

“No, you aren’t.”

He raised his voice. “And now I want froyo!”

She grinned at him. “That is a problem I can solve. Place by Clock Tower is the best.”

***

Saturday morning. Day of the gala.

There were no window displays. Nothing that said “clothes made here.” “I think I’ve walked down this street half a dozen times and never noticed this shop,” Stephanie said.

Cass had never been to Lemare & Madame C. either, but Jason had. He stared up at the secretive sign and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. “This,” he complained to Alfred, “was not something I missed.” But his shoulders were turned (curious, eager) toward the entrance, and his expression was soft (remembering).

According to Alfred: Cass, Stephanie, and Jason were the only members of the family without something “appropriate” to wear to the gala. And that had to be remedied as soon as possible.

They stepped into a small entryway where an older woman in black and a man wearing the tiniest pair of glasses Cass had ever seen stood, waiting for them. Alfred signed the guestbook on the pedestal with a small gold pencil.

Stephanie raised her eyebrows at Cass. FAN-cee, she mouthed.   

“I apologize, again, for the rush,” Alfred was saying.

“Hey, Leonard,” Jason said. “Pretty sure my measurements have changed since last time.”

The corners of the man’s lips lifted, fractionally. “The usual?” he asked Alfred.

“Formal, not black tie. So a spot of color might not come amiss.”

Leonard nodded. “Perhaps a waistcoat in merlot.” He squinted at Jason. “Or even a dark emerald stripe.”

“Emerald stripe?” Jason threw the back of his hand across his forehead. “You always were a wild card, Leonard.”

With the palest of smiles, Leonard opened a door to the right, and Jason disappeared into the men’s side of the shop.

When the woman in black opened the door to the left, Stephanie stifled a gasp and clutched Cass’s arm. From the outside, the shop looked small, but the maze of silk and sparkles seemed to go on for miles.

“You don’t need to buy me a dress,” Stephanie had told Alfred. “I’ll be in it for what? all of fifteen minutes before Damian and I have to change?” The plan was for Steph to play the role of babysitter and pretend to shuffle Damian away from the adult activities after Jason’s speech. Then they would change into uniforms. Damian had his own mission. And Stephanie would prepare to protect civilians. Whoever was coming for the Chaos Shard/exhibit items probably cared about speed, not messages written in civilian blood. But no one wanted a repeat of Jason’s press conference.   

“Nonsense,” Alfred had replied. “Think of it as a different type of uniform. And I suspect Miss Cassandra will appreciate your assistance.”

Cass wasn’t sure if she appreciated any of this yet.

“Oh my god,” Stephanie whispered, dragging Cass toward something so large and fluffy that she wasn’t sure how it could even be a dress. “I don’t know if I hate it or love it. But I have to try it on.”

But when “Madame” followed them, offhandedly mentioning the cost of the gold-threaded trim on that item, Stephanie backed away like the dress had teeth.

They were brought to a small room full of mirrors and chairs with two smaller dressing rooms attached. Stephanie tried on three dresses before she found the one she loved. It was pink and sleeveless with a skirt that ballooned out a little. But the best part was the sparkly bit of dark purple that started at the bottom of skirt, reaching up until it faded into the pink at the top. It was very Steph. It was perfect.

“Like a movie star,” Cass told her.

Cass, meanwhile, tried on eleven dresses. And shook her head at each one. None of these dresses were very Cass. She was beginning to suspect that they didn’t carry any “Cass dresses.”

“I have a dress,” she reminded Alfred.

He just pressed his fingertips into his temple and sighed. “Please, Miss Cassandra, the gala is tonight. Let’s make this as simple as possible.”

Simple, Cass thought, would be to let her wear the dress she already had at the Manor. But Alfred had stared at it, silently, for a long moment, before rehanging it in the back of her closet. He had seemed both confused and insulted by her dress.

“And what, may I ask, is wrong with this gown?”

“You look like a goddess,” Stephanie added.

“I don’t like it.” Cass held her arms out. The sleeves were like puffed-up, gauzy clouds; they brushed the bottom of her chin if she moved too suddenly. She was afraid she might sweat on the dress. Then maybe they would make her buy it.

“What about it offends?”

“The arms. And the dress-part.”

Alfred sighed for the twenty-first time since they had arrived.

“What’s the hold-up?” Jason pushed into their private “showroom,” a bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m already done. And I’m a lot taller than I was last time I was measured for a tux.”

Cass grimaced. “Boys’ clothes are easy. Girls’ clothes suck.”

“The dress you are currently wearing looks absolutely elegant on you,” Alfred said, tilting his head toward Madame, who was standing with her hands clasped near the door. A warning and a reminder. Cass wondered if she was the Madame on the sign, or if Alfred just called her that. Had she made all these dresses? Was one person capable of so much evil?

“It hates me,” Cass declared, tugging at the sleeves.

Madame pinched her lips together, like she was trying not to laugh. But Alfred put both hands to his forehead.

“I have a dress already.” That dress was a “Cass dress.” Why couldn’t she wear it?

“It barely deserves the title—parts of it are held together by safety pins.”

“Yes, but on purpose. It’s—it’s—” She looked at Stephanie, hoping she might know the word.

“Punk?” she tried, looking amused.

“How lovely.” Alfred stood and examined Jason’s tux. “I must remember to spray paint the anarchy symbol on the front lawn before our guests arrive.” His voice sounded sharp and breakable at the same time.

“Hey.” Jason caught Alfred gently by the elbow. “Leonard was just asking if anyone wanted to join him on his tea break. Maybe you should and let us finish up here.”

“Have you suddenly become an expert on women’s fashion, Master Jason?” Alfred raised an eyebrow, but Cass already knew that he was going to give in.

After Alfred escaped, taking Madame with him, Jason returned with several dress bags in his grip. “The trick is to pick something you can tolerate for one night. And then, if it meets with a terrible ‘accident’ at the end of the evening—oh well.”

Cass examined the dark dresses. “All the same color?” she asked.

“Can’t go wrong with black. Hides stains. Looks classy.”

“Looks basic,” Steph muttered.

Cass hummed uncertainly but disappeared into the dressing room.

This dress was shorter than the last dress, so it should have felt less constricting. But it didn’t. It felt wrong. She didn’t need the mirror to know she looked good. But she felt like Catwoman.

“This is a ‘boy dress,’” she told Jason.

“What does that mean?”

Cass made a face. “It’s the sort of dress boys pick out for girls to wear.”

Jason held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just giving you options. You don’t have to wear it. I just thought you might want something a little less . . . Alfred.”

Cass shook her head. “Next, please.”

Jason handed it to her with a crooked smile. He looked relaxed. More relaxed than Cass had ever seen him. For once, his body wasn’t screaming anger, grief, regret.

Which made her sorry for what she was about to do. She pulled out her phone and punched in the code Babs had set up. “Anti-bugging device,” she explained, setting it on a chair. “Fifty feet.”

Jason looked abruptly alert. “Probably unnecessary here, but what’s up?”

“I want to talk about the Lazarus Pit.”

If she had shot him with an arrow, his body language couldn’t have changed more. Ready to fight. Even more ready to run.

“The hell, Cass,” Steph whispered.

“And here I thought you were going to be the ‘cool sibling,’” he said, finally, not a muscle in his body moving except his mouth.

“I am.” She slipped into the dressing room and closed the door behind her. “I am also the sibling who has been in a Lazarus Pit.”

Cass thought he might leave while she was trying on the dress. And letting him leave, if he wanted to, was the best apology she knew how to make. But as she was pulling up the zipper, she heard, “I know.”

“You know?”

“I can taste it, almost, any time I’m near a pit, or someone who has used one.” Quiet, like he was embarrassed.

She answered the unasked question as she opened the dressing room door. “I can’t. I feel . . . prickly . . . when I am next to a pit, but that is all.”

He nodded and looked away. Disappointed. Alone.

Stephanie, however, wouldn’t stop staring at her. Before now, Stephanie had been the only the one who knew about all of this. Why now? Steph’s eyes were asking. Why him?

“I have a theory,” Cass said, testing out the word. One of Tim’s favorite words.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe the Lazarus Pit is harder on you if you weren’t ready to die. Or it is harder on you if you weren’t ready to come back.”

Jason shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall. Still tensed for running but weighing her words. “I mean, the first part makes sense. Ra’s is definitely berserker when he comes out, and he’s never ready to die. But I think most people aren’t ready to die. Especially teenagers. Or are you saying that you were?” He raised a skeptical eyebrow at her. “The perfect soldier, ready to sacrifice herself to Batman’s ideals?”

Cass rubbed her hands against the silky fabric of the dress and wondered if it was worth explaining. “Yes,” she said finally. “But not . . . in a good way.”

Stephanie didn’t say anything, just moved closer and briefly squeezed her hand.

“Oh.” He ran his hand through his hair. “But you wanted to come back?”

Cass smiled. “Yes. It was like. . . .” She spread her hands, searching for the right words. “Like being new.”

“Sounds nice.” He gestured toward a mirror. “Whaddaya think?”  

Cass spun in front of the mirror, the tiny gray gems on the skirt catching the light as the fabric flared.

Stephanie shrugged.

“Pretty,” Cass said. “But boring.”

“Yeah,” Jason allowed. “But I think Alfred will settle for boring at this point.”

“You didn’t want to come back?”

“Let’s just say that I didn’t want to wake in up in my own coffin and then have to dig my way out using only my bloodied fingernails and my belt buckle.” Voice colorless. Even one stray bit of emotion would put him at risk for feeling all of them.

Cass stopped spinning. Jason had dropped “jokes” about coffins before—darts to poke Dick. But only now did she realize. . . .

“That really happened?” Stephanie whispered.

Jason shrugged. Tight, jerky. “That’s what I remember.” Cass didn’t need to need to be told that he remembered it vividly. “Talia says she found me in Gotham, half-dead but still walking, before she dunked me in the pit. So something happened.”

Cass stared at him. She didn’t know which hurt more—that Jason had wandered around Gotham, scared and bloody and without Bruce, or that Bruce hadn’t known.

No wonder—no wonder it’s not the same.

“What about you?” he asked, casually. “Who performed the baptism?”

“Shiva.”

“Shiva? Not—”

“Yes.” No one had asked, but Cass added, “It’s okay. The second time, I beat her.”

Jason barked out a laugh. “You did not.”

“You are insufferable.” Stephanie groaned and flopped into a chair. “I swear you work this story into every other conversation.”

“It sounds like a good story,” Jason said. “But why are you bringing all this up now?”

“You came back killing people. I want to understand why. And what you plan to do.”  

“You were there; we have an agreement. I’m not killing anyone for as long as we’re working together on this.” A muscle in his jaw pulling like a thread. Upset, offended, ready to do something stupid.

“And after?”

Jason leaned against one of the dressing room doors. “What about it?”

“You plan to go back to shooting people?”

A smirk. “People? No. Drug lords, pedophiles, and murderers? Absolutely.”

Cass narrowed her eyes. He was trying to bait her. “What happens when Batman or Red Robin or Robin get in your way? You kill them too?”

Jason shrugged, mouth and shoulders equally tight. Doesn’t like the idea. Afraid? of the idea. “I guess we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

For now, at least, Cass was satisfied.

But Stephanie wasn’t. “What the everloving fuck is your problem?”

While Jason had been talking, Stephanie’s body had read: sadness, anger, fear. But Cass hadn’t understood that these weren’t coming from the same place as her own sadness, anger, and fear.

Stephanie had always left a deliberate space between herself and Jason, but now, she braced herself, inches from his face. “Do you know how many people would love—hell, how many actually deserve—a second chance like you got? And this is how you use it?”

This was bad. Her body radiated fury. And a desire for action. In whatever form it came.

“By actually fighting crime?” Jason said, putting his hands on either side of his face in mock horror. “Heavens to Betsy!” He was enjoying this. He was going to make it worse. On purpose.

“Oh, Gotham’s so much better since you came back.” Stephanie flung one arm out in front of her. “Look, Cass! Look at all the crime Gotham suddenly no longer has! The streets are clean! Women walk safely at night! And I definitely didn’t have three different kids try to sell me drugs I didn’t even recognize on my way to class this morning! Turns out that all Gotham needed was a little extra murder!”

“Rome wasn’t burnt in day.” A stick, poking. “But your lot hasn’t done better, and you—”   

“Was Tim a drug lord when you tried to beat him to death?”

Jason’s body went still as his mind stepped away. Fear, fear, fear. But fear of what? “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Blondie,” he said, finally. “Only real Robins understand.”

In the breath before Stephanie prepared to kick Jason through the dressing room door, Cass stepped between them.

Physically, Stephanie stumbled to a halt, but her words kept coming. “Dick and Tim may be ready to give you a billion second chances. But I know your kind of asshole. You’ll destroy your family just to prove a point.” She pressed against Cass’s blocking arm, getting as close to Jason’s face as possible. “You mess this up tonight, I’ll make sure you never get another chance.”

Cass almost wished she had let Stephanie kick him instead.    

Jason threw back his head and laughed. “‘Batman & Co.’ isn’t a ‘family’ any more than Wayne Enterprises is. And that’s fine. I’m not mad because Bruce suppressed every human emotion in his fight against crime—I’m mad because he’s so bad at it. Arkham is still a revolving door, the mob still keeps police and politicians in its pockets, kids still die in costumes—and Bruce never changes. He just keeps bloodying his forehead against the same ideological wall. And you idiots are still willing to follow in his footsteps.”

So much of what Jason said was bluff or bait. Or both. But this he believed.

Cass wished there was a way to hand him her memories. And then a way to explain them.

That deepening groove in Bruce’s forehead whenever he passed the memorial case.

That time Cass had pushed Batman; bit out the words, one at a time: “People . . . dying! My . . . life . . . worth . . . more . . . than . . . theirs?” How could he, of all people, argue with that? And softly, under his breath, he had said, “Jason Todd.” It had been the first time she had heard that name. The look on his face told her he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. The next moment, all softness was gone. He gave her a sharp, nineteen-word explanation of the tragedy. She didn’t require more. “That’s not going to happen again.” Not a promise or even a threat. A fact.

And that day Bruce had taken Cass with him to the grave. For a man of few words, he had a lot to say about Jason: the boy’s favorite color, his favorite flavor of ice cream, how Stephanie had reminded him too much of Jason. Sorrow. Guilt. So much fear. And under everything, love. A part of her had wanted to tell him to love them a little less. It would still be enough, she was sure. And it might not hurt him so much. Then Stephanie had died. Cass had never been able to put her own loss into words, so she had no idea what to say about Bruce’s.

Stephanie’s arms were windmills. “You’re one step away from being a crime lord yourself! You think you’re solving something? Or did dying just delay your teenage rebellion?”

“Cluemaster’s daughter should not be trying the ‘daddy issues’ angle.” Jason had a way of smiling that was a warning. Like when apes showed their teeth to each other. “And you think Gotham’s criminals fear bunch of bat-furries who everyone knows don’t kill? Listen, you get tortured, murdered, and blown up by a local madman, and then maybe I’ll be interested in your opinions on crime-fighting in Gotham.”

“Tortured,” Stephanie said flatly.

And Cass could see the moment Jason remembered, realized his mistake. But it was too late.

Stephanie opened her mouth, the bullet already barreling out of the chamber.  

***

It’s not that Jason didn’t know how Stephanie had “died.” He’d done his research on the other Robins after he’d come back. A lot of research. And he’d taken a special pleasure in going after the Black Mask, who had killed this Robin. (If he couldn’t get the Joker, he’d take down the next best monster.)

But sometimes, his mind . . . lost things.

Stephanie wanted to know why he’d tried to kill Tim.

Jason could remember the mad adrenaline rush of the fight, the mix of fury, unholy delight, and begrudging respect. The sense that this fight was inevitable. Like Captain Ahab and the white whale inevitable. Like Greek tragedy inevitable. Like maybe this was what Talia had meant by “fate.” The emotions of the moment were seared into his brain.

But he couldn’t remember what the logic had been behind the decision to fight Tim. Tim was just another stupid kid pulled into Bruce’s web. Annoying, sure. But why hurt him for Bruce’s bad decisions? In his memory, Jason watched himself break into Titans Tower like he was watching a stranger, someone whose thought processes were a mystery. And that was frightening.

When did you become someone who beats up kids to make a point? Or was this kind of violence always in there, the whole time, waiting for an excuse?

In the beginning, gaps in his memory hadn’t bothered Jason. What had mattered was confronting Bruce, getting the justice that had been denied him. What mattered was that he remembered the important things: combat, stealth, research, strategy. Stuff that been drilled into his head for years (and then reinforced by his post-Lazarus Pit training). If whole swaths of his life were fuzzy now, who cared? So many parts of that life had been built on lies.

But just last night, he’d lain awake in the Cave, with rushes of memories? hallucinations? wishes? swarming him like those stupid rabid bats.

He did some searches on his phone. “Memory lost after resurrection” was probably not going to bring up the right results, so he tried “memory loss after physical trauma.” Other kinds of trauma and memory issues came up too. Apparently, childhood trauma had an interesting relationship with memory.

Willis Todd hadn’t been a “good father” by any stretch of the definition. But he hadn’t been a complete ogre either. Some of Mom’s “boyfriends” had been a lot worse.

The bullied little kid becomes the meanest bully of them all? Was this what Bruce had been so worried about when you were Robin?

And after Jason had learned that Two-Face had killed his dad, he had hated himself for believing Willis could have left them on purpose. But some days, death didn’t make the abandonment easier to forgive. (What was that Sylvia Plath line about hating her dead father for being dead? “Daddy, I have had to kill you./ You died before I had time—”)

But the other reason Jason hated Willis was because, more than once, when Jason had been rambling on—about a book he’d been reading, a dream he’d had, some story he was making up—Willis would turn to Catherine, eyes wide, and murmur, “What the hell is wrong with this kid?”

Catherine had always insisted that there was something wonderfully right with Jason. So for a while, Jason had believed Willis’s opinion was a one off.

But then his mom had died. And just when Jason was starting to think that the world was made of more Willis Todds than Catherines, Bruce had shown up—like some flipping fairy godmother.

And in the beginning, Bruce had assured Jason that he was “special.”

But later. . . . Yeah, Jason still remembered those looks Bruce would give him. Like Jason was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Like some piece was missing. Or some extra piece that didn’t fit had been shoved into the box.

Jason had overheard Ra’s tell Talia that he was broken beyond repair. And though Talia had never said it, he knew she had worried that the “pit madness” had affected Jason differently than it did Ra’s.

And then there had been Bruce’s sweet little going-away-message about Jason being his biggest regret and how Bruce should have gotten him help because Jason had been broken even before Bruce found him.

Thanks, Bruce. That really made up for everything. (“Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.”)

***

Stephanie had run into Tim on patrol the other night: a fire at an old hotel that had never been brought up to code.

After the staff and guests were all safe and the fire department had the worst of the flames under control, she and Tim sat for a moment on the curb across the street and wiped the soot off their faces. A nearby nightclub owner brought them bottles of water as a “thank-you.”   

“I think it’s going to be okay,” Tim said when she asked, tentatively, about Jason staying in the penthouse. “I think it’ll be good for Bruce to see us working together when he gets back.”

It had taken all of Stephanie’s willpower not to facepalm. “Bruce isn’t here right now. Is it good for you?”

Tim was smart, but he was also an idiot. He didn’t know the lessons Arthur Brown had taught her: Sometimes, you had to cut people loose before they dragged you down with them. (Or risked your life in a fake kidnapping attempt. Whatever.)

“I know we can’t fully trust him,” Tim had said, playing with the cap on his bottled water. “But he cares about Gotham, in his own way.” Tim had shrugged, embarrassed. “Listen, if Damian can change, then maybe there’s still hope for the Red Hood.”

“Damian is a child,” Stephanie had felt compelled to point out.

Tim had shrugged again, but Stephanie thought that was an important difference. League of Assassins or no, Damian was still learning who he wanted to be. His moral framework was fluid right now. He needed to be taught and protected. (And occasionally searched for knives.)

The Robin cape in the Cave’s memorial had belonged to a kid. (Also, thanks, Bruce, for never putting up my uniform. Favorites much?)

But the Jason Todd sneering at her right now was an adult. Her dad used to make that face. That everyone-else-is-an-idiot-and-only-I-see-how-the-world-really-works face. She wondered if this was the face Jason had made when he tried to beat Tim to death.

“. . .you get tortured, murdered, by a local madman, and then maybe I’ll be interested in your opinions on crime-fighting in Gotham.”

“Tortured?” she said. “I wonder what that would be like. Hours of pain at the hands of a sadist? Maybe my heart would give out? Maybe I’d ‘die’ on the operating table? Maybe I’d come back after a long, painful recovery, having lost what was left of my childhood? Maybe I’d decide to make the most of a second chance, and actually help instead of screwing over the people who had grieved me?”

Jason looked half resigned to riding out this tirade, but he made a futile motion with his hand. “Listen, that’s not—”

“You think you’re special? Crappy childhood with a criminal father?” Stephanie looked around the room, making a flicking motion with her right hand, as she pointed to Jason (“Check!”), herself (“Check!”), and then Cass (“And check!”) with her left. “Died? Three for three, again. Thrown in a Lazarus Pit?” She pointed at Cass.

Cass shook her head.

“But maybe there is a difference.” Stephanie tried gauge his reaction, see one chink of remorse or realization in his asshole armor.

“Yeah?” Cool as Mr. Freeze on a February picnic.

“Maybe the difference isn’t the dying or the Lazarus Pit. Maybe it’s just the type of person—”

It took Stephanie a moment to realize that the item that smacked her in the face was Cass’s phone. Cass had jumped onto the chair . . . and thrown it at Stephanie?

Stephanie was going to feel a bit insulted by that, but it looked like Cass had also kicked one of her shoes at Jason’s head.

“I didn’t do anything!” Jason sputtered, brushing dirt and carpet lint out of his hair.

“You are trying to start a fight.”

Jason held out his empty hands.

“With your face,” Cass said.

“Sorry. I guess I should have left this one at home.”

“Yes,” Cass agreed.

Jason looked for moment like he might actually be dumb enough to try attacking Cass. But they had bigger problems.

“Your dress!” Stephanie pointed to the seam beginning to split at the waist. The dress had definitely not been designed for high kicks.

Cass shrugged. When her shoulders relaxed, her hands stayed clenched.

Stephanie wasn’t any sort of body language savant. But over time, she’d become a bit of an expert in Cass. “What’s wrong?”

Cass clenched her hands in the fabric of her dress and shook her head.

“Cass?”

***

“You need a new codename,” Barbara had said last night before patrol, over froyo with Cass and Tim. This was not the first time she had said this. But this time she added, with a twist of her spoon, “If you don’t pick one by noon tomorrow, I’m assigning you one. And you know a name you pick for yourself will be easier to remember in the heat of battle.”

Cass had shrugged. “You can call me Cass or C., no one else will hear through the comms.”

“You can’t know that. Comms can be dropped, hacked, or even overheard by a meta.” Barbara punctuated this argument by jabbing the air with her pink froyo spoon.

“Or you could just not talk to me,” Cass suggested, grinning. “Only gives orders to the boys. They need it more.” She threw a gummy bear at Tim.

“Hey!” But he caught it between his teeth, and Cass cheered.

“I’m going to make ‘Bratgirl’ your new codename if you don’t watch out,” Barbara threatened.

And Cass had stuck out her tongue.

But now, she realized there was a reason she hadn’t taken on a codename while she was in Hong Kong. Nothing else sounded right.

She didn’t regret giving Batgirl to Stephanie. Not even a little bit.

When she had been a child, she hadn’t even known her own name. It didn’t matter then. She knew Cain’s symbol, and she knew it was also hers. That had been enough. She hadn’t known a name was something you could have.

But it was harder to go without something once you’d had it. Once you knew its worth.

***

“I hate them. All of them. They’re . . . not me.” Cass lifted her chin, as if daring Stephanie to tell her she was being silly. (As if Stephanie could ever think that.) “I’ll just stay in the Cave. Tell people I’m sick.”

Stephanie sat on a chair and pulled her legs up under her. “It’s not like you to give up so easily.”

Cass shrugged again.

Stephanie leaned forward on her knees.

Cass kicked off her other shoe. “Everything’s so . . . small. So stupid. Who cares about dresses or parties or, or—” She gestured around the room, encompassing Stephanie and Jason. “He’s not even here. It was easier when he was here.”

Jason pulled a face, but thankfully, didn’t say anything.

Stephanie wasn’t sure if Cass meant that galas were easier when Bruce was here or if dealing with the world ending was easier with Bruce to rely on. Or if dealing with the rest of them was easier when Bruce was here.

Stephanie only knew how to handle one of those problems. “Well, what did you wear at the last gala?”

Cass slid down onto the floor. (Stephanie winced as the ripping seam got a little wider.) “Those clothes are gone. Left them in my old apartment when I moved.”

Only Cass would leave behind a whole wardrobe and not even think about it.

“I mean what sort of dress was it? Maybe we can find something like it.”

“I didn’t care what I wore then.” Cass shook her head. “Can’t explain. It was easier then. . . .”

Sometimes, Stephanie thought Batman was the coolest person she had ever met—and sometimes, she wanted to slap the arrogance right off his pointy-eared face. But he had been good for Cass.

Stephanie tried to imagine what she would have felt if her dad had been semi-decent and then died. (And then my best friend and my murderous brother wouldn’t stop fighting? Maybe some situations are too specific to understand.)

Jason stuffed his hands into his pockets. “How about this? Blondie and I will play nice if you promise to wear something that won’t make Alfred cry.”

Stephanie glanced at him and then back at Cass. “Deal.”

But Cass just lay back on the floor and stared at the ceiling. “Barbara says I need a codename for tonight. I don’t have a name.”

“Well, who do you want to be?”

Cass shook her head.

Dumb question, Steph. If she knew, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. “Listen, there’s no law against having more than one Batgirl. Last week, a police officer called me ‘one of those Batgirls,’ so as far as the public’s concerned we’re already a set.”

“Bad for codenames,” Cass argued. “Confusing on comms.”

“Well, obviously Babs is ‘OG BG,’ I’m ‘new Batgirl,’ and you’re ‘terrifying Batgirl.’”

“You’re ‘the purple one,’” Cass said.

“Eggplant! It’s eggplant!”

Cass lifted her head. “What’s the difference?”

“There isn’t one,” Jason assured her.

“I’m not trusting either of your opinions on fashion,” Stephanie declared. “You don’t even know colors beyond black.”

Cass sat up, eyes bright. “Black Bat. I can be ‘Black Bat’ on comms.”

“As long as I don’t have to be ‘Purple Bat.’” Stephanie knelt on the floor next to Cass and poked at her face. (Cass grinned and batted her hand away without even looking.) “Now listen. I haven’t looked for a dress for you yet. I’ve got special skills.”

***

Stephanie had called it a “fancy jumpsuit.” Cass didn’t care what it was called; it had pants and pockets. Most of it was black and fitted, but above her chest the fabric changed to an almost sheer, pleated silver shimmer with tiny stars sewn in. The silver fabric flowed all the way up her neck and down her arms, ending in wide, cape-like sleeves.

“One more piece,” Jason said.

It took several tries to get it fastened correctly, but the silver moon looked like it had always belonged in Cass’s hair.

“Not half bad,” Jason said. Pleased with himself.

Cass swished her arms in circles, watching the sleeves move like wings. “Alfred won’t like it.”

Alfred, in fact, loved it. (He also purchased the slightly ripped dress and paid for it to be mended, “to forestall such rushes in the future.”) But Cass wasn’t sure if Alfred loved the jumpsuit itself or the fact that it had no safety pins.

Chapter Text

Saturday afternoon.

Colin had been invited to come by early. Pennyworth had thought this was to make the orphaned boy more comfortable than he might be arriving with all the glitterati and the Neon Knight guests. Damian didn’t bother to correct this assumption.

The problem was that he couldn’t get rid of Grayson. “You should be keeping an eye on the Cave.”

Grayson messed with his hair in the foyer mirror. “Tim has that covered. It’s just a waiting game now.”

When Grayson reached for Damian’s collar, Damian slapped his hands away. “Tt. You should be keeping an eye on Todd then.”

“I want to meet your friend.”

Damian ran his fingers under the neckline of his sweater, freeing the shirt collar trapped underneath. (It was summer, but Damian always found Gotham cold and the Manor drafty.) “You are curious about all the wrong things. Colin is inconsequential right now.”

“You’re making it worse,” Grayson observed. “Just let me help.” If Damian didn’t know better, he would have said that Grayson was calm, cheery even. As though saving reality was no more difficult than downing a couple flutes of sparkling cider and suffering through a night of chitchat and stale jokes. Drake, at least, had the sense to seem agitated.

“If the mirror was at a useful height, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Now you look like a miniature vampire. And I know you’re not used to having friends over, but I promise this is normal. If I greet your friend at the door, it’ll make me look like a better guardian.”

Damian stepped away from Grayson and sharply tugged the corners of his collar down. After a moment, Damian thought to ask, “Better than what?”

“Hm?”

“You said being here will make you look like a ‘better guardian.’ That’s a comparative. Better than what?”

Grayson’s eyes caught his in the mirror. “If I told you there was still time for you to back out of the mission, it wouldn’t make a difference, would it?”

Damian snorted. “Would it have made a difference when you were Robin?”

The bell cut off Grayson’s response.

Damian threw open the door. “Colin Wilkes, Richard Grayson. Richard Grayson, Colin Wilkes. There. Introductions done.” He jerked his head at Grayson, but instead of leaving, Dick just waved the nun and the boy further into the house.

“Hey! It’s so good to finally meet you, Colin. Did Damian tell you he got a kitten? It's at the penthouse tonight, but maybe you can meet it later.” Oh, no. Grayson was going to get friendly. How long was this going to take? “You must be Sister Agnes.”

Sister Agnes looked down at her habit and asked, dryly, “What gave me away?”

Good. A woman with better things to do.

But Grayson just laughed.  

Colin had not struck Damian as a timid boy previously, but now his eyes roamed the hallway, getting wider and wider. “Good to meet you too, Mr. B— Grayson.”

Damian shot Colin a disbelieving glare. (Really? Did you almost call him “Mr. Batman”?) But it was wasted since Colin was staring at his shoes.

Grayson pushed open the door to a small parlor off the hallway. There was a tea tray on the table. Pennyworth had been here. “Please, call me Dick.”

Colin froze, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not that was a joke. If Sister Agnes had looked unimpressed before, she seemed doubly so now.

“Did you ever know a Sister Mary Elizabeth at St. Jude’s?” Dick asked abruptly.

“The children’s home?” Sister Agnes sat on the edge of a chair. “Yes, St. Aden’s collaborates with them on some programs. I know her well.”

“She was really kind to me when I was there.”

Damian blinked. Grayson talked about the circus a lot. (Too much.) And he talked about his early days with Father. But he had never mentioned a gap between the two. Damian had assumed that the Batman had swung into the grisly scene of the Graysons’ murder, promised a young Richard vengeance, and then flown away with the boy tucked into his cape. It had not occurred to Damian that there might have been any waiting period between Grayson’s parents’ death and Father’s rescue of him.

“You were there. . . ?”

Grayson finished Sister Agnes’s sentence for her: “Before Bruce took me in, yeah. I wasn’t there very long, but it was a lot nicer than Gotham’s Youth Center. I was lucky.”

Damian trilled angrily between his teeth. “Why were you in a juvenile detention center?”

Sister Agnes folded her hands in her lap. “It used to be common practice, when Gotham’s foster care system was full.”

“That, thankfully, is no longer the case.” Pennyworth had appeared out of nowhere and was now pouring tea. Apparently, Damian’s earlier dismissal of him had been as pointless as his attempts to get rid of Grayson. Damian had no idea how Pennyworth had made time for this on top of all his other responsibilities today. “I believe we spoke on the phone, Sister Agnes.”

“Yes.” Sister Agnes’s shoulders relaxed marginally, and she sat back in her chair. “Just tea, thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.”

Damian had the sense that there was some other conversation taking place beneath this one. It irritated him that he didn’t understand it. He glanced at Colin to see if he could break this code, but Colin was sitting on his hands and staring at the biscuits.

“You might as well eat them,” Damian said, shoving a plate in his direction. “I won’t.”

“Why?” Colin asked between eager bites. “They’re really good. Or do you only have the blood of your enemies with tea?”

“No,” Damian said. “Sometimes, I have the blood of my allies, if they’re annoying enough.”

After curfews, car rides, and contact information had all been reiterated, Pennyworth offered to walk Sister Agnes to the door. “Actually, I’d like a quick word with Damian,” Dick said.

“Ah, then perhaps Master Wilkes and I will make a short detour for more biscuits,” Alfred said with a knowing look.

“He’s really just a regular kid, isn’t he?” Grayson said, once the voices faded down the hall. He sounded baffled.

“What exactly were you expecting, Grayson?”

“I don’t know.” Grayson ran a hand through his hair. “An alien? A reformed hitman? A tiny-god king?”

“What is the purpose of this aside?” Damian demanded. “It’s hardly likely to divert our guests’ suspicion.”

Grayson’s mouth twitched. “They probably think I’m reminding you to mind your manners.”

Damian scoffed. “That’s lacks verisimilitude. I have superior manners.”

“Then maybe they’ll think I am reminding you to be nice. It can be uncomfortable hanging out with a friend who has more than you do. Try to make Colin feel at home, okay? I’m sure you’ve already researched his background.”

Damian made a noncommittal noise. Obviously, Grayson had.

“So you know he’s had some . . . rough times. Friends don’t usually like being ordered around—or being reminded of how ‘not superior’ they are.”

As if he needed Grayson to tell him how to treat his allies. “Is this truly what you held me back to discuss?”

“No. Not entirely.” Grayson’s mouth twisted. “In a couple hours, maybe less, things are going to get crazy. A lot may change—”

“If you try to convince me to drop out of the mission, I will stab you,” Damian hissed. “You need me tonight.”

“I know,” Grayson said. “I’m lucky to have you here.” That much was obvious. But Grayson’s expression was pained. “Remember how you told me you weren’t a ‘normal’ kid, and I should stop trying make you one?”

Damian froze. Of course he remembered. He had hoped Grayson didn’t.

“I swear I know that. I used to hate when Bruce tried to treat me like a kid. I was his partner, not his sidekick. And I knew stuff that no other kids my age knew; I’d seen stuff that even Gotham kids didn’t normally see. Being Robin wasn’t a game to me. And I know it’s not one to you. But that doesn’t mean that you don’t get to take a break sometimes. I’m not going to suddenly stop respecting your skill if you take a few hours to enjoy something that isn’t related to crime-fighting.”

With a growing sense of dread, Damian waited to see where this leading.

“Your collar’s gone wonky again,” Grayson said finally.

Damian was certain his collar was fine, but he didn’t step away when Grayson fussed with the fabric.

Grayson also straightened the shoulders of Damian’s sweater. Then he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Damian’s. “Have a good time with your friend, okay?”

“Richard.”

Grayson’s startled blue eyes stared back at him, and Damian patted his cheek. (This was a gesture he had seen Alfred make. Others seemed to find it comforting.) “Do not worry. We will be victorious tonight.”

Just before he opened the door, Damian added: “As if even reality itself stood a chance against Batman and Robin.”

When he found Colin, the boy was in his bedroom, balancing a new tray of biscuits and examining a wall display of ceremonial daggers. “Super cool,” Colin told him.

Damian nodded, ignoring the pleased feeling that spread through his chest.

“So . . . should we review the plan?”

Damian’s phone buzzed. A text. He didn’t recognize the number.

“I mean, we don’t have to. It seems pretty straightforward. We could just hang—.”

Damian slid the phone back into his pocket and pulled out a small, skull-shaped whistle. “No time for that. The situation has changed.”

***

Jason went down to the Cave to write. The Replacement wouldn’t bother him. But Cass and Stephanie were there too. The conversation died as soon as they saw him.

“New uniform?” he asked Cass, just for something to say.

“Old one. With changes,” she said, fingers on the mask.

“Her Batgirl suit,” Stephanie explained. “But with a face this time.”

“The old uniform was scarier,” Tim threw out from the computer.

“No one asked you, bird-boy!” Stephanie threw back.

This seemed to have been the expected response because Tim grinned.

“You don’t need to be scarier,” Jason assured her.

“Thank you.”

“Was that a compliment though?” Stephanie asked. “Also, we’re behind schedule if we’re going to patrol the whole grounds before the party starts.”

“Go,” Cass told her. “I need new batarangs. I’ll still beat you to the greenhouse.”

“Wanna bet?” Stephanie flipped across a work bench and took off.

Cass poked around the weapons area, weighing a couple different shapes and sizes of batarangs in her hands. Tim pulled up several windows on the Batcomputer and then sent off a series of furiously typed messages to Oracle.

Jason crossed out the word and, and then after a moment’s consideration, added it back in. “Sorry,” Cass said from behind him. “Speeches suck.”

“I don’t hate all of it,” Jason admitted. “Just the writing-the-speech and the-delivering-the-speech parts.”

“What part do you like?”

“The part when it’s over, and everyone tells you it was a great speech, even if it sucked, because you’re the long-lost Wayne kid.”

Cass shook her head. “I’d rather fight a thousand zombies.”

“Did you?” Jason asked suddenly.

“What?”

“Fight a thousand zombies. I mean, during all that stuff with the black rings.”

Cass’s face went hard. “Yeah. I was still in Hong Kong. It was . . . bad.”

Jason didn’t ask her who she’d seen or if she’d been given a black ring since she’d cheated death once already. All the heroes who Nekron had considered a threat had seen people connected to them come back from the dead—but not really the people they’d known, just evil, distorted versions. Corpse puppets for Nekron’s army of death. Jason put the cap back on his pen and looked at her. “I didn’t see anyone I knew.”

Cass tilted her head, confused. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. He didn’t know how explain what he meant. He wasn’t jealous; he just— “Anyway, gotta find a musical metaphor that hasn’t been done to death.”

Cass pulled his paper away. When he looked up, she said, “You think it’s bad that you didn’t see anyone?”

Jason shrugged. “I read some reports later.” Cass raised an eyebrow, but Jason didn’t explain. He had his own methods for data collection. “Nekron said the Flash, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, etc. had all come back to life because he allowed it. It had been part of some grand evil plan.”

“You wanted to be part of a grand evil plan?”

“No. But it might have been nice to know that I’m not just a cosmic accident,” Jason said, lightly.

Cass ran her fingernail along the edge of a small batarang. “My—David Cain—he had a plan for me. Nothing in my life was on accident. I was supposed to be perfect. Perfect weapon. It was a bad plan.” She pointed at Jason, emphatically, with the batarang. “You decide why you are here.”

He was not ready to deal with this much earnestness today. “To piss off the universe. And Batman. Not necessarily in that order.”

Behind him, Tim made a choking sound.

Cass didn’t smile. “Stupid plan. Do better.” She shook the batarang in his face. And then she was gone.

“Wow.”

“She’s that intense with everyone,” Tim offered, still typing. “It’s not just you.”

Jason wandered over to the computer. “So if I was wasn’t writing this speech—”

“I’d probably have to deliver one,” Tim admitted, briefly looking up from the screen. “It’s a little easier if you’ve met some of the students. I’m sorry we didn’t have more time for that. They’ve got some incredible stories.”

“I dropped a street kid off at one of the new youth shelters this week,” Jason offered. “It was nicer than I was expecting.” Obviously nicer than the kid had been expecting too from the look on his face. Maybe he’d actually stay.

Now, Tim turned toward him. “Thanks. We worked really hard on that. Brought in some people who were former street kids and gang members for the development process. And each of the centers is run by a combination of child psychologists, social workers, and former gang members. It’s still too soon to say what needs to be tweaked, but gang initiations in Gotham were down by 60 percent last—” Tim flushed and cut himself off. “Anyway, a lot of work went into the Neon Knights.”

“Well,” Jason said, feeling oddly touched, “if nothing else good comes from tonight, you’ve got your checks for the Arts Center.”

“Assuming reality doesn’t get rewritten to the point that the Neon Knights doesn’t even exist anymore.” Now, that was a deep sigh. The Replacement was just a teen himself. He shouldn’t know how to sigh like that.

Jason stuck his pen behind his ear. He wasn’t going to get any more writing done down here.

Tim started to spin back toward the computer, but Jason stopped his chair with his foot. “Listen. . . .”

The kid sitting and looking up at him with widening eyes made Jason feel a lot older than he was.

“Whatever happens”—Jason kicked the chair a little to underline important words—"you’ve rewritten reality in a good way for some kids who were born into a crappy one. And that’s more than most people can say.”

Tim squinted at him for a moment. “That’s pretty good. You should write that down.”

***

This plan is too complicated, Dick thought for millionth time. He didn’t worry that his team couldn’t handle the complications, or that they wouldn’t make good decisions if something went haywire.

But this was, ultimately, Dick’s plan, and too many moving parts suggested something he could have simplified but had failed to. Something obvious that had gotten lost in the details.

Talia, or her opponent, might want the Chaos Shard for any number of things. But Dick knew that the reality Talia wanted was one where her son was working at her side. If Talia succeeded because Dick had overlooked something essential. . . .

There were almost two hours left until it was time to put on his tux, never mind turn on his communicator. Chances were that no one else had that channel open yet. Unless there was an emergency, even Oracle wouldn’t be logging in until an hour before showtime.

Dick crammed the tiny device into his ear. “Just checking in.” He winced at how overly chipper he sounded. “Wait staff are arriving in forty-five minutes. Exhibit pieces are—”

“Here,” Tim’s weary voice cut in. “They’re early. I guess that’s better than being late. I’m heading out to oversee the set-up with Alfred. Red Robin out.”

Dick was startled to hear Jason’s voice on the comms. “Go mother hen it somewhere else, Dick-brains. Unless reality is literally on fire, I don’t want to hear from you until after this speech is written and delivered.”

“Names.” And there was Babs.

“Aw, do I gotta put a dollar in the swear jar, O?” Jason sniggered. Dick suddenly had a clear memory of Jason as a tiny, annoying Robin making the exact same noise.

“Push me, and I’ll start transferring twenty dollars from your accounts every time you geniuses compromise your identities.” Dick thought she might be serious about that. “And Batman, keep this line open for emergencies only until 1800 hours, please.”

“Because I’m the only obsessive soul already here.”

“This is my job, and you are not the only partner on my dance ticket tonight.” She sounded stern, but Dick could sense the fond exasperation underneath it all.

“I know. Tell the Birds, I said ‘thanks.’” Batwoman was in South America, but she had volunteered the Birds of Prey for patrol when Dick had contacted her. And Babs had offered to coordinate the Birds, depending on how much Batman and team needed her tonight. (Dick was frankly surprised that Kate was even answering his calls after what had happened the last time they worked together.)

“I’m checking the perimeter with Batgirl,” Cass’s voice broke in.

“Hey.” And there was Stephanie. “I thought we all agreed that, unless there was an emergency, we weren’t checking in until thirty minutes before show-time?”

“We did.” Babs’s and Jason’s frustration overlapped.

“Well, since we’re here. . . .” Dick prompted.

“Nothing to report,” Stephanie said. “Not even a whisper of the LoA.”

That wasn’t surprising. The LoA had gone silent during the two days right before the gala. None of Dick’s leads went anywhere. Even the paparazzi had been quieter without Talia feeding them info.

They weren’t expecting trouble until the speeches started, at the earliest. That’s when the exhibit items would be the most vulnerable and the family the most “distracted.” Talia might have a flare for the dramatic, but her League of Assassins work was still done from the shadows.

“Later,” Cass said with practiced casualness.

“Same,” Stephanie said. “I mean, ‘over and out.’”

“Get the man a sudoku book or something, O,” Jason said.

Dick waited for a follow-up comment.

“He’s gone,” Babs explained. “Refusing to sign off properly is a family trait, apparently.”

Dick tried to think of one more thing to check on so that he could ignore the suggestion that he should be signing off as well.

“Feeling better now?” Babs asked quietly.

“Actually, yeah.” It had been settling to hear everyone. The Manor was huge, and if Talia was smart (and she was), she would try to split them up when the time came. “I normally don’t leave myself this much empty time between preparation and mission,” he added. Too much time was rarely an issue.

 “I take it that the Cave is secured?”

“As secured as it’s going to be.” Dick glanced around as if he might see an open window or unfastened deadbolt. “This is part of what I hate about working from the Manor instead of the penthouse—there’s definitely not enough time to do a patrol and make it back in time.”

“No,” Babs said, sharply, “there is not. So stop thinking about it.”

Dick grinned a little. “But I’m booored.”

“I think I have some old speech-to-text reports that need to be retyped. . . .”

“Okay, okay, signing off already.” A breath. “Thanks.”

They were a good team, and they were going to be okay.

Babs didn’t even try to hide the smile in her voice now: “Anytime, Boy Wonder.”

***

Tim checked his watch again. Forty-five minutes till showtime.

The Neon Knights kids who were speaking tonight were testing the microphones with the sound crew.

Tim had deliberately chosen the old ballroom. Lots of light and doors overlooking the gardens (and quick exits for civilians, should anything go awry). Kimberly had set up tables throughout the room. Each large table had a giant floral arrangement representing one of the music-related Arts that the Neon Knights held classes on.

“It looks really good!” Stephanie said, tilting her head toward a purple and blue dancer.

So do you, Tim didn’t say. Instead, he said, “Thanks, I had absolutely nothing to do with how it looks.” When Kimberly had said she wanted to lean into the “Neon” part of the Neon Knights, Tim had been uncertain but afraid to cross her.

Now he was glad he hadn’t. Everything—the tables, chairs, the place settings, the stage—was black and white. Only the floral arrangements and the guests would be in color. The kids speaking tonight were each going to wear some version of the hues Kimberly had picked out. They were going to look good up there on the stage. Tim felt a stirring of pride.   

“Mr. Drake-Wayne.”

Tim had asked Kimberly to call him “Tim.” He was certain she hadn’t forgotten. He didn’t know if her refusal to do so was some kind of revenge or a pointed reminder that he should be taking this seriously.

“Are you ready to take your place in the foyer?” she asked.

The museum pieces had been set in display cases on black-and-white pedestals in a foyer off the ballroom: compositions, including Die Fledermaus and Vivaldi’s “Spring”; ancient instruments; well-worn slippers of famed dancers; and off in the corner, a ridiculously ornate scepter labeled “early conductor’s baton, Greece, 650 BCE.” Each artifact was presented against a backdrop in the neon shade that best contrasted with the item. Black and white fabric was elaborately knotted into a rose in the center of the ceiling, and the rest of the fabric draped down the walls. The foyer ceiling was high, so the room gave the impression of spaciousness. But it was much smaller than the ballroom. And easier to keep an eye on. Guests would quickly wander through to the main event. Trouble would, hopefully, stay behind.

“All I need for you to do,” Kimberly said, “is stand here and greet the guests as they arrive.”

“I think I can manage that much,” Tim joked.

Kimberly cleared her throat. “I’ve coordinated Wayne family events before. Herding cats. Where’s your sister?”

Patrolling the perimeter. “I think she’s doing her hair.”

Kimberly nodded and looked down at her phone. “I have to get the kids situated, but I will be back. Please try not to wander off until after all the guests have arrived.”

Tim couldn’t even pretend to be offended.

Ten minutes till doors opened. Twenty-five minutes before any VIP arrived.

The adrenaline was starting to kick in.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim saw a man in a badly cut suit jacket, examining the Scepter of Kings and shaking his head. “Is this from a private collection? I believe it’s mislabeled. Not my area of expertise, but I’ll eat my degree if that’s Greek. In my undergraduate program, I actually spent the summer on a dig in Bialya—before the borders were closed again—and became quite fluent in the local tongue. This reminds me of a ceremonial—”

“Dr. Smith?”

The man turned, blinking owlishly.

“Are you, er, looking for something?”

“Did you know, Timothy, that Wayne Manor is actually built over an ancient site of the Miagani tribe?”

“Uh, I’ve heard that rumor, sure. But unfortunately, nothing was ever found.”     

“I’m afraid that I must insist that you show me,” Dr. Smith said, sadly, drawing a pistol out of his jacket and pressing it against Tim’s chest.

Chapter Text

Seriously? Tim forced a tremor into his voice. “Dr. Smith, what are you—”

“I’m very sorry. Truly.” Dr. Smith put his finger near the trigger and dug the short barrel into Tim’s sternum. Single-action, no safety, Tim noted. Accidental discharges were common—especially with carriers who didn’t know what they were doing. Idiots with guns were sometimes more dangerous than trained assassins. “I’m on a bit of a deadline, Timothy.” Dr. Smith cleared his throat. “But first . . . hm, yes. I think must ask you to open this case.”         

Tim played at fumbling with the case’s mechanism, trying to buy time and information. “Has someone put you up to this? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Dr. Smith hummed uneasily in his throat. “A little faster, if you please. I’d really prefer not to shoot someone tonight. But I will have to if we are interrupted.”

Dr. Smith was slow. Tim could likely disarm him before he had a chance to shoot an early guest or Kimberly. Likely being the key word. But assassins at Jason’s press event had seemed unlikely, and now five people were dead. Maybe it was better to play this out a little longer. Find out who (if anyone) had put Dr. Smith up to this. In a few minutes, Cass would be here. They should have enough time if Dr. Smith also needed Tim to remove Die Fledermaus and “Spring” from their cases.

“What do you want with an ancient conductor’s baton?”

Dr. Smith just gave Tim a melancholy smile and grabbed the scepter with his empty hand. “Give me your watch, please.”

Tim’s brain skidded to a halt. Was this just a robbery? Was he getting mugged in his own house?

Silently, Tim slid the band off his wrist.

Without removing his eyes, or gun, from Tim, Dr. Smith dropped the watch on the floor and attempted to crush it under his heel. When it didn’t break, Dr. Smith shrugged and kicked it under a rug.

“Now, your phone.”

Oh. He was getting rid of potential GPS trackers.

“It’s in my room.”

Dr. Smith tipped his head to the side, considering. “Your earpiece, then.”

“I don’t h—”

Dr. Smith clicked his tongue. “I didn’t want to do this.”

Tim prepared for a straightforward disarming maneuver.

But Dr. Smith stepped back several paces and lowered the gun. “I need your help, Timothy.”

“What do you—"

Dr. Smith said a string of words in a language Tim didn’t recognize. The stone on the top of the scepter crackled. And then . . . Tim’s ear burned. He hit the floor before he realized he was falling.

He looked up when he heard a clattering sound. The scepter was on the floor. It was only yards away, but Tim couldn’t move. Dr. Smith was shaking his left hand and gasping. “I didn’t think that would work.” In his other hand, with the gun, he held Tim’s communicator. After considering it a moment, he dropped the communicator into an ornamental vase. “Like I said, I need your help. But I’d prefer not to have your friends intervene.”

Dr. Smith hauled Tim up by the elbow. “I’m sorry if that was unpleasant.”

The room tilted. Tim wasn’t sure if he was swaying on his feet or if this headache was affecting his vision. “That’s one word for it.”

Tentatively, Dr. Smith picked up the scepter. “Let’s not do that again.” He nudged Tim forward with the pistol. “Lead on.”

It wasn’t a harsh nudge, but Tim stumbled anyway. “I’m sorry. I don’t know about any ancient Native American sites—”

Dr. Smith clicked his tongue. “Timothy. I’m not asking you to be an archeologist. Just lead me to the underground chamber.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dr. Smith sighed. “That’s unfortunate for your brother then.”

Crap. Not working alone then. “Which brother?”

“The littlest one.”

It had to be Talia arriving early. Who else could take Damian by surprise? But nothing about this made any sense. Talia knew their secret identities. Why would she send an uninformed professor with a handgun to do her dirty work? And if she was following the prophecy, why would she allow Dr. Smith to leave the other items in their cases?

Dr. Smith could also be bluffing.

Tim sighed. If he had to be dumb, he was going to do it in the smartest way possible. “There’s a sort of hole out past the carriage house. Cold air, bats, that kind of thing. It might lead to an underground cave, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t safe.”

Dr. Smith nodded. “Let’s go.”

They could deal with secret identity fall-out after reality was secure. And Tim still had his secret weapon under his dress shirt.

But if Talia was here and holding Damian, then she was in the Cave. And if Talia’s opponent was good enough to capture Damian, then chances were that they were also in the Cave. Despite Jason’s derisive comments, it was almost impossible to break through the Cave’s current security protocols.

So Oracle had been careful to make the loophole she’d left behind look accidental.

***

Thirty minutes till party time. And then another thirty while everyone wanders around and makes small talk and finds their tables and the MC tells some stale jokes. . . . It was not enough time.

There was something not quite finished in Jason’s speech. Some bit in the middle that needed a final pass. He felt like a kid again, wanting to ask Alfred to go over his English paper or Bruce to check his algebra. But Alfred was more than busy enough right now. And Bruce, well, who even knew what he was busy with right now.

Jason made his way to the Manor’s kitchen. Sometimes, in the summer, Alfred made fancy ice water—with cucumbers and mint and other stuff floating in it. It had seemed silly to Jason as a child, but now it sounded like exactly what the dry wasteland of his throat needed.

“You must be Jason Todd-Wayne.” A curly-haired woman tipped her glass of sparkling cider toward Jason. (With the number of underage guests and speakers, champagne had been removed from the menu.)

Jason slipped his speech into his jacket pocket. No obvious weapons on her. No handbag even—her phone just lying on the counter. That didn’t mean much, even in a form-fitting dress. But she didn’t squirm under his eyes. Just continued to lean against the counter and watch him.

“You must be lost,” said Jason flatly. He was going to give Dick hell over this—if they all survived. All this time spent worrying about security, and a party guest sneaks into the family kitchen. “The party’s in the ballroom.”

“Mm,” she said, noncommittally.

Jason looked at her more closely. Something about the hair. . . . “Do I know you?”

“No, but you should.”

The shape of her eyes and the small, almost mocking, movement of her lips were uncomfortably familiar. And now that Jason noticed the smell, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t registered it sooner. He hadn’t sensed the Lazarus Pits so strongly on anyone since Ra’s. And this was different. More sweaty and alive—as if the pits had fused with her pores.

“Last time you saw me, I was wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a truly unflattering brown sweater.” Jason’s pupils must have widened because she smiled. “Yes, that’s right. ‘Nancy Mather’ from the museum.”

“You work for Talia?”

The laugh was so unexpected it sounded like a gunshot. The woman threw back her head and let the laughter shake her whole frame. Only the childlike and the truly powerful laughed with that kind of abandon.  

“Talia never mentioned that she had a sister? I’m disappointed but not surprised.” She pressed a hand against her chest and explained: “Nyssa al Ghul.”

Talia hadn’t talked about her. But Jason had done his own research on the League of Assassins later. There had been so little information available on Nyssa that Jason had been convinced she was more legend than person. “You’re supposed to be dead.” Jason drew a handgun from his jacket.

“Many times over,” she agreed. “But since I’m not, maybe you could offer me something stronger to drink?”

“Maybe you could give me a reason not to shoot you first.” They were rubber bullets, per his agreement with Dickie-boy. But he was packing another gun with real bullets. He’d made a promise to Dick. But he’d also made a promise to himself that he was not going to let a megalomaniac recreate the universe in their image.

Nyssa shrugged and stepped across the kitchen in one languid motion. “I’m the reason Talia’s dragged the League into Gotham.” She opened a cabinet. (Jason didn’t need to see her face to know that she was unimpressed by the liquor selection. Bruce had always thought drinking and vigilantism were a bad combination. And Jason wasn’t about to invite her into the wine cellar.) “We have been chasing each other in circles for weeks now.”

After a moment, Nyssa opened another cabinet and pulled down some tea. (The expensive stuff, because, of course.) “I’m here to tell you two things. One is to advise you not to get between me and my sister.” She pulled down a cup and saucer. “There are plots in motion that Talia hasn’t dared to tell you about.”

His bullet shattered the saucer. Jason had liked that tea set, but he hated being talked down to more. “I asked for a reason not to shoot you. You haven’t given me one yet.”

A shard of ceramic had caught the edge of Nyssa’s finger. She examined the bloody digit curiously, as if it belonged to someone else. “That’s quite rude. I came here without any weapons.”

“Well, that’s quite stupid.”

Nyssa rubbed the cut with her thumb, and Jason resisted the urge to offer her a towel. If she stains the grout, Alfred’s going to be so pissed.

“I also came to offer you a deal.”

“Of course you did.” Fricking al Ghuls and their fricking deals.

Nyssa leaned against the countertop. “You seem impatient, so I’ll give you the short version: Timothy Drake and Dick Grayson” (strange to hear their names, so casually, from her mouth) “are trying bring back Batman—the old one.” She tilted her head. “You’re not surprised to hear this. You already know.”

“I have sources,” he said dryly.  

She nodded. “I had originally intended to stop them. I had looked into a creating a ‘counter-Batman,’ if you will.”

For some reason, this information floored Jason. His stomach had been filled with a churning mixture of dread and fury ever since Alfred had visited him. He had hated that Bruce was gone. (Nights upon nights running over things he should have screamed at Bruce, should have done to him.) And now Jason hated the fact that Bruce might return. But it had never occurred to him to try to stop Goldie and the Replacement in their quest.

“And now?” he asked.

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “In the course of my research, other things caught my interest instead. I'm not Ra's; Batman has always been secondary to my concerns. Though I’ve often wondered what was he like as a father, your Batman?” Nyssa ran her finger over the rim of her cider glass, leaving behind a thin red trail. “Ra’s was a surprisingly generous parent for a patriarchal war criminal. He had a way of making you feel special, cherished. He even let me leave, with his blessing and a Lazarus Pit of my own, when I’d had enough of the blood and killing. Of course, nothing from Ra’s is ever truly free—”

“Months of training . . . physical and mental . . .” Bruce laid them out like receipts of purchase. “I took you into my home, my world, to share a sacred trust—”

“Trust!” The tears were already spilling without Jason’s permission. “Don’t make me laugh!”

“Ra’s thought I owed him an heir, my son. I disagreed, adamantly. Instead, I built a simple life for my family in a small village with a beautiful synagogue—right in crossroads of the Third Reich’s march on history.”

No. . . .

Nyssa glanced up at him. “Ra’s came to the camp. Stood outside the wire fence and told me sacrifices had to be made. So I understand what it is to be abandoned by the father who should have protected you. And I think you may understand what I want now.”

This wasn’t about taking over the LoA or raising a bat-demon. It was more primal. It was Hamlet and The Count of Monte Cristo and Cain picking up a rock to crush his brother’s head.

“Revenge.”

Nyssa tilted her head. “I think of it more as making a point. After all this time, Talia still thinks our father’s vision of the world deserves to exist. I plan to prove her wrong.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“Right now, as we speak, Talia is upstairs reclaiming her progeny, and Timothy is being dragged to the Cave.”

Shit! This was early. Jason’s hand automatically went to his ear.

“Not so fast!” Nyssa held out her hand. “I want your communicator and your guns, and then I want you to walk away.”

Now, it was Jason’s turn to laugh. “Look, I sympathize. But there’s literally nothing you could threaten me with that would make me give you free rein of the Manor.” Jason raised both handguns now, ready for ninjas to drop into the kitchen at any second. “Death loses some of its terror after the first time.”

“For me, it was after the third time.” Nyssa tapped her lip with a finger. “But it appears that I cannot be killed so easily now. And I didn’t come here to threaten you. I came to offer you something. First, walk away, and I leave Gotham out my plans. Stay and cause me trouble, and I make no such promises. Second, I will tell you the location of Gregory Biles.”

The man’s tobacco-stained grin floated to the front of Jason’s memory.

“Yes, that’s right. It took me a while to figure out that was who you were searching so desperately for when you went looking into Tom Silnas. Silnas may not be able to tell you anything about the old Falcone payroll, but Biles is still alive. Still pursuing the same line of work.” Nyssa held out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“What happens to the others?” Jason asked.

Nyssa rubbed her thumb across her bloody fingertips. “That depends on how the rest of the evening goes. I can only guarantee the safety of the old man you care so much for.” She opened another cabinet. It was full of tiny monitors. The “official” Wayne family security cameras, the stuff they showed police and Lucius Fox. To the far-right, a small monitor showed the comfortably stocked panic room and Alfred inside, shouting at the keypad.

“It’s on an eight-hour timer. I will be long gone before it opens.”

Jason stared at her. If she had threatened Alfred, there was no way Jason could have left. If she had hurt Alfred, Jason would have pursued her to the ends of the earth. But she had simply removed Alfred from the equation. And then offered Jason the thing he wanted most.

No wonder Talia had been so terrified of this woman.

“And how do I know you’ll give me Gregory Biles’s location?”

Nyssa picked up her phone and hit the call button. “Take the envelope to 61 Foxglove Ave,” she told the person on the other end. Jason’s hideout in the Bowery. “Yes, if the target doesn’t arrive to retrieve it in forty-five minutes, burn it.” Nyssa ended the call and held out her hand again.

Jason holstered his guns. But then he just stared at her hand.

Catherine held her left hand flat, the photo lying on it like a fancy dish on a serving tray.

“I’ll take it,” Jason said, “if I can cut him out.”

Catherine’s right hand was uncomfortably dry on his cheek and her nails had become brittle and jagged, but he leaned into the touch anyway. “No,” she said. “You are not cutting up my wedding photo, Jason Peter Todd, understand?”

“Fine.” Jason pocketed the photo.

She sighed. “You can’t hold onto all that anger forever.”

“Watch me.”

Something like sympathy flickered in Nyssa’s eyes. “Just because you don’t want the same things as everyone else, doesn’t mean you’re wrong,” she offered.

“Spare me the ‘we’re not so different, you and I’ speech,” Jason said. But he threw his holster on the counter, took the communicator out of his ear, and dropped it into her hand.

Nyssa nodded, sliding toward the door. “You’re a smarter man than your mentor.”

***

From the ballroom windows, Dick watched the headlights cutting across the topiary. The first of the guests were arriving.

“Hello, Dick,” Selina said. Her lips pulled down into an exaggerated frown. “My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.”

“Along with your Neon Knights donation?”

“Of course.” She glanced back at the foyer. “Maybe I can get the kids something nice before the evening’s over.”

Dick put his hand on her wrist.

Her raised eyebrow told him that he better not think his hand was staying there.

“The collection in the foyer has been very carefully curated,” Dick said lightly. “It was unfortunate that we couldn’t get the winged cuff from the Gotham Archeological Museum that I remember you admiring.”

Selina stared at him for a long moment. “I was right then,” she said. “They were connected.”

“If tonight goes as planned, a lot of things will be connected.”

“Hm. And you didn’t think I might be interested in those connections?”

“You told me once that you ‘weren’t a team player.’” Dick passed her a champagne flute.

“True.” Selina’s eyes drifted down the ballroom, something more sparkly than this conversation already catching her attention. As she stepped away, she threw out, “But a girl still likes to be asked, even if she plans to say ‘no.’”

There was a slight commotion near the entryway. Kimberly called out to someone. Then Colin skidded into view, his borrowed tux rumpled and ripped at the shoulder. Dick sprinted over to meet him. “What ha—”

Colin tugged on Dick’s sleeve yanking him down to half-gasp, half-whisper in his ear. “Ninjas! Damian! So many. . . .”

“Was he hurt? Are you?”

Colin shook his head and bent double, hands pressed against his knees as he panted. Except for torn clothing, Colin looked unharmed.

Instead of asking the dozen questions that immediately sprang to his lips, Dick turned away and grabbed a glass of cider off a circling waiter’s tray. He used the moment to casually press a hand to his ear and murmur, “Party’s started early, guys. O, I need eyes on our smallest bird.”

When he turned back, Colin was still breathing hard, but upright again. Dick pressed the glass into his hand and squatted next to him. “Listen, this is very important. If you want Damian to stay safe, I need you to do two things for me. First, you can’t tell anyone else that Damian has been kidnapped. I’ll contact people who can help him, but if the wrong people find out, his kidnappers could hurt him. Understand?”

Colin gulped in some air and nodded.

“Second, you need to find Alfred.” Dick pointed to the swinging doors that led into the service kitchen. “Tell him to take you home. Right away. I don’t care what he’s in the middle of. Tell him I said this is more important.”

Colin nodded again, but this time it was much more tentative.

“The most important thing you can do for Damian right now is to stay out of danger.”

Colin’s response was drowned out by Kimberly’s heels clacking as quickly as possible across the floor. She glanced with concern at Colin, but all she said was “Mr. Drake-Wayne is missing. Do you know if this is a temporary problem?”

Wonderful. “I’m on it!” Dick flashed her a smile as he dashed toward the hall. “But maybe push back the speeches a little?”

Chapter Text

“It’s a pity that more people can’t read Bialyan, there’s a fascinating myth about the creation of the Scepter of Kings—actually, I wrote a rather celebrated translation of that story, before I switched my focus to more local concerns—” Dr. Smith put his hand, still holding the pistol, on Tim’s shoulder.

Tim, who was slowly feeling better but still unsteady on his feet, tried not to trip.

“When you are young, it’s exotic locales that seem interesting and important, but as we get older, we begin to appreciate where we are from. It’s been painful to watch Gotham’s crime rate get worse, year after year. She’s such a beautiful city, with such a rich depth of history, and yet every year, she sinks lower.”

“You’re adding to it,” Tim murmured before he could stop himself.

“Hm?”

The crime rate, he wanted to say. But they had reached the Cave.

For a moment, Tim thought the walls were writhing, or that the scepter had affected his eyesight. Then he realized. That’s a lot of ninjas. The Cave was literally crawling with ninjas.

“Who are you?”

Throughout the Cave were elevated areas, enclosed by railings, that jutted above everything else. Talia was standing on one of these. A ways behind her, on the far end of a ledge, was Damian, still in civilian clothes and forced to his knees by no less than four assassins. Talia held a book in her hand. Annie’s diary. Tim had brought it to the Cave when he moved back to the Manor.

Talia frowned down on them. The walls stopped rippling, waiting for her command.

Damian threw Tim an irritated glare.

Tim shrugged at him, even though the movement was painful. Plans changed.

Dr. Smith cleared his throat. “I suppose I could ask you the same thing, my dear. How did you get your hands on the boy? And what are you doing with museum property?” He released another string of foreign words. Talia must have been familiar with them because her eyes widened, and she dropped the diary.

It floated gently down to Dr. Smith and waited in the air in front of him. Dr. Smith glanced around the Cave. The more recognizable “bat” property was in the penthouse Cave now, but the memorial case with Jason’s uniform was still here.

“Ah. Secrets inside of secrets, Timothy.” He shook his head. “I hate to think what sort of historical treasures the Batman has disturbed, or obliterated. Does this hideout have a sink?”

The utter inanity of that question saved Tim from having to decide how surprised he should act at seeing a Batcave under his home. “What?”

“Yes, I think I see one there in corner. Go wash your hands.” He gestured with the pistol. “Dry them thoroughly, please.”

Tim stumbled toward sink, his mind whirring. Talia hadn’t recognized Dr. Smith. So did that mean Dr. Smith was acting on his own? Or with someone else who he had expected to kidnap Damian instead? Were there three players here? Tim looked up at the ninja clinging to the wall above the sink. She stared back, unblinking. Tim didn’t recognize her.

Should he be protecting Dr. Smith? Or temporarily helping Talia defeat him? There was a medical cart a yard to his left, if he could just—

“Chop-chop, Timothy!”

Tim returned, holding up his clean, empty hands for inspection.

“Yes, very good. You may now, carefully, hold the book. Let it lie flat on your palms.”

Oh, that’s right. It had been too long since Tim had lived with archeologists. The world might be ending, but heaven forbid that you compromise the integrity of a find.

Dr. Smith motioned Tim up the elevated path toward Talia, still holding the pistol in one hand and the scepter in the other.

Talia watched him come, her eyes on the scepter. She made a motion with her hand and the assassins parted.

“I suppose we are after the same thing,” Dr. Smith said, kindly. “But the ritual does not work if you do not have all the components.” He sounded slightly disappointed, like a professor whose favorite student had given the wrong answer.

“Yes.” Talia smiled blandly. “This had apparently been misplaced. Thank you for delivering it.” She held out a hand.

“In my left jacket pocket, I have a bracelet that will be invaluable to this ritual,” Dr. Smith continued, as if he didn’t see her hand. To Tim, he said: “Your party turned out to be a blessing in disguise. If the museum hadn’t been so busy packing up the exhibit items for your little display, I doubt I could have absconded with the cuff.” Dr. Smith chuckled, like this was an amusing anecdote shared over an appetizer course. “Sometimes, I think your security measures have been a little too thorough. Now, if you don’t mind?”

Tim eyed the lumpy jacket pocket and thought about how lucky Dr. Smith was that they had stolen the real cuff with the instant-death touch.

“That won’t be necessary yet.” Talia’s gaze landed on Tim. Her lips curved up in amusement. “Good evening, Timothy. Or do you prefer ‘Detective’ these days?”

“You can call me Mr. Drake-Wayne.”

Still amused, Talia twitched her fingers.

Two of her assassins grabbed Tim by his arms. Dr. Smith seemed unconcerned by this, merely returning his pistol to his jacket and taking the diary from Tim’s hands.

“Well, Timothy,” Talia said. “I hope you are prepared to see the world change shape.”

“I’m not, actually,” Tim said, stalling as they tried to drag him toward Damian. “You’re early. We weren’t expecting you till later this evening.”

His eyes drifted to Damian. It was impossible to tell if Damian was frightened. He certainly wasn’t surprised. They had been expecting the kidnapping part. Just a little later. (Damian was supposed to hang out in the foyer during Jason’s speech—bait to pull Talia away from the civilians.) But the eclipse wasn’t for another hour. So this wasn’t about the ritual for Talia. This was just about the Chaos Shard.

One corner of Talia’s mouth curved upward. “My apologies. I hope you don’t mind that I made myself at home.” She waved her hand, and an acolyte brought forward a small, far-too-familiar silver case. The locks were already open.

Well, crud. Those had been cipher and biometric locks. They really should have taken a lot longer to break into.

Talia opened the case but didn’t reach for the cuff. “The fake at the museum was very good.”

Dr. Smith made a sputtering sound.

“It might have fooled me if I hadn’t realized Jason’s betrayal.” Tim was pretty sure that the sorrow flickering across Talia’s face was genuine, but he didn’t have it in him to feel sorry for her. Five innocent civilians were dead, thanks to her.

“Now that you have the staff, Dr. Smith, and I have the real cuff, I suppose we can begin.” Again, Talia held out her hand.

Dr. Smith took a step back, clutching the staff to his chest. “It’s too early. Everything must be aligned perfectly. And you don’t have all the pieces.”

Talia’s annoyance was more restrained than Damian’s, but Tim still recognized the dangerous flash. Worse was the swift gesture she made with her right hand.

Tim was now yards away from Dr. Smith, too far away to save him. But after a series of well-placed kicks, he was free of his guards and running down the sloping path. He could hear Damian struggling behind him, trying to give Tim time to reach Dr. Smith.

It didn’t matter.

As fluid as creamer being poured into coffee, a figure flowed down in front of Dr. Smith. Her sword was drawn between him and a couple dozen trained assassins; her smile was bright. “Hello, sister.”

Dr. Smith breathed out, audibly. “Nancy. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it. I hope you don’t mind—but when I saw the staff, I had to bring it to you.”

The woman looked more amused than annoyed. “The missing piece. You told me ‘the Fates will bring them all together.’ I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

Tim’s guards had caught up with him. Tim raised both hands in surrender. He could possibly take out the four of them, even though he wasn’t in uniform and was still recovering from the scepter’s shock, but there were at least one hundred and twenty ninjas in the Cave. One hundred and twenty-four? A gross of ninjas? And now, Nyssa al Ghul. This, he hadn’t counted on.

“Who is this, Mother?” Damian demanded. It was impressive that he could still sound so imperial while kneeling.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Tim pointed out. Like very dead. In little exploded pieces. He stifled a cry when one of his guards kicked the back of his knees, knocking him to floor. This tux is going to be a lost cause after tonight.

Both Talia and Nyssa ignored him as he was dragged back up the slope toward Damian.

Nyssa shook her head. “I didn’t think you were so petty, Talia. You never mentioned me to my nephew?”

“I no longer consider you a sister, let alone worth mentioning.” Talia turned away. Tim had to admire her guts. That was a pure al Ghul power move—turning your back on an enemy, saying, This is how little I think of the threat you pose. “Perhaps that was a mistake, Damian.” She moved up the ledge. “I wanted you to understand your heritage, but I should have explained what happens to those who deny what they are, the gifts they’ve been given.” Talia crouched in front of Damian. “You are old enough to understand that your grandfather has had . . . liaisons over the many centuries of his life. Occasionally, these have resulted in offspring. But offspring are not the same as heirs.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the concept of a ‘deadbeat father,’” Damian said dryly.

Talia’s hand moved so quickly that Tim caught himself wincing. But there was no resulting smack! Just Talia’s palm over Damian’s mouth. “You must never say such things. Spending your nights in alleyways has turned you crass. There’s a clear distinction between a great man fighting for a better world and a lowlife grasping for whatever trifling pleasures he can find. The former deserves your respect, even if he doesn’t always have your agreement.”

Nyssa laughed softly. “Ra’s doesn’t even have your respect, Talia dear. And you are the most loyal soldier he ever raised.”

Talia lowered her hand, keeping her eyes on Damian. “As a child, Nyssa tracked him down. I suppose Father must have been impressed because he trained her, let her fight by his side. And when she decided that she wished to leave—he let her.”

“And then what, Talia? How are you going to justify the next part of the story?”

“I don’t,” Talia said, her back still to Nyssa. “I would have rescued you from the camps, philosophies and end goals be damned. But you have long since burned through all my sympathy, Nyssa Raatko.” To Damian, she explained, “I had left your grandfather. I had built a life of my own, in Metropolis. Your ‘aunt’ found me. She tortured me until I no longer knew who I was—until I was eager to rule with her and to destroy your grandfather. Her version of family loyalty was to strip me naked, then murder and resurrect me, over and over, in rapid succession, until terror and pit madness made my mind pliable to her will.”

Tim had never heard about this. And judging from Damian’s wide eyes, neither had he.

Talia was trembling now. Tim had seen her face Ra’s himself without flinching, but now, her rage and fear overwhelmed her poise.

The next moment, the trembling was mastered. Talia stood and turned toward her sister. “This, I eventually saw, was her goal for the world. Suffering and resurrection and madness, in an endless cycle. It’s her only solution to the world’s ills because it’s all she has left to offer. You have not heard of her, Damian, because, once my sanity returned to me, I removed all reference to her—as the Egyptians would have chipped away the hieroglyphs of a failed pharaoh. Her name is not worth speaking.”

Nyssa tilted her head. “But Ra’s is? I never messed with your children.”

There were levels under that statement Tim couldn’t interpret.

Talia turned to Dr. Smith. “Do you even know what this woman is?”

Tim was pretty sure Dr. Smith didn’t know who any of the al Ghuls were. Otherwise, he would look a lot more terrified than he currently did.

Dr. Smith was still hugging the scepter. “She agreed to help me return the Protector to Gotham. You only want the scepter. You don’t believe in the ritual.”

“And you think ‘Nancy’ does?” Talia arched an eyebrow at Nyssa. “You never cared much for Batman before.”

Nyssa glanced at Damian. “Obviously, not as much as you did.”

Dr. Smith pounded the bottom of the scepter against the railing with a violence that surprised Tim. “I keep telling you: It’s not about Batman! Long before the Batman haunted this city, before there even was a city to haunt, there’s been a spirit that’s watched over this portion of land. But we lost him—her—it—some time ago. That’s what’s wrong with Gotham. That’s why crime and corruption can’t be tamed.” Dr. Smith straightened. “Every year, I watch this city get worse and worse. No more. This is the year we regain what we lost.”

“And you believe Nyssa cares so much about Gotham that she will assist you in this little ritual?”

Nyssa shrugged. “You forget that I’m older than you, Talia. Call it a bat-demon or an old god or Barbatos—I heard whispers of it long before I met Dr. Smith. It never mattered to me much—there are many dead and dying gods in this world. But this one is ready to be reborn. And I’ve decided, finally, to build something rather than destroy it. Unlike our father.”

“She’s lying to you, using your knowledge,” Talia told Dr. Smith. “She is here for the cuff. She believes that if she has it, she can regain control of the League of Assassins. When she has what she wants, she will wipe you away like chalkboard notes after a lecture. Give me the staff, and I swear on the life of my son I will keep you safe.”

Dr. Smith took a step back, glancing between the women. They both looked calm, patient even. But Tim knew the Cave was a kettle about to boil over.

“And what do you plan to do with the cuff, Mother?”

Good. Keep them talking.

Talia’s hem fluttered as she spun back to Damian. “I intend to take it the League where it belongs.” She smiled, sadly. “My little Alexander. . . . I have tried to free you, as I could not free myself. But destiny will not be denied. No matter how hard we fight its bonds. You will return with me. The form of your return is up to you.”

Damian spat at Talia’s feet. She stepped away just in time. “Damian! These are not the negotiation skills I taught you.”

Damian bared his teeth. “No. Because I do not wish to negotiate with you. I’d rather die than return to the League.”

Talia’s face went blank. “Very well,” she said finally. And Tim caught himself tensing, ready to throw off his guards. But Talia’s hands were still, and her assassins stayed shadows. “I suppose the question is would you rather the Drake boy die and you return by force, or would you rather return to the League willingly and see him live?”

“I will not allow you to kill him.”

“I also have some objections to that,” Tim pointed out. “And if Ra’s didn’t manage, I don’t know that your chances are high.”

Talia smiled. “Damian, you recall the ‘enhancements’ I placed in your spine?”

Damian growled. Actually growled. Like a cat. “Your device was removed, Mother. I cannot be controlled by you any longer.”

“The League has the most advanced medical techniques on the planet. But there’s usually a cost when we provide care to outsiders.” Her eyes slid to Tim. “Or did not you consider that, ‘Detective’?”

Tim blinked.

“The Demon's Head may be fond of you, but he will always hedge his bets.”

Oh god. My spleen.

“That’s right. Ra’s physicians left him a fail-safe. Which I now have the codes to.”

Tim wondered if it was a surgically-implanted explosive device, something related to the nanotech the LoA had been working on. Or if was a more traditional al Ghul bioweapon. Crap. Tim doubted he’d survive another round of anything like the Clench.

To Damian, Tim said, “She’s lying. If Ra’s had implanted anything in me, he would have detonated it the last time we fought.”

Talia shook her head. “Throwing you out the window was an act of impulse. My father still hopes to make you his heir. Or to get one from you.”

Tim suppressed a shudder.

“I have no such need of you. The direction of the al Ghul legacy is already apparent.” She held out a hand to Damian. “Isn’t it, my son?”

The guards stepped back, and Damian scrambled to his feet. When his eyes met Tim’s, they were wide with fear . . . and apology.

Where’s our backup already?

Chapter Text

The alarm was ear-splitting.

This is fine, Stephanie repeated in sync to the beeps, as she struggled into her cowl. This is fine, this is fine, this is fine.

This was just a variation on the plan. They had already expected Talia to take Damian down to the Cave and hunt for the Chaos Shard and/or Annie’s diary.

Damian had insisted on the being the one left in the foyer during the speeches: “Mother won’t harm me—not while she is still hoping I will return to the League. But the rest of you are inconsequential to her.”

But what did that mean now that Tim’s earpiece had been found in the foyer—no Tim attached? Oracle’s connection to the Cave had been severed—they had no idea what was going on downstairs. Who was smart enough to lock Oracle out?

Stephanie tumbled out of the walk-in freezer-turned-changing-room and into the serving kitchen. It was already empty. Good. This might make her job easier. She could hear someone on the MC’s microphone firmly, but calmly, directing guests to the exits.

She could also hear the crowd’s rising panic.

Stephanie’s hand was on the ballroom door when Oracle’s voice buzzed in her ear. “Batman. Black Bat. Redirect to ballroom. Now.”

That wasn’t the plan either.

“Negative.” Dick’s voice was sharp. “I’m almost to the Cave.”

Just as the kitchen door swung open, Stephanie saw a dark swirling sea of bodies pushing their colorful guests away from the doors and windows. The crowd was being moved too quickly to pick out many individual faces. But in the center of the crush, Stephanie recognized one of the Neon Knights kids—a talented thirteen-year-old who had been scheduled to play “La campanella” and who had gushed to Stephanie over the “little salmon things.” (Canapés, they were canapés. And at thirteen, having spent her early childhood on wrong side of Gotham, Stephanie wouldn’t have known what they were either.)

The room went dark. The microphone cut out.

Stephanie waited for back-up generator to kick on. It didn’t.  

The moon was clear through the ballroom’s broad, arched windows. So was the shadow creeping across its face.

“Ra’s is here,” Oracle bit out. “Listen, I need to you to—”

And then the line went dead.

***

“Show me,” Damian said. “Show me the device.”

It’s okay, Tim wanted to tell him. Remember that we haven’t played all our cards yet.

Talia untwisted a bracelet on her wrist, and a small screen appeared between two halves of the bangle. “It’s less a device, and more a program I can activate from anywhere.”  

Tim was near Damian but at the wrong angle to see anything. His guards wouldn’t allow him to get any closer. Damian stared at the small blinking screen.

“I will return if you destroy the device,” Damian declared.

Talia clicked her tongue. “And have you run back to the circus boy as soon as my threat is toothless? Grant the daughter of the Demon’s Head more credit.”

Damian clenched his fists and stared at the Cave ceiling. Only Dr. Smith’s breathing was audible. The room was eerily quiet for all the bodies that filled it. Everything else was subsumed by the Cave’s low but constant dripping and the chitter of distant bats.

As Damian’s body slowly relaxed—starting at his head and working down to his now widening stance—Tim thought this was a feint, thought the boy was gearing up for a last-ditch attack. “You win, Mother,” Damian said. “I will return with you—if you leave Drake unharmed.”

A light entered Talia’s eyes. “In time, you will thank me for this.”

With a bored look, Nyssa stretched her right arm over her head and then her left. She looked like a yoga class attendee waiting for the instructor to show up. “In time, none of this will matter. We’re a little early, Dr. Smith, but you might as well set up the circle.”

A ripple in the room. Was it Tim’s imagination or were there more assassins now than there had been when he entered? No, there were definitely more. Tim and Damian’s guards stepped away—half toward Nyssa and half to Talia.

Dr. Smith looked at his wristwatch and then pointed to the top of the platform. “I think up here might make a nice space.”

Talia watched the scepter in Dr. Smith’s hand and made no move to stop him.

“I thought you said the Scepter of Kings was purely symbolic,” Tim muttered.

“It was!” Damian insisted. “That’s what Mother and Grandfather always told me.”

Dr. Smith moved around the platform as though it were a staked off plot at a dig. Finally, he squatted and pulled a small bag of white powder from his pocket. With careful fistfuls, he began drawing a shape on the ground.

“Well, since Dr. Smith used it to magically yank my communicator out of my ear. . . .”

“And of course, Mother searched me for trackers and communicators—” Damian cut himself off and swore in Arabic. Tim knew just enough Arabic to recognized how vicious and creative his frustration was.

If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Tim might have laughed. (Somebody needed to tell Dick that his efforts not to swear in front of the boy were wasted.)

“That explains why Mother has been so interested in it all of a sudden. I thought it was just for the ritual.”

Speaking of which, Dr. Smith had drawn what, from a distance, looked like a misshapen star. But upon further inspection, Tim realized it was a stylized bat: a rounded head with tiny ears, two wings, and a pair of overly long legs.

“I assume you collected the other items, as promised?” Dr. Smith asked.

Nyssa snapped her fingers, and an assassin brought her some sheaves of paper. The music sheets Dr. Smith had left in the foyer. Another brought her a small cage. The pied bats.

Damian made a distressed noise.

All eyes were on Nyssa. If Nyssa got the staff, she might get the rest of the assassins

Since no one was paying any attention to them now, Tim murmured, “I know Red Hood’s missed his cue, but I think this would be a good time to summon your pet.”

Damian shook his head.

“Look, Talia’s distracted—”

Damian shook his head more vigorously. “I don’t have the whistle.”

“What.”

That was not the plan. Tim was going to kill him. Goliath had literally been Damian’s ride out of Talia’s clutches.

“I received a text earlier.” Damian sat down on the floor and leaned against the railing. “Mother knows Ravi is here, on the property. She discovered my island—discovered that the scepter and Ravi were missing. She wanted the scepter and my return in exchange for his freedom. I gave the whistle to Colin so he could get Ravi to safety. Do you know what Mother does to servants who betray her?”

After a moment, Tim sat down too. “I can imagine. But why didn’t you say anything?”

“It was too late. Everything was already in motion, and Grayson might have tried to call off the plan.” Damian lifted his chin. “I’ve bested Mother in combat before.”

Tim wanted to smack him. “Not with two hundred ninjas by her side, you didn’t!”

“Yes, but I have allies now. We’ve defeated the League before.”

Damian’s confidence in them would have been flattering if it wasn’t so damn infuriating right now.

Tim’s anger must have been obvious because Damian snapped, “I’m not an idiot, Drake! I am aware of the risk. Some sacrifices in the field are unavoidable.”

Himself. Damian means himself. He was really prepared to let Talia take him, if it came to that.

If they’d had a different kind of relationship, Tim would have hugged the kid. And then shaken him. Instead, Tim looked toward the small pile in the middle of the bat outline and offered, “Well, I haven’t played all my cards yet, okay? I think we can avoid too many sacrifices today.”

Damian raised an eyebrow.

But Tim just shook his head. “Not yet, but soon.”

“Just one more element.” Nyssa motioned to the acolyte holding the case with the Chaos Shard. He stepped toward her, but another blocked his way.

In a blink there were too many people in the fight for Tim to see what was happening. But he heard the clink! and the bounce. Still holding the scepter, Dr. Smith bent down to pick up the cuff.

“Don’t!”

Dr. Smith straightened, holding the cuff by one of its arms. He blinked at Tim.

“Whatever you do, Dr. Smith. Don’t. Touch. The. Gemstone.”

“Don’t worry. The bracelet is much less fragile than the diary.” Dr. Smith glanced around the room. Every eye was following him. “And unenriched uranium is actually not particularly radioactive. In fact, some antique glassware—” After a moment, he sighed. “Ah. Don’t tell me this artifact has special powers as well?”

“It has the power to kill you if you touch it!” Damian snapped. “What is wrong with you?”

Dr. Smith frowned, swinging the cuff slightly between his fingertips. “This is your brother, Timothy? I don’t see much resemblance in, er, mannerisms.”

“Perhaps we should just let natural selection take its course,” Damian murmured to Tim.

“At least put it back in its case,” Tim pleaded.

Instead, Dr. Smith dropped it into the center of his bat outline. Then he nodded to Nyssa and held out the diary. “Do you mind, my dear?”

Nyssa smiled, her lips wide and amused. And she read: “‘I hear the song of the river in its cradle, of the city like a Mother, of the Demon like a Shadow which coverth both their faces. Where is the Protector of the People?’”

Dr. Smith sat near the edge of his symbol and nodded mournfully.

“‘The Bat-god is dead. Dark days cometh and are coming. When they gatherth themselves as a mantle over the city, till even the Moon hideth herself from their deeds, the Protector will return, the Demon will rise. But only if first are gathered a mating pair of bats brindled with light and dark. . . .’”

Dr. Smith placed his hand on the cage.

"‘. . . a winged band with a bright wishing stone. . . .’”

He put his hand on the edge of the cuff, despite Tim’s cry of protest and Damian’s shout.

"‘. . . the revenge song of the bat. . . .’”

There was a rustle of paper, so Tim assumed he was touching Die Fledermaus.

"‘. . .the staff guarded by wyrm-bats. . . .’”

Dr. Smith began to lay the scepter down, but realizing this was his main weapon, he stopped and cradled it instead.

"‘. . .and the life breath of spring’s music, a song most missed. . . .’”

Here, Dr. Smith reached for Vivaldi’s “Spring,” but then he stopped, stood up, and peered over Nyssa’s shoulder.

“‘Fates bringth, but ye must gather. Do also build your altar upon the foundations of the old family. . . .’”  

Dr. Smith looked around the Cave and nodded.

“‘Draw the symbol on your altar, and heartily soak all with blood.’ Well, Dr. Smith, whose blood shall we soak it with?”

Dr. Smith pressed a hand against his forehead.

“Is there a problem, Doctor?” Nyssa asked.  

“I thought it wouldn’t matter.”

“What wouldn’t matter?”

“We’ve been misreading it this whole time!” Hand still pressed against his forehead, he shook his head. “Not ‘the song most missed’; it’s ‘the son most missed.’”

He was pointing at the page, but Nyssa stared at him instead. “What do you mean?”

“It’s so hard to tell in her script, but look at her other messier Ns. It’s not S-O-N-G-E, song. It’s S-O-N-N-E, son. Really,” Dr. Smith murmured to himself, “that makes more sense. ‘The life breath of spring’s music, a son most missed.’”

“How,” Damian scoffed, “does that make more sense?”

Dr. Smith tutted. “I have a theory that this is a ‘cycling prophecy’—lunar eclipses occur twice a year after all—and perhaps each cycle is granted its own specific interpretations. But suffice to say, for us, ‘the life breath of spring’s music’ would be a robin. Or should I say, the Robin? How much more important to our modern Bat-god mythos than Vivaldi! And ‘a son most missed’? Certainly, Gotham’s citizens have noticed their Bat-god without his Robin for long stretches of time.” Dr. Smith nodded excitedly. “It all makes sense!”

Damian’s confused eyes meet Tim’s wide ones. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“‘Life breath,’” Tim whispered.

Nyssa tapped her lips with a finger. “And where do you plan to find this Robin?”

Dr. Smith’s brows came together. “Isn’t it obvious? We already have one right here with us.” He pointed at Damian.  

***

He hated to lie to Batman of all people. But he’d already promised Robin. 

With that in mind, Colin took off in the opposite direction of the kitchen, exiting the through ballroom’s south-east doors. Damian had hidden a trench coat and a set of adult clothes for him in the stables. (Damian had been disgusted to learn that Colin had been wearing the same outfit over and over, washing it at laundromats when he got a little money, mending any tears the best he could. “How are you supposed to sneak up on criminals if they can smell you coming for miles?”) As he transformed, Colin pulled a whistle shaped like a bat skull from his neck. He wondered if was actually a bat skull. Probably. This was Damian after all. He didn’t know if that was cool or a little gross. Maybe both. 

This was the second time tonight Colin had used the whistle.

The first time, Goliath had looked even bigger than Damian had described him. He had also looked annoyed that Colin wasn’t Damian.

“Sorry,” Colin had said. “But Damian says we have to rescue Ravi.”

The hairy beast gave Colin a wary sniff before lowering his head. It took a long time for Colin to scramble up, even in his bigger form, and Goliath whined whenever he pulled his fur. “Sorry, sorry. Damian made this part sound easy.”

But finally, they were up and flying toward the carriage house.

Not moment too soon. An old man was being dragged out through a broken front door. Goliath released an enraged roar and snatched up the man, cradling him to his fuzzy chest like a fragile teddy bear.

They had stopped for a breath in a nearby field. The grass had been tall and drenched in dew. Though the old man had seemed shaken, he had straightened and said, “You must be the one who goes by ‘Abuse.’ Lord Damian has spoken of you.”

He had? And also, Lord Damian? But there hadn’t been time for any of that. “Guard Ravi,” Colin had told Goliath, and then he had taken off running for the Manor. To warn Dick: the second part of his promise to Damian.

Now, Goliath landed in front of him again, still cradling the old man.

“I have to take you somewhere safe,” Colin said.

All the lines in Ravi’s face were sad. “I begin to doubt there is any place beyond the reach of the Demon’s Head.”

“Damian has a friend he says will help us.” In Abuse’s voice, the information came out gruff instead of hesitant, and Colin was grateful. “But we have to fly into Old Town. We’re going to have to go pretty high to avoid being seen. So you’ve gotta hold on tight.”

Ravi climbed Goliath’s back with an ease Colin envied.

When they crossed the Sprang River, Colin noticed that half of the city had gone dark. He was surprised by how loud the water sounded in the moonlight. The river seemed particularly alive tonight. Damian had said something about tides being high during a lunar eclipse. So maybe that was it. But Colin, used to the hum of Gotham, found the water’s murmur disturbing.

Maybe Ravi did too because he broke the silence and asked, “A friend, you said?”

Abuse shrugged his giant shoulders. “Yeah. I guess they live in the Clock Tower.”

***

“Ah, ‘Batman,’ so good of you to join us.” Ra’s sat on the stage in a chair, his long fingers caressing the ornate arms.

There hadn’t originally been a chair on the stage. Dick wondered if Ra’s had dragged it with him all the way from an LoA hideout or if some assassin had been in charge of buying it when they got to Gotham. A props ninja?

“What do you want, Ra’s?”

Normally, Ra’s worked from the shadows and through proxies. That he had decided to show up in the Manor in the middle of a gala was a terrible sign.

Ra’s smiled. “Nothing you can give me.”

The room was choking with assassins, and Dick could see them outside the Manor windows as well. Even if the entire GCPD responded to the alarm, they would be slaughtered within minutes. “Then why are you here?”

“To collect my reward, ‘Batman.’”

“I’m back, barely,” Oracle said in his ear.

“O,” Dick murmured. “Safety Net 12.” It was time to call in favors.

“I’d love to get the Justice League in here. But I’ve been shut out of everything,” Oracle said. “The Cave, the Batcomputer, the security system. They’re jamming my communications. I’m barely managing to get through to you. And all of Gotham is without phone service or internet, half of it is without electrical. Somebody’s put tens of thousands of manhours into this.”

Dick grit his teeth. Ra’s must have redirected most of the LoA resources to this. To Ra’s, he said, “Is Talia fetching this reward for you? Or are you contracting outside the family these days?” Are you after the Chaos Shard?

Ra’s steepled his fingers in front of his face. “Everyone eventually ends up working for the will of the Demon’s Head, whether they intend to or not. Even you ‘Batman.’” He glanced out the window. The moon was darkening, reddening. “Your mentor and I disagreed on many things, but there is one thing we both understood.”

Lovely. Ra’s was in a chatty mood.

The room was sweltering. Too many bodies. An older woman in purple dress swayed and some of the surrounding guests tried to prop her up.

“You have my attention,” Dick said. “You don’t need these people.”

“On the contrary, I find they help sharpen your focus. You are like your mentor, in that way at least. But you don’t grasp the power of symbols the way he did. They have an almost physic sway over the masses. Perhaps that is a blindness of the young. Neither Talia nor Nyssa fully believe the prophecy.”

Nyssa al Ghul is alive? Is here?

Ra’s tapped his right fingers against the chair arm, a slow, deliberate rhythm. “And neither do you. But a part of you hopes. What? That your dead mentor will respond to its call? You haven’t been paying attention.” Ra’s shook his head. “‘The bat-god is dead. Dark days come and are coming. When they gather themselves like a mantle over the city, till even the moon herself hides from their deeds, the protector will return, the demon will rise.’ The bat-god is dead. Your mentor fashioned himself as a figure of fear, maybe even worship, but not a demon. That, I’m afraid, is my role. When the ritual is complete, I will rise, as I always do, the new protector. The Chaos Shard and the future will be mine.”

Ra’s love of soliloquies, though grating, was to Dick’s advantage. Encouraging it might give Oracle time to break through to the Justice League. “And how exactly do you plan to get your hands on a Chaos Shard?”

“One of my daughters will win this struggle. They do not know, but this is a test. Whoever passes will inherit the League. There is no way to use the Shard without the League’s technology. They will return to me, whether they wish to or not.”

“You’d have to finally agree to die for someone else to inherit your stuff,” Dick pointed out.

Ra’s waved his hand. “You think like a man with decades instead of centuries. Patience is an al Ghul trait.”

Dick barely resisted rolling his eyes. Damian was rubbing off on him.

“But you are correct about one thing: I no longer need these people.”

Ra’s stood, raising his hand—

“Wait! I know where the real Chaos Shard is.”

Ra’s lowered his hand. “I am listening, Detective.”

“The one ‘downstairs’ is also a fake.”

***

Damian had no idea where Mother’s swords had come from, but now she was standing in front of him, looking like one of the Furies.

Nyssa Raatko’s eyes were laughing. “There’s another Robin in this room, you know.”

Dr. Smith frowned. “Isn’t he that other one? That Red one? How many Robins are there?”

Drake looked annoyed at being called “that other Robin.” Damian thought he should probably be focusing more on the risk of having his blood “heartily soak” all of Dr. Smith’s flotsam.

“None of this makes sense,” Damian insisted. “You’re making it up as you go.”

Raatko seemed to be enjoying the chaos. “Perhaps, before blood, we should make sure we have the correct cuff.” Her eyes slid from Drake to Damian, a gleeful light in their depths. “Doctor, call the real cuff to you.”

***

Stephanie was crouched beneath a table in the ballroom. She needed to open up a path for civilians. Damian had warned them that Talia might be prepared for their regular tricks. So knock-out gas was probably a bad idea. (And Stephanie doubted the efficiency of dragging dozens of unconscious civilians, one at a time, to safety.) But a regular smoke screen might still give her some advantage.

Someone slid under the table next to her. Somehow, Selina still had a champagne glass in her hand, and Stephanie was pretty sure those weren’t the earrings she had been wearing when she arrived. “You need a diversion?”

Stephanie’s response was cut off by a rattling sound and a slow spread of heat across her lower back.

All day Stephanie had been painfully aware of the small cylinder at her waist. She hated knowing she was carrying around a universe-destroying gem the way an embarrassed middle-schooler carried a tampon.

But they had two really good fakes, so it didn’t make sense not to use them both. One to stay at the museum and one for bait in the Cave. And as Tim had explained: “With the LoA, keeping the cuff moving is safer than leaving it somewhere. And you’d be the least likely candidate to Talia.” He had rubbed the back of his neck. “No offense, that’s just how she would think.”

Some offense taken. But “I’m used to being underestimated,” Stephanie had replied.

She was glad to be trusted with this, even though it was terrifying. Dick had assured her that the container’s seal had been carefully tested. “We’ve learned that touching any part of the bracelet’s metal is fine. But even brushing against the Shard is an immediate death sentence.”

“How did you learn that?” she had wanted to know.

“With beetles,” Damian had explained. “They were big enough to track when the Shard disintegrated them, but small enough to test any cracks in the seal.”

Stephanie had felt bad that so many beetles had risked their lives for her. Thank you for your service, my hard-shelled friends. But even more, she’d felt relieved to have a whole team watching her back.   

But now, the cylinder was rattling. Her uniform didn’t have a lot of give, but she’d managed to hide the cylinder under the suit, at her back, where the cape would disguise any bulging.

And oh, hell no—now it was burning.

Dizzy, Stephanie tried to prop herself up with her hands. They wouldn’t hold her. She dropped onto the floor. Gotta do more push-ups, Steph. Selina was slapping her face. Not helpful, but thanks.

Now, Babs was shouting something over the communicator. Stephanie was glad Babs was back, but she sounded worried. Stephanie wished she could say something to lighten the mood. But she couldn’t really hear anymore. Or speak.

There was sizzling sound, and Stephanie felt like someone had pressed an iron against her spine. And then a quiet ripping, and the pressure at Stephanie’s back released. For a moment, she was relieved as she pressed her forehead against the cool floor. And then she was horrified. She lifted her eyes. The cylinder hovered for a moment, like a hummingbird. And then it fell to the ground. And something else, something glinting, rushed out from under the table as if tugged by a string.

Stephanie didn’t even have the strength to stretch out her hand after it.  

Those poor beetles had died for nothing.

***

A silence followed Smith’s chant. The bracelet on the pile didn’t twitch.

Damian wanted to believe that the ancient magic was as offended by the man’s pronunciation as he had been.

“That doesn’t sound like Latin to me,” Drake observed.

“Bialyan,” Damian said. “Ancient Bialyan. And his accent is atrocious.”

The silence stretched on. “Perhaps you used the wrong verb form, Doctor?” Raatko suggested calmly.

Smith bristled. “Impossible! Ancient Bialyan has specific verb ending for royal persons and objects. But ‘to bring’ is irregular—”

Raatko cut him off. “Didn’t you say that the old myth only states that it ‘retrieves items from any corner of the kingdom’? How would the scepter interpret ‘a kingdom’? Perhaps the real cuff is out of range?”

“You have trusted my interpretations thus far,” Smith said with offended dignity. “Perhaps we already have everything we need?”

Raatko held up her hand. “Hush.”

A slight tinkling echoed up from somewhere deep in the Cave. They all turned toward it.

Something bounced off one of the walls and then flew up and hovered by Smith’s head.

“Don’t touch it!” Drake reminded Smith. Like the man was a badly trained puppy.

Smith gave the scepter an experimental wave. The cuff quivered in the air for a moment and then wobbled toward his occultic junkpile. Smith shook the scepter like he was tapping a toothbrush on the edge of a sink, and the cuff dropped into the center of the bat outline.

“My apologies, Doctor.” The corner of Raatko’s mouth lifted. “Your interpretations were flawless. Now, all we need—”

Mother moved, but Damian was faster—he disarmed the nearest assassin, took her sword, and catapulted off of the shoulders of his next attacker, springing toward the junk heap.

When Damian looked back, he saw that Drake had used the momentary distraction to slide closer to Smith.

Sword in his right hand, Damian sliced open his left palm, shaking the wound across the symbol. “There! Are you happy? Can we be done with this madness?” If they raised a bat-demon, at least he and Drake would both be alive to fight it.

Smith cleared his throat. “No, I’m afraid that’s not—”

But now Drake was touching the man’s elbow. “That has to satisfy the prophecy, right? All the pieces are here. Now, all we have to do is wait.”

For reinforcements. For the rest of the plan to kick in. For Mother and her sister to devolve into a bloody brawl.

The doctor blinked at Drake.

Damian glimpsed a flash of silver peeking through Drake’s sleeve. A knife? A shuriken? A literal ace up his sleeve? Whatever it was, it seemed to make Smith abruptly docile. “Yes,” he murmured, looking at his watch. “It’s almost time for the total eclipse.” He glanced up at the vaulted ceiling. “I wish we could see it from here.”

A wrinkle appeared between Raatko's brows. “According to you, the prophecy says, ‘The life breath’ of the ‘son most missed.’” A wry smile crossed her lips. “When I was growing up, taking someone’s ‘life breath’ meant killing them.”

Drake shook his head.

And Smith said, “Oh no, my dear. I don’t think that will be necessary. We are, however, still lacking one piece.” He stepped toward the outline, already lowering the scepter.

“No,” Drake said firmly. And Damian swore he caught a glimpse of some bit of chain between Drake’s hand and Smith’s wrist.

Smith hesitated.

Raatko made a sharp gesture with her hand, and an assassin grabbed Drake, pulling him back. The chain, or whatever it was, was pulled back with him.

And Smith, free of its influence, stepped forward, determinedly. “Every element is required.” The fool.

It was like watching a child set down a pork chop in the middle of a wolf pack.

Damian was closest. He stepped across the chalky white line and snatched up the scepter in his bloody left hand. “Stay back!” he commanded the swarm, sweeping the perimeter with his sword.

It had been a long time since he’d spoken Bialyan. It was not a popular language, worldwide. In the League, it had been the language of the conquered, not the rulers. And he’d never learned its ancient form. “Bring me . . . aid,” he tried. Or maybe that had been the word for rescue? Damian’s Bialyan was not advanced enough for “Bring me the Batman, Oracle’s technology, and the backup that’s supposed be here already.”  

Nothing happened. Damian shook the scepter.

As he twisted out of its path, the knife grazed Damian’s shoulder, trimming threads from his sweater. He almost hadn’t seen it.

Mother let out a cry and threw herself at Raatko.

Raatko blocked both of Mother’s swords with her single, broader blade. Her eyes gleamed. The rest of the assassins rippled backward, creating a small ring around them. Unless commanded, no one was stupid enough to stand between fighting al Ghuls.

“Use the other boy,” Mother hissed.

“Even if I spare yours, do you imagine that Ra’s will let you keep him for yourself?” Raatko said, using both hands to thrust the flat of her blade upward, flinging Mother back. “He's already in the circle. This is more efficient.”

Mother regained her footing almost immediately and spun close, swords coming from both directions for Raatko’s knees. “You will not take One. More. Thing. From. Me. Not my son. Not the League. Not a grain of pity.”

Raatko leapt, landing on the thin railing as easily as if it were a boardwalk. “I don’t want what you have, Talia. You’ve always thought too small.”

The fight was moving up the ledge. Damian wasn’t sure if this was because Raatko was trying to get closer, to steal his “life’s breath," or if Mother was pushing the fight upward, hoping to catch Raatko between her blades and Damian’s. Maybe both.

Smith was also at the top of the ledge. He stumbled out of the way of the ringing battle—bumping against an assassin and then falling backward into his altar.

His right foot hit the cage—the bats screeched in protest. He scrambled for purchase and fell on his back. Hand splayed against the cuff. Drake's shouted warning came far too late.

There was a flare of light, blinding. Then a soft sound like sand falling.

That was all that was left of Dr. Bartholomew Smith.

And all that was left of Mother’s attack. The flash of light was distraction enough for Raatko to turn a block into a twist that wrenched the blades from Mother’s hands. A foot in the middle of her chest, and Talia was on the ground, Raatko’s blade at her throat.

Damian felt a pressure in the center of his own chest. He knew Mother had lost focus for that fraction of a second only because she had glanced up, making sure it was not Damian who was scorching away to an ash.

The darkness in the Cave shuddered. It took Damian a moment to realize the others were kneeling.

Raatko laughed softly under her breath. “Bind her,” she commanded. And several assassins scuttled forward to obey.

“Fools!” Damian shouted. “Is your devotion so flimsy? You think this is a victory? I am not yet unarmed!”

Raatko stepped closer. Yes, that’s right.

“Damian!” Mother hissed.

But Drake saw the opportunity for what it was, and a long silver rope shot out from his hand and wrapped itself around Raatko’s ankles, pulling her to the ground.

Tim was immediately pushed down by a dozen ninjas, but he didn’t release the rope. “Tell them to let me go!” The strands glowed blue.

Raatko sat up, the rope still tight around her ankles. “Release him.”

Tim’s tux was filthy, and he was bleeding from beneath his hairline, but he looked triumphant.

“Where,” Raatko asked, “did you come across the Lasso of Persuasion?”

Chapter Text

Rip Hunter’s Time Lab. Earlier that evening. . . .

“We have a problem.”

Those were not the words Clark wanted to hear before any mission. But especially not before this one. They were already behind.

(“Can we really be behind on a trip through time?” Booster had asked. “Yes,” Rip had said, and he hadn’t elaborated.)

“I went to charge my ring, and . . . my green lantern power battery is gone.” Hal’s jaw twitched. “I think Red Robin has it.”

“Maybe you just set it somewhere weird and forgot?” Booster offered.

“I keep it in a pocket dimension. It’s not exactly easy to misplace.”

“Sounds like it’s not easy to steal either,” Clark pointed out.

“Yeah.” Hal folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Which is why I think it was one of Batman’s kids. And Red Robin didn’t want us to take this trip without him, remember?” 

“We can’t just fly to Gotham and accuse Red Robin of stealing from—”

Skeets started beeping. “Sir, an emergency message.” Skeets projected a small screen in front of Booster.

“It’s from the Watchtower,” Booster said. “From Wonder Woman. She wants to know if I know where you are.” Booster put his hand over Skeets’ scanner. “Am I supposed to know where you are?” he whispered.

Unofficially, Diana knew that they were on their way to find Bruce.

(“Hermes give you speed,” she had told Clark, gripping his hand. “And hug Bruce for me when you find him.”)

Officially, this mission didn’t exist and had no connection to the Justice League (messing with the timestream was an interplanetary diplomacy nightmare). But if Diana was calling, it wasn’t because she was suddenly feeling nosy. “It’s fine. Accept the call, Skeets.”

A small video of Diana was projected into the air. “Kal-El!” Diana’s voice was warm and relieved. “Thank Hera. I thought you’d left already. Donna’s lasso is missing. Kal, it’s the Lasso of Persuasion. Can you imagine what it might do in less noble hands?”

Clark couldn’t fully. But he knew how powerful Wonder Woman’s own lasso was. “Excuse me for a moment, Diana.” Skeets lowered the screen. “First, Hal’s lantern. Now, Donna’s lasso? This mission is postponed,” he told the team.

Rip raised both eyebrows.

“Our first duty is to this timeline.”

“Mine isn’t,” Rip pointed out.

“Twenty-four hours,” Clark promised.

“Twelve.”

Clark nodded and turned back to Skeets. “Diana, any clues to who might have taken it?”

Her expression turned hard. “I hate to think that a Justice League member would be capable of such an act . . . but all evidence points to the lasso being taken while Donna was visiting the Watchtower yesterday.”

Hal coughed, pointedly.

***

“Long story,” Tim said. He wouldn’t be surprised if Donna never talked to him again. Heck, he wouldn’t be surprised if she literally punched him through a wall after this. (And he’d been trying hard not to imagine Cassie’s response.)

“And what are you hoping to persuade me to do?”

Tim gripped the rope in both hands. “Leave.”

Nyssa continued to sit on the floor. “You realize the lasso only works if your will is stronger than the one you are trying to persuade?”

“So I’ve heard. But failing that, maybe I can convince you to do the things you are already considering?”

“Such as?”

“You don’t actually care about the ritual. Even if you believed in a bat-demon, you don't have any use for one. You just needed to convince Dr. Smith to bring you the Chaos Shard. But you don’t even need the Chaos Shard because you don’t actually want to lead the LoA anymore.”

“Then what do I want?”

Tim wasn’t sure. Nyssa al Ghul was unpredictable. “You want to prove Ra’s wrong. And the best way to do that is to walk away. Let him know how close you came to controlling his world—and then show him how little that matters to you.”

Nyssa rested her weight on her elbows, tipped her head back, and laughed. “Perhaps,” she suggested, “the best way to do that is to destroy everything he worked for, piece by precious piece.”

“You’ve already tried that,” Tim pointed out.

A hardness settled over the lines of Nyssa’s face, and Tim knew he had erred. “Tell me you like the current shape of reality, Timothy Drake. Ra’s is right about one thing. The world is broken. Twice now, I have committed to fixing it his way. I have tried schemes and plots. I have tried to control the powerful from the shadows, and I have tried to disrupt the apathy of the populace. All to no avail.”

Her gaze became unfocused. “The Shard is the simplest option. No plots, no schemes. Just recreating reality. I could start from a place of no hunger, no hatred, no inequalities or lack. No need for Ra’s and his endless bloodshed.”

That would have sounded beautiful from the mouth of someone who wasn’t Nyssa al Ghul.

“This—” she waved her hand at the altar “—was largely for Dr. Smith’s sake. But I am familiar with men who are obsessed with a single idea. There’s often a nugget of truth in the center of their madness. Dr. Smith was not a wise man, but he was rarely wrong about his area of obsession. I will take the cuff either way. But if the bat-demon is as powerful as Dr. Smith presumed, then it may be strong enough to work my will in the world, without the risk of directly using the Shard. And anyway,” she said, smile like a blade on Tim’s throat, “now my curiosity is piqued. Isn’t yours? Don’t you want to know what will happen if the ritual is finished? We have just a few minutes more to complete it, and it seems a shame to waste all of Dr. Smith’s hard work.”

Her tone was flippant, but Tim could tell he would not be able to override her will on this point. The lasso was already dimming.

Tim tightened his grip. It was always going to come this, wasn't it? “It won’t work with Damian.”

“What are you doing?” Damian looked furious. And terrified.

“He’s not ‘the son most missed.’ Bruce barely even knew him before he died.”

“You’re the child he chose,” Talia murmured. She was quick.

Good, yes. Get the memo.

Damian turned to Talia. “If Timothy is harmed, I will not return with you.” As if Talia still had power in this scenario.  

“I have not forgotten that you’re also Ra’s first choice for an heir,” Talia said to Tim. Her gaze drifted to Nyssa: He’s your real threat.

Damian held up the scepter and shouted something in Bialyan. But the last words were stuttered, uncertain. Tim felt the lasso twitch and then lie still in his hands. Using magic against magic was always tricky (and a bit stupid, Dick should really talk to him about that), especially in a foreign language. And Damian might be as stubborn as Tim was, but he wasn’t more stubborn.

“I won’t fight if you grant my request,” Tim said to Nyssa.

“I will!” Damian roared.

“I’m not leaving before my work is done,” Nyssa said.

“I know, but you will leave Damian, and the others, here, alive and unharmed, and—” Tim swallowed it might be too much, but he had to try. “And if you manage to use the Chaos Shard, you will return Batman from the timestream—also unharmed.” If anyone could fix the mess caused by Nyssa using a Chaos Shard, it would be Bruce.

“Timestream? He’s not dead after all?” Nyssa considered the silver cord around her ankles, an amused glint in her eye. “You think your will is stronger than mine?” She put her hand on the rope and pulled.

Tim jerked forward but twisted the lasso around his wrists, steadying himself against this tug-o-war of wills. “I’m told . . . I’m annoyingly . . . persistent,” he panted.

Nyssa’s eyes darkened. “Child. I have survived horrors even your history books are afraid to touch. Had I a lesser will, I could have rested a long time ago.”

“You have no idea . . . how much . . . I want this.” Maybe it was Tim’s imagination, but the lasso seemed to glow a little brighter. “Promise me.”

No, it was definitely glowing now, bathing Tim’s fingers in a bright, blue light.

“Very well,” Nyssa said. “You have a deal. Step onto the altar.”

Tim continued to hold onto the lasso, feeding it out and giving Nyssa a wide berth as he walked toward the bat.

“Timothy. . . .” Even in the semi-darkness of the Cave, Tim could see that Damian’s eyes were wild. “Father will be displeased if he returns and you are not here. Never mind Grayson.”

“It’s okay.” It will have to be okay. “There was nothing else to do. Tell Bruce I ran through all the scenarios, this was the only option left us.”

“This is a terrible final card,” Damian hissed.

Tim shrugged, ignoring the way his heart was speeding up. “It’s the best I’ve got.”

Damian lifted the scepter again, but before he could get more than a syllable out, he dropped it with a cry. A small throwing knife had embedded itself in his already wounded hand. And two others nicked the backs of his knees, sending him to the ground, smearing a bit of the white outline as he slid outside it.

When Tim looked back to the direction the knives had come from, he saw that Talia’s bonds were on the floor, broken. Her previous guards were also on the floor, their throats slit. And her hand was just completing the motion of the final throw. Almost immediately, a dozen more assassins held her down again.

When Nyssa came close, Talia stopped struggling. Instead, she held out her arm, the bracelet with the computer embedded in it blinking softly. Talia’s eyes, when they met Tim’s, were neither regretful nor triumphant.

I’m not ready, Tim thought.

He crossed the outline anyway.

Talia intoned: “The code is N71—”

A sparking, hissing sound interrupted her. Damian had thrown one of Talia’s small knives into the center of the screen. It was still tipped with his blood.

“Our deal is off, Mother!”

“Well,” Nyssa said, looking from the short-circuiting device to Tim. She stepped toward the altar. “Time for plan B.”

And then she drove her sword through his stomach.

Chapter Text

Nyssa must be angry about the lasso. Otherwise, she would have given him a quicker death. The heart. The head. There was some vengefulness, an effort to get some control back, in this pain.

It was blinding. Literally.

Tim had blinked in and out of consciousness about a dozen times in the space of just a few minutes. Damian was pressing his sweater around the wound, which felt like getting stabbed all over again. “Don’t,” Tim begged. It was almost a screech. He hated that he couldn’t control this.

He wished he had fallen on the Chaos Shard. Disintegration would have been quicker. But after Dr. Smith’s accident, the cuff was lying in the “bat’s” left wing tip. It might as well have been a mile away.

It probably said something bad about Tim’s life choices that he’d had enough experiences with dying (or almost dying) to compare them. This was worse than falling out that window. There was nothing peaceful or satisfying about these last moments. Tim couldn’t stop convulsing. And he couldn’t stop thinking about all the things still left undone.

“I have to stop the bleeding” Damian was saying. Maybe he had been saying some other things too.

“Don’t,” Tim begged again. “Won’t . . . help.”

Damian pressed his hands to his forehead. “I shouldn’t have given Colin the whistle. I should have studied more Bialyan—”

“Stop.” One of Tim’s hands found Damian’s knee. He squeezed it, and then wondered at Damian allowing that. The kid must be scared. “That’s a . . . stupid game. Listen, listen.” Tim closed his eyes. Just for a minute. “Bruce may be . . . sad for a little bit. But you’ll help him. Don’t let him—” Tim opened his eyes again. “You did a good job. . . . They’ll all be proud of you, okay?”

When Damian lowered his hands, they left small red splotches, like peonies, on his forehead. “Robin doesn’t give up. I will not allow you to give up.”

“Okay,” Tim agreed, eyes shutting. There was a lot more he wanted to say. But he was very cold and his lips didn’t want to move.

***

Even though she’d never met them, Barbara recognized every face. “Abuse,” the B-list vigilante who’d shown up on the streets recently with branded brass knuckles, an old trench coat, and a new motorcycle. Ravi, the recent addition to the Wayne household (and former servant of the al Ghuls). And Goliath. (Stephanie had texted her a photo of Damian feeding the adorable monstrosity.)

But that didn’t mean that Barbara had been prepared to see them outside her window dozens of stories above Gotham’s pavement.

She hadn’t screamed, exactly, but Dick would have teased her about her high-pitched gasp. Unfortunately, he couldn’t hear her. Nobody could.

I don’t need this right now, she thought as she rolled toward one of the clock faces and disarmed it.

“Sorry, Robin sent me to keep Ravi safe,” Abuse was saying as Goliath lumbered inside.

“Don’t shake,” she ordered the beast. It wasn’t raining, so she wasn’t sure how he was so damp. “We’re having enough computer difficulties as it is.”

 “Can’t stay anyway,” said Abuse, remounting. “They need all the help they can get.”

Barbara considered trying to send him somewhere with a signal, so that he could contact the Justice League. But an alarm went off on her computer. Someone was trying to break through Clock Tower security again. It had taken all her focus just to keep Ra’s out of the Tower and to keep trying to reconnect to the Bats’ comms. She couldn’t even communicate with the Birds of Prey or Proxy right now.

Several minutes later, after resecuring her fortress, she looked up and realized that she was alone in the Tower with an old man she barely knew.

“Can I help?” he asked.

Ravi was dressed in a loose tunic and sandals. Like someone from a much older era. He seemed more prepared to herd to sheep than to write code. But she didn’t want to say “no.”

It was not for her, of all people, to tell others what their limitations were.

In programming there was a trick known as “rubber duck debugging”—talking through your misbehaving lines of codes to a rubber duck till the solution presented itself. Barbara did her best work alone, in her head, but perhaps she could use a “rubber duck” for the evening.

“I don’t know,” Barbara said. “Ra’s seems to have created a backdoor into my cybersecurity. And that’s almost impossible to do. I’ve kept him out of my personal system and the Clock Tower, but he’s shut down the comms, and he’s inside the Batcave and Wayne Manor security. We left a loophole on purpose, to bait Talia. But this isn’t a recent break-in. Ra’s had to have been working on this for months, if not longer. It’s got to be something that he’s built up, bit by bit, over a long time. And from some weakness in the Cave. Otherwise, I would have noticed before now. If I could find where he started, I could begin to dismantle it.”

“Not Ra’s.”

“What?”

The old man shook his head. “The Demon’s Head makes little himself, although he controls much.”

“Well, yes, someone would have created this program for Ra’s—” Ah. “Do you know who might have done that?”

Ravi considered. “There was a woman who called herself Silver Keys. I occasionally overheard her teaching Lord Damian. Most of it, I did not understand. Talk of walls and pathways and Gordian Knots.”

“What was she like, as a person?”

“She was proud of her skills. She had started as housebreaker before she moved on to more complex work.” Ravi smiled. “She considered herself an artist. Artists have a hard time not signing their work.”

“Yes. Yes, they do.” Hackers, oh, they could have ego for days. And sometimes, that ego become cockiness. “But before I can find her signature in some smug bit of code, I have to find out how she got in to override the system.”

“There, I’m afraid, I cannot help you.”

It had to come from the original Cave. The Manor’s security could be accessed from the Cave, but not the reverse. But no one had been in or out of the Manor till recently. And Dick had so tightly wrapped up the Cave before he left that only the bats could get in and out without setting off an alarm.

Silver Keys. Ra’s. The League of Assassins. Bat-demons. Eclipses.

Librarian brain: activate.

What did she know about keys and bat-demons?

Barbatos. First mentioned in Ars Goetia. Okay, not helpful. “Earl” of Hell. Leads men to hidden treasure. Communicates with animals.

Wait. Ars Goetia was also known as The Lesser Key of Solomon.

No. There might be clues in all this. But she had to get back into the system first. And in order to do that, she needed to figure out what sort of mousehole her opponent had crawled through.

“Talk of locks and pathways and Gordian Knots.” In myth, Alexander the Great cut through Gordian’s knot. An object lesson in pragmatic solutions to overly complex problems. If this Silver Keys had been a housebreaker, she knew how to find physical weaknesses in a site.

Wait. If the only thing that got in and out of the Cave lately was bats. . . ? Barbara dug around in her desk and pulled out a tiny drone, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. Normally, the Batcave had sensors scanning for unauthorized electrical signals. The drone might be too obvious. Still, Barbara had to try something. . . .

Turning to the window, she remembered her guest. Her blind, probably tired and hungry and frightened, guest. “Ravi? There’s a bathroom to your left, nothing blocking your path. There’s a mini fridge near your right knee. And about two yards directly behind you is a sofa. You’ll excuse me if I have to ignore you for the rest of the evening?”

Ravi laughed a little, a dry sound, as though his throat had been rarely used for this. “Mistress, if you manage to take down Ra’s machinations, you will be excused a great many more things by a great many grander people than Ravi.”

***

The first thing Jason did was leave.

He walked out the parlor doors onto the lawn, crossed over to the garage, stole a set of keys for his second favorite Maserati, and drove out the gates. Then he kept driving.

***

Gregory Biles had stained teeth and an expensive jacket that smelled like cheap tobacco.

The first time Jason ran into him, he was leaving their apartment. The man didn’t even look at him.

When Jason got inside, Mom’s bedroom door was shut. But there was a container of familiar-looking pills on the kitchen table.

She had some good days after that. And Jason was so caught up in his relief that he didn’t think anything of the strange man.

But later, there were pills Jason didn’t recognize. And then a locked drawer in Mom’s dresser that had never been locked before. And a lot of days where Catherine herself seemed locked away in some drawer beyond pain and worry—and Jason.

Once, after Catherine missed her shift and her manager called, Jason picked the lock and dumped everything down the toilet. He had never been afraid of his mom before. But he almost was then.

She shook his shoulders, her fingers digging through his shirt. “Do you have any idea how expensive that was?! How am I going to function without my medicine?”

“I’m not stupid. It’s not medicine,” Jason insisted. “It’s hurting you!”

“It’s all I’ve got! If I don’t stop the pain, I can’t work. If I don’t work. . . .” She put her hand over her eyes.

“Go back to the doctor. There’s a free clinic—”

Catherine picked up the phone and carried it to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

When she reemerged, she was red-eyed.

Jason couldn’t apologize to her, even though he wanted to. He wasn’t sorry. And his shoulders still ached, though whether from the shaking or their tightness, he couldn’t say.

“It will be okay,” she said. “It’s all going to be okay.” But she wouldn’t look him in the eye. And Jason didn’t know whether she was talking to him or herself.

Then she kissed his forehead and said, “You’re going to over Mrs. Walker’s for dinner tonight. She’s rented a movie for you to watch.”

“You’re working the late shift tonight?”

“Something like that.”

But as he was leaving their apartment, Jason saw the man in the expensive jacket standing outside the building, lighting up a cigarette.

Later, Jason knew that Mom’s “boyfriends” weren’t like real boyfriends. And he knew that most of them were supplying her with drugs. And by the time he was living on the streets, he knew about the dangers of men who offered “to take care” of you.

But he had still been a child; there were gaps in his understanding. It wasn’t until working with Batman that he had terms for all the common crimes and vices.

It wasn’t until mapping out the broader picture of Gotham’s street walkers and pimps and women sliding down poverty’s greased chute that he realized exactly what his mother had dealt with. How much she had hidden from him. And how eager the lice of Gotham’s underbelly had been to take advantage of her desperation.

Most of her suppliers were now either dead or in prison for other crimes. But Georgy Biles had been the first. And he had been the only one Jason couldn’t find.

***

Nyssa might not have him followed. Jason suspected that she was keeping as many of her associates on the grounds as possible. But he took the time to make sure he didn’t have a tail. And then he took the time to circle back, the long way around. Once he was on his way back to the Cave, he reached into the glove compartment. Pressed along the side until a panel dropped down. A batarang. An earpiece. A rebreather. A domino mask.

This wasn’t Jason’s favorite Maserati, but it had been Bruce’s.  

The communicator didn’t work. At first, Jason thought it was too out of date. But then he drove into the tunnel and reached the gate. It was down. Not just down—it was a giant metal wall. The sort of thing Bruce had installed for an emergency quarantine.

Jason got out of the car. He glanced up, where he knew the retinal scanner was. Nothing.

“Manual override code: 357R2.” It was a new code. Dick had given it to him.

The wall didn’t budge. Either this had come down after Nyssa and Talia had entered the Cave. Or there was still an entrance open somewhere. But if he drove back to the house and tried to enter through either the study or the old drywell, he ran a good chance of being caught.

Jason went back to the car. He could still reach his place in the Bowery in time, get the information on Gregory Biles. The Maserati had the speed for that. Let Nyssa and Talia play “keep away” with a stone they probably couldn’t even use. He’d done his best. The others would have to fumble through as well as they could without him.

He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. Look, you tried. You owe the most to Mom anyway.  

His earpiece crackled to life. (The new ones didn’t crackle.) “O?” he tried. “You there?”

“Hood! Are you okay? Do you have eyes on Red? Or Robin?” Things must be getting messy if Babs wasn’t asking why he was on this line.

“Yes. No and no. Listen, I need you to open the main exterior tunnel gate to the Cave. Nyssa al Ghul is here—”

“Every al Ghul is here,” she snapped. “And I can’t open the gate; I’m—”

And then Jason couldn’t understand her anymore. Because his entire body was spun into the air and flung against the gate. At the last minute, he didn’t make contact. Instead, he began to emanate heat. The air around him rippled and hummed.

It didn’t hurt. But it wasn’t the most comfortable sensation either. It felt like a literal fever dream. He was wrapped in a bubble of sticky warmth. It took the gate a long time to melt, but nowhere near as long it should have. So magic. (And either very obscure or very powerful magic, since the Batcave had shields against every form of break-in.) This was just exactly what Jason needed today: magic and an al Ghul reunion.

“Murphy’s law,” his mom would say.

(Once Jason had said the same thing to Bruce. The Mad Hatter had escaped due to a fire caused by an unconnected Two-Face crime. Then Batman and Robin had gotten caught in a downpour on their way back to the Batmobile. “Don’t use that as an excuse,” Bruce had lectured. “We have to be prepared for everything that can go wrong.”)

The bubble pulled Jason through the tunnel, burning through every security obstacle in its way. (Looks like you weren’t prepared for this, Bruce.)

Then it flung him into the Cave and hovered him above a high outcropping of rock. He got a quick glimpse of Damian, Tim, Nyssa, Talia, and an absolute sea of ninjas. And then the bubble was gone, and he was dropped so abruptly that only catching the outer edge of the railing kept him from splattering against the Cave floor.

Not a very graceful entrance. It probably would have drawn attention—if that hadn’t been the same moment that Damian threw a knife into an electronic device that sputtered and sparked.

And while Jason was clinging to the ledge, still trying to figure out what the heck was going on, Nyssa turned. And ran Tim through with a sword.

Jason blinked away for a moment. To someplace with blood and desert dust mixed with cigarette ash. And an inevitable countdown to nothing.

When Jason blinked back, Damian’s was still trying to stanch the bleeding. But Jason had seen enough of mortal wounds to recognize what couldn’t be healed. He had arrived too late.

Tim was in a dress shirt and tux, not a uniform. And he was seventeen, not fifteen.

But he was still another Robin, another kid, dying.

The clock would just keep ticking down. Until the next kid showed up to die.

And Bruce wasn’t going to come in time. No one was.

You’re here, a voice in Jason's head told him. You’re the one who came.

Yes, he agreed, but that was an accident. And I don’t know what I’m doing.

***

The moon turned red.

At first Cass had been disappointed when Tim had explained that the moon didn’t “disappear” during a lunar eclipse, the way the sun did during a total solar eclipse. He had tried to explain the science, but she didn’t care. An eclipse should be like a magic trick. There. Then gone. Everybody claps.

But now, she was grateful for some light.

She didn’t need it, but the guests who had escaped the ballroom moved faster across moonlit patches of grasses. Several times, assassins dropped down out of trees or from bushes’ shadows. They were good, but not challenging. Ra’s kept his best fighters close. The challenge was the party guests. High heels twisting ankles. Old men who couldn’t run. Young ones who ran too far ahead and put themselves at risk.

“Stay together!” Cass hissed, over and over. “I can’t help if you aren’t together!”

Like herding a collection of soap bubbles. Each so fragile and beautiful it hurt.

They did not veer toward the circular driveway for cars or valets. Instead, Cass hustled them all the way down to the gate—just as the first police car pulled up.

“Take them. Go!” she demanded. “Don’t come in. Too dangerous.”

The officer blinked at her.  

Then giant wings crossed the moon. The guests screamed. For a moment, Cass was certain that the bat-demon had been raised.

Then she remembered. She raced back to the Manor. So fast now. She laughed when an assassin dropped off the roof in front of her. He was unconscious before Goliath’s feet touched the ground.

But then she wasn’t laughing. It wasn’t Damian slipping off of Goliath’s back, but some large man, a body like Bane’s and a face like Bullock’s. But the movements were not what she expected from either a Bane or a Bullock. Confusing.

“Who are you?”

“A friend of Robin’s.”

No. She knew all Damian’s friends. Not hard to lose track of them.

Another assassin dropped from the roof. The “friend” slammed his fists down on either side of their neck. Assassin went down like a deflated balloon. “I had to get Ravi somewhere safe. But I came back as fast as I could.” He jerked his thumb toward the window. The rest of the guests were in the center of the room. The assassins surrounded them like dark petals on a wicked rose. “Looks like you need me.”

Cass sucked in a sharp breath. She was good, but she was just one fighter. These were hundreds (thousands?) of assassins. And Ra’s. Ra’s had a strength that had little to do with his body.

Ra’s scared her.

“Black Bat. Batgirl.” It sounded like Barbara was right beside her. “I’ve got our lines back, but nothing else. I don’t have eyes on anything . . . yet. Tell me where you are and what’s going on.”

“I’m under a table on the west side of the ballroom. Sel—er, Catwoman is with me.” Stephanie’s words were muffled, and she was breathing funny. Pain. “There’s an exit on this side. If we have some help, I think I can open a path and start pushing guests out.”

“You need a distraction.” Batman’s voice was clipped.

“Big red flying bat?” Cass suggested.

“That’ll do it,” Barbara said.

Cass heard the breath Dick sucked in. “With Robin and Red?”

“No,” she said gently. “But he sent a friend.”

“Are you talking to Batman?” the man said. “He’s met me. I go by ‘Abuse.’”

Cass raised an eyebrow. But she didn’t ask. Now wasn’t the time.

Dick must have overhead that because he rattled out: “Abuse can guide Goliath into the ballroom, eastside windows. Batgirl, Catwoman, and I will use the distraction to take down assassins and get guests out, creating a path to the west exit. The police are coming, so keep them busy with civilians. Keep them alive and away from the LoA.”

Normally, Cass’s battle strategy was planned by the second: reading intentions and responding just before intention became action. But Dick was good at these kinds of plans. And now, with his words, she suddenly saw the ballroom, the grounds, the whole Manor, laid out before her like a body. Each area a different limb or joint. Ra’s and the LoA were a poison entering the body from all directions. And she knew what needed to happen. She needed to get to the heart before the poison did.

“Black Bat, you’ll protect the guests across the grounds.”

Cass opened her mouth and then shut it again. Someone else was blocking the moonlight. “No,” she said. “We have more company. Friends. I have to go.”

Clark Kent landed on the lawn. He was Superman right now. But always Clark Kent to her. With him were Wonder Woman, Hal Jordan, and Donna Troy. Something was wrong. Wonder Woman and Donna looked stern, and Clark looked disappointed. Hal looked like he really needed to punch something.

Good.

Clark cleared his throat. “We don’t want to make accusations, but—”

Cass held out her communicator. “House full of assassins. Save anger for them. Talk to Oracle.”

Cass didn’t wait for the shock to turn to realization. The others could explain the plan. She was already running around the side of the house. She had a new mission.

***

There had to be something else to do. The scepter was at the other end of the bat outline. If Damian could reach it, he could call for . . . what? Medical aid? What was the Bialyan word for “an entire critical care unit”? What he actually needed was a miracle. Would that be similar to the Persian farjûd? Think, you imbecile!

Timothy let out a cry, and then he began to convulse. Damian put a hand on Timothy’s chest and another on his forehead. He didn’t know what to say. What could possibly be comforting now?

And then, just as quickly, the convulsions stopped with a final shudder.

No, Damian promised himself. There’s still time. But Damian’s body knew what his mind refused to, and the bile crept up his throat.

Mother made a noise. She was still on her knees, arms twisted behind her back, hair loose and falling across her face.

“This is your fault!” Damian scrambled for the two other knives she had thrown at him. His own hands were still bloody. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t miss.

Mother ignored him. “You will keep your promise to Red Robin,” she said to Raatko. Not a question. A demand.

“As much as is in my power.” Raatko stared at the altar and shrugged. “No bat-god. I suppose that’s Dr. Smith’s theory disproven. I’m a little disappointed.”

“I’ll kill you,” Damian breathed, knives raised.  

Nyssa merely smiled and lifted her blade.

“Timothy will be proud that you fought for his honor,” Mother intoned.

And Damian wavered. Because Timothy wouldn’t be proud. He’d be annoyed. Damian was still Robin. Robin didn’t kill. And Robin still had a job to do.

“Leave while you still have legs!” Damian snarled. “Take your minions and Grandfather’s filthy legacy and go!”

“You misunderstand.” Nyssa stepped closer, eyes on the Chaos Shard. “I don’t want Ra’s legacy. I don’t care about the League.”

“Then the cuff means nothing to you. Only the League has the technology to use it—if anyone does. No mortal can wield a Chaos Shard. Not even a meta. It’ll obliterate you before you manage to do more than touch it.”

Nyssa smiled. “Unless, of course, I am a god.”

“You may be decrepit, but I doubt you’re older than time.” Damian threw one knife and then the other in quick succession. They were small. But he didn’t need them to be bigger.

Still moving forward, Nyssa managed to block one, but the other embedded itself in her right arm. Radial nerve. Her grip went slack. And the sword clattered to the ground.

Nyssa didn’t look to her falling sword. Didn’t even slow. She reached for the cuff with her left hand. “You know as well as I do that gods can be born, can begin somewhere. What they can’t do is die. What they must do is create. And be worshipped.” She made a small movement with her head that indicated the ring of assassins kneeling around her.

Damian dove for the scepter.

Nyssa slipped the cuff over her wrist. “I have the life of the Lazarus Pit running through my veins.” Experimentally, Nyssa placed her other hand over the stone. It flared, angrily, blinding Damian. Then the light softened and settled into a low glow, flickering across Nyssa’s curious face.

She laughed. “And unlike my father, I have the vision and willpower to know how to use it.”

Chapter Text

Rip Hunter’s Time Lab.

Rip was glad Booster had offered to stay behind for a couple reasons, but this wasn’t one he’d planned for.

“I’m guessing that’s not your oven going off?” Booster shouted, hands over his ears.

“Something’s changing—the wrong way!” Rip stepped into the Time Sphere. The Sphere’s panel showed the Vanishing Point, where Omega Energy was gathering at an exponential speed. This hadn’t been in anyone’s calculations. They were supposed to be ahead of this. “We have to go. Now!”

Booster didn’t even try to argue, didn’t point out that they needed the whole team for their plan. He just followed Rip into the Sphere and squeezed his eyes shut.

***

It was dark and he was tired. And alone.

He felt like he had been alone for a long time.

There had been a boy? Or a young man? He needed to save him. Or maybe the boy had already saved himself. Maybe the boy had saved him?

That didn’t seem right. (Too much to expect of a child.)

He was going to wake up cold and half-drowned again. And probably bloody.

Something was chasing him. It was important to remember. To remember what was chasing him. Mouths and tentacles. No. Worse than that.

Annie! He had to help Annie.

Come on, Mordecai . . . open your eyes. No, that was wrong. His name wasn’t Mordecai. And it was too late for Annie. Several lives too late.

Another woman . . . and a hospital? And fire.

He couldn’t trust . . . someone. Maybe it didn’t matter who. He was alone again. There was no one to trust. 

There was something he wasn’t supposed to forget.

And something that was crumbling away—not just his memory. Something real. Oh, that’s right. Time. The universe.

He had come to this place on purpose. No, he had been brought here.

And the dark was the monster. He was wearing the monster and that was why it was so dark here. No, that was wrong. The monster was wearing him now.

There was something he wasn’t supposed to forget.

Hand on his cheek. Bruce.

Something had gone wrong. Remember . . . Bruce.

The same hand, cold. He is holding it against his cheek, thinking that if he warms it up, they will not be dead. The gun will unfire itself.

Detective. Man of Bats. Dark Knight.

He is sitting by the broken window. Alone. Bleeding. Bell in his hand.

What is the first truth of Batman? The saving grace.

A flash of yellow fabric in the dark. A bell ringing. Blood on the rug.

Feet running. A child laughing. In the dark, a hand.

I was never alone. I had help. That was the thing he was supposed to remember.

Someone had answered the bell. He had rung and trusted that someone would answer. An old friend. And later, a young friend.

He had been leaving clues. A bell ringing faintly across a great distance.

But no, this was a mistake. It had always been a mistake. Digging through rubble in the desert. Blood-streaked through a girl’s blond hair. He should not be here. He should not be ringing any bells.

Somehow, he has become the thing he was running from. He can’t go back. It will destroy them all. He’d forgotten. He’d been so tired. So tired of being alone. But the timing was wrong. There were pieces missing. How do you unring a bell?

He was just a man. A tired man who’d made a terrible mistake.

He’d forgotten. The person he wasn’t supposed to trust was himself.

***

“And unlike my father, I have the vision and willpower to know how to use it.” Nyssa stretched out her arm. “Obser—”

Nyssa hit the floor with a satisfying thud! Gods still had nerve-endings, apparently.

Her acolytes neither moved toward Jason nor released their prisoner. Everyone just stared. Even Damian, though his eyes were confused and glassy.

“‘Lazarus Pit running through my veins,’” Jason scoffed, picking up the silver rope trailing toward the altar. “Yeah? Me too. You ain’t special.” He wrapped the lasso around his hands.

Jason didn’t bother slipping on the cuff; he just yanked it off Nyssa’s wrist and covered the Shard with both of his wrapped hands.

It burned.

Straight through the lasso. Straight through his flesh. There must be char-rimmed holes where his palms had been. But Jason couldn’t look because his vision had immediately gone white.

Someone screamed. Maybe Damian. Jason knew it wasn’t him; he didn’t have a single breath left in his body.

What do you want?

He wanted the burning to stop.

Instead, it intensified. YOU dare to reshape the universe?

Oh, right. Somewhere beneath the flames of pain, Jason remembered why he had made this dumb attempt. Sure. I dare.

What do you want? the Shard repeated.

Suddenly, Jason’s mind was a blur of images.

Willis Todd smiles down at Jason, a warmth in his eyes Jason had never seen. His hand rests on Jason’s hair and he says— No, c’mon.   

Catherine Todd sits in a clean apartment, reading. She looks up as Jason walks into the room. Her face is relaxed, without the familiar lines of pain. Her hair is graying at the temples— Jason felt sick with want for her and all the things she deserved but never saw even the shadow of. But there’s someone else who also deserves something, right? Who was it?

The thick wooden door splinters. Dust from the desert blows in. Black gloved hands lift Jason from floor, away from the ticking display. “Stay with me, chum—” No!

Now, the gloves are flecked with blood and white face paint. They do not stop. They do not care about lines and crossing them. They only care about— Stop messing around! Remember. Remember what? What I am I looking for?

Now there’s a school in Jason’s old neighborhood in the East End. A real school with bright hallways and decent teachers. Jason is older. He walks down the corridor— Jason flipped past the scene impatiently.

The dining room in the Manor is, for once, crowded and not cold and stifling. Alfred is standing by Bruce’s shoulder at the head of the table— Yes. That seems right. Right? That’s a piece. Put a pin in that. The brat is there, and Cass, and the blonde—Jason’s burning brain scanned the scene frantically—Time is running out for . . . someone?—Dick is saying something about Blüdhaven, looking lighter, looser than—Wait. Blüdhaven? Is that right? There is something sad in that thought that Jason’s brain can’t quite latch onto (fiery horizon, a cry, Bruce’s pointlessly stretched out hand), some other’s grief Jason is only now grasping but doesn’t have the time to plumb. Sure. Why not? Blüdhaven—Jason kept scanning—Tim is talking energetically with his hands, not dead, not dying, not bleeding out—Yes! There we are. That’s the other piece.

In response, the Shard flared. Jason felt something shifting. At first, he thought it was reality. Then he realized it was his bones.

The Shard was trying to conform to his wishes, but his body was simply not strong enough to hold all this power. Lazarus Pit or no, Jason was still just flesh and blood.

Jason had no delusions of godhood. And he knew being dunked once in a Lazarus Pit was different than whatever Nyssa had. But he had hoped there was the barest chance that he could bluff his way out of this one. The sort of audacity only a street rat from Crime Alley could attempt—stealing the tires off the cosmic Batmobile.  

But reality did not shift for people like Jason Todd. It was too late to leave a note for the others or to explain. I’m sorry. I had to try—

When the hands wrapped around his own, he wanted to jerk away, but he was fused to the Shard now. There was no letting go, only riding this out to the flaming end.

Who are you? Another mortal?

Another who defeated death. And who has been worshipped for it.

The voice was familiar to Jason, but he couldn’t place it.

Yes, I see. But if you are gods, you are the smallest ones to ever touch me. I’ve never met a god who required aid to wield my power.

Jason could somehow hear the shrug in his mind. We only want small changes. We don’t need to be big.

There are no small changes to reality.

He felt the images in his mind tip and spill, like a shelf of photo albums knocked sideways, pictures scattered across the floor. Foreign hands were rustling about in his mind. Even if his brain weren’t on fire, this would still be an extremely uncomfortable experience.

Then he had the sense of someone pulling his hands away from his chest, gently fanning out the photos he had cradled there. These. We will have these.

The Shard was silent.

Now.

The flames crescendo-ed, and Jason was being drawn and quartered by the Sun’s own chariots. He was coming apart from the inside—

No! A hand squeezed his.

He squeezed back and he held on. Jason had so many unfulfilled desires that some nights he knew he was a bottomless bucket that could never be filled. Some of his desires he was far, far too late for. And some were probably bad for him (but he would still accept them in a heartbeat). But these few in his (literal? metaphorical? magical?) grasp, these he would have.

We didn’t defeat death just to lose to a bit of rock.

Abruptly, Jason was cold.

Of course, he was. He was lying on the floor of the Batcave. Even the heavy weight across his stomach wasn’t enough to keep him warm.

He sensed movement, and he knew he needed to respond, but he couldn’t even open his eyes.

There were several sounds at once. Flesh hitting flesh. Small grunts. Oracle’s voice. Electrical charges. Bodies hitting the floor.

“Don’t move, Mother,” a snotty voice warned. Damian. That’s right.

“What just happened?” Tim.

Jason tried to open his eyes, one at a time. Only the left one complied. Tim was standing over him. Not bleeding out as far as Jason could tell. But he should check.

“D’ng?” he rasped out.

“What?”

Damian was in view now, and he helped Tim roll the weight off of Jason. It was Cass.

“Anybody dying?” Jason tried again.

Tim held Cass’s wrist, checking her pulse—her hand flicked at his nose. “No? At least, not as far as I know.”

“Okay.” Jason closed his eyes again. “Good.”

***

Dick’s conversation with Ra’s had been cut short by the real Chaos Shard zipping across the room like a mosquito. Ra’s ordered a dozen assassins after it, but they both knew he was too late.

Then in rapid succession: the comms came back on, a red-winged bat-dragon appeared on the lawn, and Ra’s began his second monologue with “It does not matter, Detective. The Chaos Shard will soon—"

Dick barely had time to register that Donna, Superman, Wonder Woman, and an extremely pissed-looking Hal Jordan had arrived. The Green Lantern glow was particularly ominous against the backdrop of the red moon.

Then the effect was lost when the lights came back up and the microphone screeched on. The feedback was abruptly cut off, but the lights and electricity stayed. “I’m back!” Oracle crowed. “I’m in the Cave, and—”  

The floor shook. Or maybe it was the ceiling.

Dick’s earpiece whined painfully, and he was forced to shut it off.

Something black and broad and inhuman was materializing in the center of the ballroom.

There was also a terrible smell. Not sulfuric exactly, but like a swamp had just opened up in the center of the room.

A coldness spread through the air, along with an unexplainably metallic scent. And the black creature turned; its skin or fur, writhing as if made of a thousand black worms or wires. Its one red eye roamed across the company. Everyone retreated to the far end of the room. “We’re too late,” Dick heard Diana whisper.

But Dick couldn’t move. There was something familiar in the cold, a memory dripping away at the back of his brain. Or maybe a memory of cold and the sound of dripping. Also, a warm smell, or the memory of one: cedar wood and bergamot and wool.

As a child (and still, too often, as an adult), he’d had nightmares of falling forever in the cold dark. He had failed to catch someone, and now he was going to fall eternally. Then he had woken up to this particular scent. To being caught.

In spite of himself, Dick took a step forward. “Bruce?” he whispered.

But he was pulled back across the room. Clark’s hands were on his shoulders. “He’s radiating Omega Energy. We were supposed to stop him before he reached this point, but something’s gone wrong—”

“—?” The shape was asking something, but Dick was too far away to hear, and he couldn’t break Superman’s grip. He loved Clark, but if he’d had a single hand free, Dick would have happily stabbed him with the sliver of Kryptonite hidden in his belt.

“Let go!”

“Batman.” A reminder of who he was right now and what his priorities had to be. “We have to—”  

A ripple in the atmosphere. Quiet and quieting. Like a leaf falling into a lake. The red moon seemed to wobble in windows.

And then, like water, everything settled. The writhing calmed into a shape Dick recognized. From across the room, Selina let out a gasp.

Dick didn’t realize that his arms were free until he was already running. Bruce looked very small in the middle of the floor without the black writhing cloak.

The man’s eyes were closed, and his face was thinner than Dick remembered. Dick glanced back at the crowds huddled in the far corners of the room. Screw it. Those with super-hearing already knew—everyone else was well out of earshot. “Bruce. Bruce! It’s me. It’s Dick. I need you. C’mon.” One eye now. “There we go. Are you injured? What’s wrong?”

The second eye opened. “No names in the field,” Bruce rasped out. If Dick had any doubts about this being the real Bruce Wayne, they were fully settled now.

“Are you hurt? Bruce?”

He eyed Dick up and down. “What,” Bruce said, disapprovingly, “did I tell you about wearing that suit?”

Dick released a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “If you expect me to do what you say, then you have to stay alive.”

Near the foyer, something hit the floor. Dick looked up to find Alfred frozen, a first-aid kit fallen at his feet.

“He’s okay! He’s okay,” Dick said.

Alfred ran forward and then stopped a foot away. “Is it—?”

“It’s really him this time. I promise.”

Bruce struggled into a sitting position. “I’m fine, Alfred,” he finally offered. “Just feel like I haven’t slept in centuries.”

Chapter Text

“I finally managed to spring the voltage traps we set,” O was saying. “They’ve taken down the rest of our visitors in the Cave. Seventeen assassins are dead from earlier this evening—probably LoA infighting. And Red Robin says Dr. Smith disintegrated? But everyone else is alive.” This last sentence was repeated information. Repeated, Dick knew, for his sake. “But I think you’re going to need help getting Hood and Black Bat upstairs. Never mind our hundreds of unconscious assassins. Also, the FBI is on their way. I’m messing with traffic lights, but you’ve got an hour, tops.”

“And the Chaos Shard?”

“It’s gone.”

Dick swore.

“No, I mean gone. Burned to ash. Hood and Black Bat tried to use it with the Lasso of Persuasion—”

“You said they’re alive?”

“Yes. Listen, Amazonian magic is not my area of expertise, but apparently, it overwhelmed Shard. I got back into the system in time to see it explode. And as far as I can tell, our reality is largely the same.”

“Wait, Donna’s lasso was here?”

“I’m as surprised as you are. Did I mention that the FBI is on their way? Fifty-seven minutes, Batman.”

Dick breathed out. Oh, this was going to be a mess. It didn’t matter though. They could send the CIA, Interpol, and Bat-mite. He didn’t care. Everyone was alive. Bruce was back.

Bruce is back. Dick would deal with a thousand FBI agents every day for the rest of his life just to have that.

“O, you’re a wonder.”

“Yes, I am. But thank me later.”

“I will. In the meantime, could you patch me through to our old ‘friend’ Amanda Waller?”

***

The Batcave didn't show up on your typical caller ID, but Amanda had some tricks of her own: “Who gave you this number, pointy ears?” Batman had to be desperate if he was calling her.

“Not important,” Batman growled. Almost good enough to be mistaken for the original. “Heard of the League of Assassins?”

“I’m familiar with their work.”

“How’d you like Ra’s, Talia al Ghul, Nyssa al Ghul, and several hundred other LoA members?”

Waller sat up against her headboard. “What’s the catch?”

“You need to call Commissioner Gordon and tell him to stay out of your crime scene. And you have to get here and collect the LoA before the FBI does.”

“Uh-huh. How much time have I got? And why don’t you want the FBI to have them?”

“Long story short: they tried to murder Timothy Wayne-Drake in Wayne Manor as part of an occultic ritual.”

Amanda slid out of bed and pulled an outfit out of her closet. “I’m guessing this occurred in your ‘basement,’ and you need it to officially not have happened in your ‘basement.’ Also, you can’t have forensics turning up certain ‘secrets.’” Like that fact that all the Batmen and Robins’ fingerprints and DNA had been wiped from official records.

“Rumor has it that you need to be here in forty-five minutes in you want to beat the FBI.”

To herself, Amanda swore. To Batman, she said, “You owe me for this.”

“I’m doing you a favor. I almost let Green Lantern argue that the LoA is an intergalactic threat, and therefore, in his jurisdiction.”

***

Mother had been placed in a holding cell by the time Grayson, Abuse, and Superman entered the Cave. (Vaguely, Damian was aware that if Abuse was in the Cave, then that meant that Grayson knew who he was and what Damian had told him. But that didn’t seem like a major concern right now.)

“We’re fine!” Drake said as soon as they saw his bloody shirt and Todd’s unconscious body.

Richard ran anyway.

“Whose blood is that then?” Grayson pulled off a gauntlet and checked Todd’s vitals. After a moment, he gave Superman a thumbs up, and the man scooped Todd up like he was a kitten and flew off. Grayson scooted over to Cassandra, who was sitting up but swaying slightly.

“Technically, it’s mine,” Drake admitted.

“He was stabbed,” Damian added.

Grayson spun, his hand still on Cassandra’s wrist.

Damian’s hands, up to his elbows, were red and crusty with blood. Timothy’s blood, mostly. The backs of his pant legs were also stiff with blood, but that was his own. And he was sitting. So he didn’t have to see that blood.

Grayson stared at his hands and then at Drake’s blood-soaked shirt. “Injury report, now,” he snapped.

“He was stabbed by a sword through the gut,” Damian said. Raatko had been so fast.

Drake lifted his shirt. “I’m fine. I was ‘unstabbed,’ I guess? I’m a bit fuzzy on the details. Also, someone should probably scan me for explosive nanotech?”

Grayson said something to Oracle about scans.

Damian didn’t listen. He was studying Drake. No new wounds were visible, only old scars. But Damian didn’t need a visual reminder. Over and over, he saw the moment play out. And then the convulsions. And then the exact second Timothy’s body started going cold.

“I’m jus’ tired,” Cassandra said, laying her head on Grayson’s shoulder. “Being a goddess is hard work.” She giggled to herself and shut her eyes.

“Nyssa al Ghul stabbed him,” Damian said. She had stabbed Timothy, and he had had died.

“But now he’s fine?” Grayson looked bewildered.

Drake stared down at his blood-soaked shirt as if double-checking. “All I’ve got are some minor cuts and bruises. But I think Alfred should check Damian’s hand and his legs? Talia threw some nasty-looking knives.”

“I’ll do it. Alfred . . . Alfred is with Bruce right now.”

Drake blinked. “What?” Very softly.

Grayson pulled back the cowl, so his smile could fully escape. “Bruce is back. He’s here.”

Timothy sat down, abruptly, on the floor. And Damian saw an echo of the surprised look on his face when Raatko’s blade had found its target. And then he had fallen, in stages, just like this. Standing. To sitting. To painfully curled on his side, protecting, too late, the life leaking out of him.

But instead of falling further, Timothy said, “He’s okay?”

“He looks like he needs to sleep for fifty years, but he’s okay. Everyone’s okay,” Grayson added, squeezing Drake’s shoulder. But of course, that wasn’t true. Timothy had been stabbed.

“Or mostly okay,” Grayson added. “Let me look at your hand, Dames.”

“She stabbed Timothy with a sword through the gut,” Damian repeated. Because Richard didn’t seem to understand. He had to make Richard understand.

Grayson’s forehead furrowed. “Yeah, I got that.”

“Shock?” Superman asked, gently prying Cassandra off of Grayson’s arm. Damian hadn’t heard him return.

Grayson knelt in front of Damian and tugged on his bloodied sleeve. “Are you okay? Are you injured anywhere else?”

“She stabbed Timothy,” Damian knew he was pleading now, but he couldn’t help it. “He died. I was right there.”

“I know, I know.” Richard wasn’t listening. “But he’s . . . he’s okay now.”

“You don’t understand! I was right there.”

Grayson tried to press Damian against his chest, but Damian shoved him back. His hand screamed at movement, but it made Grayson let go.

“He died! I was right there, and he still died.”

“Dames. . . .”

“Don’t tell me it’s okay! I was useless!”

Grayson didn’t understand. He hadn’t watched Timothy bleed to death. He hadn’t seen how close Damian was. How little he did to stop the blade. Todd, of all people, had saved him. (And Cassandra, but Damian had already known Cassandra had worthwhile skills.)

Grayson sat back on his heels. “You weren’t useless, I promise.”

“You weren’t there! You don’t know!”

“You can’t save everyone,” Drake said, pushing a medical cart between them. Annoyingly calm. And alive.

Damian’s chest heaved. Then, gradually, he forced his breathing to slow. They still had jobs to do before the night was finished. And even if Damian had failed at all his jobs, he shouldn’t keep the others from theirs.  

“That was one of the hardest lessons I learned as Robin.” Drake grabbed a medical wipe with one hand and held out his other hand, palm up. He was already wearing gloves.

“That’s a terrible motto,” Damian retorted, standing and backing away. The movement reopened the wounds on the back of his legs. He felt like his legs were glass. Ready to shatter at any second.

He was peripherally aware of Superman and Abuse moving around the Cave, gathering up unconscious League members. Superman moved at a much faster speed, of course. One of the most powerful beings on Earth reduced to being a Roomba for assassins.

“I didn’t say it was a motto.” Drake made an insistent motion with his hand. “I said it was a lesson. And apparently, I died tonight, so the least you could do is be a little nicer.”

Grayson, in the act of dragging a chair toward Damian, cringed.

But Damian just laid his hands on the cart. “Fine.” He could stitch his own wounds but fighting with Drake over this was probably not going to count as ‘being nice.’

“Sit,” Drake said.

Damian sat.

“We still have to try. Robin never gives up, or so someone told me.” Drake scrubbed at the dried blood. (“Sorry. I know I’m not as gentle as Alfred,” he murmured. This was true, but Damian wasn’t about to complain.) “But Robin’s never been a solo act either.”

When the dried blood (Timothy’s blood) was cleaned away, the broad slice across Damian’s left palm and the deep cut across the back of the same hand were revealed. They would require stitches. Grayson was peering over Drake’s shoulder, and Damian could already read days of restricted activity on the man’s face.

“If it had just been you or me or even Dick tonight, we would have failed.” Drake examined bottle labels for a moment before filling a syringe.

“I do not require anesthetic,” Damian said.

“Yes, you do.”

He didn’t. But very well.  

“But it wasn’t just us tonight.”

Damian didn’t wince when the needle went in. When he had been very young, still training with wooden blades, he had struggled with stoicism. He had shouted in triumph when his blows had landed—and in pain and frustration when his opponents’ had hit home. So Mother had given him a demonstration: taking two successive blows across her cheekbones and then a knife wound to her shoulder, all without blinking—as if she had merely ordered Damian’s tutor to give her a progress update. “Never let anyone know they have the power to cause you pain,” she had said, blood still dripping down her arm. And Damian would have been ashamed to fail after her example.

He had more than winced when the sword went through Timothy’s gut.  

“. . . so you weren’t useless, okay?” Drake paused. “You aren’t even listening to me, are you?”

“If you want me to listen, then you should speak more intelligently!” This was not what he had intended to say. Damian closed his eyes. Which was worse than flinching. “I don’t mean that. But even if I did nothing else tonight, I should have been able to return you to Grayson alive.”

An arm slid around Damian’s shoulders. Damian didn’t open his eyes, but he knew it was the wrong height to be Richard.

When the second arm pulled Damian’s head against a chest, Damian tensed. But nothing else happened. And after a moment, he relaxed into the hold. It was not a comfortable embrace. Damian couldn’t move his hands from the cart without undoing all Drake’s antiseptic work. Then they would never be finished. But Damian didn’t mind when Timothy’s chin brushed against his hair.

“Really not your job, but thanks.”

“I’ve prepped the program,” Oracle’s voice said.

The arms squeezed and then let go. “My other demand is that you let Dick stitch up your hand and your legs. I have to get scanned for exploding nanobots and then go rebuild a whole crime scene in, oh, twenty-five minutes.”

Grayson was already threading the suturing needle, but he said, “I was going to do that last part.”

“It’s easier if I do it. I’m, er, familiar with the components.”

Grayson made a face, but he nodded.  

Damian allowed Grayson to take his hand, but he couldn’t resist tossing out: “I hope you are not under the impression that your dying means I will make a habit of taking orders from you.”

“Yeah, yeah, love you too,” Timothy threw over his shoulder, without looking back. It was casual and sarcastic. Something Drake might have easily said to Grayson. But never to Damian. Not before tonight.

Damian knew it had been deliberate. And he had no idea what to say in response.

***

“Anything else I can do for ya?”

This had easily been the most exciting night of Colin’s (short) superhero career. Superman had left with Tim (Red Robin?) after the computer-voice lady cleared him of blood-robots. And Colin was hoping that maybe Green Lantern or Wonder Woman needed his help next. He should make a chart. Mark off each hero he got to work with.

Batman looked him up and down before going back to stitching up Damian’s hands. (Still a “Batman” look, somehow, even with the cowl down.) “Yeah. Phone service is back, so you’re going to call Sister Agnes and let her know that you’re alive.”

Colin might be intimidated by Batman, but Abuse wasn’t. He folded his arms. “What sister?” he rumbled. “I’m an only child.”

“Good. One Venom-fueled child vigilante in Gotham is more than enough. Phone’s by the computer. If you want to see Damian again, in either of your identities, this is what you’re going to tell her. . . .”

Apparently, Damian had been attacked by assassins who wanted him for some strange ritual, but he, Colin, Stephanie, and Alfred had escaped into a secret panic room, where they had spent the rest of the evening safely waiting and playing cards. Until the Justice League and the police showed up. And yes, Colin was unharmed. And Damian had minor injuries, which Stephanie and Alfred had immediately treated. And no, Colin didn’t know anything else about what had happened. Which was exactly what he was going to tell the authorities when they questioned him, right before he went home.

Unflappable Sister Agnes had whispered several prayers of thanksgiving during the phone call. And that left Colin feeling even more awkward than standing in front of Batman in his regular child-sized body and his now-oversized trench coat.

“Sister Agnes says most of the roads on the southside of town are blocked tonight, so it’ll be at least another forty minutes before she reaches the Manor,” Colin explained. “You can’t make me quit,” he added.

“That’s not a conversation we’re having tonight,” Batman said. “But we will have it. Until that point, I don’t want to hear even a whisper of ‘Abuse’ being seen on the street, understood?”

“I won’t spill your secrets if you don’t spill mine.”

A noise escaped Batman that might have been a cut-off laugh. “No one’s saying that you don’t have the balls for this job. But if you think you can blackmail Batman into letting an untrained ten-year-old fight crime, you don’t have the brains needed for it.” Batman knotted and trimmed the thread. Then he wiped down a nearby metal table. “Legs,” he told Damian.

“He’s not untrained.” Damian climbed onto to a table and lay on his stomach. “I’ve helped him.”

Colin tried not to roll his eyes. Abuse had been fighting crime long before he met Robin.

Batman raised an eyebrow.

In response, Robin raised both of his and folded his arms under his chin.

Batman sighed and cut away the torn pant legs. “That’s another conversation we don’t have time for. Right now, I have to clarify the ‘official’ story with Oracle and get it passed on to the rest of the team.”

“Ow,” Colin said automatically when he saw the wounds. They looked awful.

“Dames. We should have started here.”

“Forgot,” Damian muttered. “With . . . everything else.” His back arched and his shoulders almost touched his ears.

“Okay,” said Batman, resting a hand on the center of Damian’s back. And even though they were on a deadline, he just waited until Damian’s shoulders lowered back down.  

Batman could probably still hear them, even with his attention split between his conversation with Oracle and Damian’s stitches. But Damian said, “Don’t worry. He and Drake have led whole teams of teenaged superheroes. And most of them are much stupider than you. He’d be a hypocrite to stop you.”

Colin wasn’t sure Batman would see it that way, but he wasn’t going to get anywhere on that front tonight. Instead, he clarified, “‘Drake’ is Tim, right? Your other brother?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Timothy’s not . . . he’s my ally. We’re not related.”

“Wasn’t he, like, adopted by your dad, though? And you think of Dick as your brother, right?”

Damian’s eyes slid away to the far side of the Cave. “We did not get along when I first arrived.”

“I’m no expert, but isn’t that normal?”

“Perhaps you have gathered that my mother’s side of the family is less scrupulous than my father’s.” Damian shifted his shoulders.

“Just a sec, O.” Batman looked up from his work. “Is the local not working?”

“I’m fine! You’re just taking too long.”

“You want speed? Then stop wiggling,” Batman said, picking up the needle again.

“Scrupulous?” Colin said in a stage whisper. “Really hitting those vocab words, huh?”

Damian didn’t even glare. “I treated Drake the way my mother had taught me to treat an opponent and an interloper,” he said, quietly.

“Oh.” Colin wasn’t 100 percent sure what that meant, but he knew it wasn’t good. Damian was scary when he wanted to be.

“I have had time and opportunity to prove myself to Grayson, and vice versa. It is different.”

Colin put his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. Sometimes, he felt sorry for Damian. And sometimes, he was jealous of how much Damian had and didn’t even realize he had. Not the money (though that definitely made fighting crime easier), but all the people. The first time Colin had given Sister Agnes a card for Mother’s Day, he had immediately apologized—he felt like he had tried to take something that didn’t belong to him. But she had set the card carefully on her office’s bookshelf and said. . . .

“You don’t have to make everything so complicated, you know. Family can just be people who care about each other. Like, that’s enough.”

“Tt,” Damian said. Which wasn’t an agreement, but it wasn’t an argument either.

Chapter Text

“For the record, this might be the creepiest thing I’ve ever done.” Superman surveyed the speedily recreated ritual site in the lower guest room.

People had already seen Goliath. And lies that liberally borrowed from the truth were easier to maintain, so they’d stuck with the bat-demon theme, and even scrawled a few extra chalky bats on the walls. Then placed Annie’s diary open on the bed. A nice chalk outline on the floor. The bloody artifacts in the middle. A bunch of candles for effect. Tim felt like some of kind of evil interior designer.

The pied bats squeaked unhappily.

Shoot. “Sorry, guys,” Tim told them.

“Problem?” Superman asked.

“I need to call and see if the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center can get someone down here with moths. I don’t know how long it’s been since the bats have eaten.”

“I’ll call,” Superman said. He grinned. “I suspect that ‘pick-up’ will be faster than delivery.”

Tim eyed the sword that had been taken off of Nyssa and weighed it in his right hand. Quick and sure, he told himself, raising it.

“Whoa! What are you doing?”

Tim stared past the hovering blade into Clark’s concerned eyes. One of Clark’s hands still held his phone, and the other pressed against the sword, blocking it inches from Tim’s palm.

Tim groaned. They didn’t have time for this. The GCPD had been distracted by the details of “taking down an international terrorist organization,” removing suicide pills from assassins, and finding places to store what was looking like over eight hundred LoA members. But they were getting to the "questioning witnesses" portion of the evening. And Oracle said that the FBI was on their way, and apparently, Amanda Waller was coming. So he needed to have something ready. 

“There’s blood all over everything. Damian’s injuries aren’t enough for this. If someone else isn’t injured, that’s going to look suspicious,” Tim explained.

While Tim had found a new tuxedo shirt, Clark had incinerated the one with the obvious and inexplicable stab wound through the center. Tim had assumed Clark knew what would have to happen next. But now he looked tense.

“I can’t wear a blood-splattered tuxedo jacket and a pristine white shirt. That’s definitely suspicious.”

Clark frowned and didn’t release the sword.

“I have to do this quickly; I don’t have much time.”

“Damn right you don’t have much time! The ring’s at two percent power. You’re lucky it wasn’t burnt out by the time we arrived.”

Tim winced. Right. He had hoped to have this conversation when he wasn’t in filthy civilian clothes and running on two-percent power himself. “We, uh, really appreciate your help, despite. . . .” Tim fumbled in his pocket. “There’s a locker rental place on the corner of 5^th and Memorial Drive.” He held out a piece of paper. “That’s the code.”

Hal stared at him. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kid. Tell me that you didn’t put a Green Lantern’s power battery in a public locker.”

Tim was going to explain that he had very carefully set up surveillance around the area and was tracking the locker through his phone. Also, this had been an emergency. Also, wasn’t there a rumor that Hal used to keep his lantern in a locker? And also, he knew it didn’t make it better, but for the record he was really, really sorry. But Tim was tired, and after staring at the slip of paper for a moment, all he could manage to say was “That first number is a five. Sorry. Got some blood on it.”

Hal took the paper and raised a finger. Then he lowered the finger and shook his head. He was gone in a blink of green.

Tim sighed. Red Robin had just recovered his reputation with the hero community after the whole “crazed with grief and refusing to accept Batman’s death” rumor. He might not live down stealing from another hero. (He might not deserve to.)

“Is it finally paying the piper time? ’Cause I think you owe me something.”

Donna sounded a lot calmer than Hal, but the quiet fury in her eyes was much scarier.

Tim pulled her lasso out from under his jacket and held it out to her, palms up.

Superman looked between them. Then he held up his phone and said, “I think I’ll give you two a minute.”

Plausible deniability, Tim thought.

Before he left the room, Clark put his hand on Donna’s shoulder and whispered something in her ear. Her expression didn’t budge.

She yanked the lasso out of Tim’s hands. “I almost get why you thought you needed to steal something from the group leaving to find Bruce, but why my lasso? Do you have any idea how panicked I was? Why, Tim?”

“I was desperate? I’m sorry. I needed a distraction to buy Bruce more time. Both the Lasso of Persuasion and Green Lantern rings run on will. The ring wouldn’t work for me, of course. But I thought I might be able to use your lasso to persuade the ring to bring me to the lantern. The ring is programed to respond to Hal first and foremost, but it also responds to will. And I wondered if the lasso’s magic might be enough to partially override the ring.” Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “I kind of didn’t expect it to work, but it did. And stealing the lantern gave me more time than just stealing Hal’s ring. Hal uses his ring all the time, but normally, he only uses his lantern once every twenty-four hours—to recharge the ring.”

“And so, of course, you had to keep my lasso after you were done.” Donna wrapped it around her hand and examined the silver strands, brushing away some dirt Tim couldn’t see. (He’d been under the impression that the lassos were somewhat self-cleaning. Cassie’s always seemed to be.) “Dick didn’t know, did he?”

“No, no one else knew.”

“I called him, you know. He said all the clues pointed to it being stolen—stolen by someone who ‘knew how to navigate the Watchtower and was dangerously familiar with our security and our members.’ I was so embarrassed and terrified, Tim! How do you lose a magic lasso? Do you know the kinds of enemies I have? I thought someone was going to start targeting my friends! Targeting Cassie! I couldn’t sleep!”

“Sorry. I—I thought I’d return it to you after the gala.” Tim had known that delaying the Justice League trip wasn’t going to be the same as convincing them to take him along—especially after they found out about the lantern. He was under no illusions that he could overtake any of the members of that mission, with or without the lasso. But he had wondered, if he showed up at Constantine’s door with a pile of cash and the lasso, perhaps that would be enough persuasion to buy a way to beat them to Bruce? And if he was already hanging onto the lasso for a little while, he might as well use it to prevent the destruction of reality. Instead of admitting how frantically he’d been grasping at straws, Tim said, “If it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure it’s what saved Jason’s life. And probably Cass’s too.”  

Donna’s stroked the coils for a minute. “That is a consolation,” she admitted. “But I’m still mad.”

“Mad enough to help me out?” Tim held up the sword and gestured at his other hand. “It’s hard to get the angle right for self-inflicted wounds.”

Now, Donna flinched. “Tim.” She straightened the lasso’s coils and hung it on her belt. Then she put her hands on her hips. “Are you okay?”

Tim pressed a hand against his forehead. “No. I have, maybe, five minutes before somebody official shows up and notices the disconnect between my bloody crime scene and my lack of injury.”

“I hate this, but I’ll help you,” Donna said, tugging the sword from his hand. “But I meant ‘okay’ generally, sweetie.”

Are you okay? Tim was exhausted. He had apparently died tonight. He’d just burnt bridges with most of the Justice League. And he was kind of questioning the current calibration of his moral compass, since, given the chance, he’d probably do this all again. And worst of all, he hadn’t even gotten to see Bruce yet. But “I think I’m getting there,” Tim said and held out his hand. And because he needed a distraction from that question, Tim asked, “What did Superman say to you before he left?”

“‘You have a right to be mad, Donna. But remember, we all have families.’”

When he squeezed his eyes shut, Tim hoped Donna thought it was to avoid seeing the blade swing down and not to hide what was pooling in the corners of his eyes.

***

Dick watched Damian rub his eyes with the knuckles on his uninjured hand. A display for the officer who had just taken their statements. Stephanie gestured wildly. Half acting, half just Stephanie.

Sister Agnes guided Colin beneath the yellow tape. Dick was sure that yawn wasn’t for show,

Gordon was too far away to hear, but Dick could partially read his lips: “. . . well, until she gets here . . . right paperwork, this is my crime scene . . . want a photographer in that room. . . .”

“‘The Wall’?” Dick murmured. He'd have to change back into uniform.

“Seven minutes,” Babs said in his ear. “Tim says he’s ready.”

Damian slumped against his side, the picture of a weary child. But when Dick looked down, Damian snapped to attention. “What next?” he whispered.

Because there was always a “next,” wasn’t there? No time for grieving or breakdowns or celebrating or rest. Damian had watched Tim die. Tim had died. And here they were, both still working.  

When Dick reached Bruce’s room, Cass was already in the chair next to the bed, wrapped in a quilt.

Bruce’s face was thin and sunburnt. And his eyes were closed. But Cass said something, and he responded in a low rumble.

“I need you to help keep an eye on Bruce—running between him and Jason is too much for any one man, even Alfred.”

Damian had been walking in front of Dick, but now he backed up against Dick’s legs. “And what will you be doing?” he demanded.

“Sleeping, eventually, I hope. But first, I have to talk to Waller.”

“I could aid you with that.”

“That would be a poor use of resources when you’re needed here.” Dick pushed the boy into the room.

Bruce’s eyes fluttered open. “D’mian?” he asked. He sounded confused, and for a moment, Dick was terrified that he didn’t remember why the boy was here. Bruce propped himself up on an elbow and cleared his throat. “You stayed?”

Damian stepped toward the hand that had automatically stretched out toward him. “Yes, Father. I stayed.”

Dick breathed out, and Bruce’s gaze moved up to him, eyes raking his frame.

“I’m fine,” Dick assured him.

“Mm,” Bruce said with a frown, like Dick might be secretly riddled with bullets. “Where’s Tim?”

Alfred reentered the room, from behind Dick. “Master Timothy is also well.” To Dick, he added, with a small smile, “We’ve had this discussion already.”

Dick gripped Alfred’s sleeve. “Memory issues?” he asked in a low voice.

“Obstinacy issues,” Alfred replied with the sort of fondness usually reserved for small children. “He keeps drifting off in the middle of questions and then forcing himself awake. He is shocked every time I tell him I must go check on Master Jason.”

“Jason is here?” As Alfred turned toward the bed, Bruce rushed to add, “I haven’t forgotten, I just . . .” can’t believe it “. . . don’t understand.”

“Sleep, Master Bruce. All your answers will wait till you awake.”

Bruce settled back on the pillows, his eyes half-lidded but wary. “I’ll sleep better knowing what has happened in my absence.”

Cass shook her head. “Too long.”

Alfred nodded toward the tray of medical supplies on the bureau. “You have thirty minutes before I force your body into the rest it is begging you for.”

At the word rest, Bruce’s eyes closed fully. But a breath later, they popped open. He grabbed Damian’s right wrist and turned the boy’s hand over, careful not to touch the fresh stitches. “Tell me what happened tonight then,” he demanded in an exhaustion-clogged voice. Tell me that everyone is safe.

In Dick’s ear, Oracle chirped: “Waller is at the gates.”

***

Tim had just gotten himself situated in the parlor, his wrapped hand on his lap, when the GCPD investigator walked in.

The story was easy. They threw a gala. Tim had been talking to Dr. Smith when he was attacked by a frightening woman and her henchmen and dragged into an unused guest room. (“I . . . I think they did something to Dr. Smith. I didn’t see him after that.”) They’d talked a lot of scary stuff about demons and the lunar eclipse. (“Some sort of red-winged bat creature? It sounded crazy.” People had seen Goliath—better to direct attention there than to Bruce materializing in the middle of the ballroom.) They’d cut his hand and then the woman had lifted the sword as though she was going to plunge it into his chest. (“And then Superman burst in. . . .”)

The hard part was remembering what Timothy Drake-Wayne was supposed to be. How upset should the seventeen-year-old CEO of Wayne Enterprises act over a near-death occultic ritual? Probably a little upset. But not upset enough that stocks dropped. This was Gotham after all. Every time you threw a party, you were asking for trouble of some kind.

But maybe Tim had seemed a little too calm and collected because the investigator kept asking him questions: about the ritual, about the showdown in the ballroom that Tim hadn’t been present for, about his theories on who these mysterious would-be murderers might be connected to. Then she asked Tim to walk the police photographer through the crime scene. Tim wanted to point out that he was theoretically the victim in this scenario, so maybe someone else could give a tour? But Alfred already had his hands full with Bruce, Jason, and Cass. And Batman was wrapped up with Waller (a position Tim didn’t envy).

So Tim led the photographer to the guest room and walked him through the ritual. Then the investigator returned with another detective and wanted Tim to start over. . . .

“I think my son’s been through quite enough tonight, don’t you?”

***

“Mr. Wayne, we were just—”

“You look awful, Mr. Wayne—”

Bruce gripped the doorframe; it was the only thing keeping him upright. “I imagine I do—I got a call that the Manor had been attacked, and then I flew half the night crammed between crates of figs.”

He’d have to remember to ask Alfred to check—make sure there was still a regular fig shipment to Gotham. (He’d been gone so long. Maybe the regional imports had changed?)

With the arm that he wasn’t using to prop himself up, he motioned to Tim. But Tim just stood there. Terrified.

“It’s really me,” Bruce said. “I’m here.” And when Tim didn’t move, Bruce stepped into the room, closer to Tim. “Alfred wants to cook a big dinner tomorrow to celebrate. But I promise it won’t be lasagna. I know how you feel about that.” It was code. The question Bruce was supposed to answer in case there was any concern of an imposter. Tim hated Alfred’s lasagna. Not because it was bad, but because it was nothing like the lasagna his mom or Dana used to make. Only Bruce knew this. Tim had never told anyone else.

But Tim was shaking his head. That wasn’t the problem.

Tim swallowed a breath and then another. And then stopped as though he couldn’t stomach any more air, eyes desperately searching Bruce’s face.

Slowly, Bruce realized what the boy was afraid of. “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine. Everything is fine. There’s nothing left for you to worry about or fix.”

And then Bruce had to brace himself against the bedpost because all of Tim’s weight was flung against him. Bruce pulled the boy against himself, tight and close. “All right,” he whispered. “All right.”  

“Mr. Wayne, I have to ask you not contaminate the—”

Bruce cut the investigator off with a look. And he half-dragged, half-carried his son out of the room. He only made it as far as the bottom step of the staircase. Where he sat, feeling dizzy.

He tucked Tim against his side.

And Tim clung on like a barnacle. “You’re really here.”

“Of course,” Bruce said. Because you made sure of that, didn’t you? But he still only knew a smattering of details.

Cass and Damian had told him their pieces of the story. He knew he would have to read the reports, later. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness, unlikely to last even the decreed thirty minutes. But he was beginning to accept that no one was obscuring horrible truths in an attempt to protect him, that he could finally sink into a real bed with a modern mattress in a temperature-controlled house and just sleep. Just because he couldn’t currently see all of his children didn’t mean that they were in danger. But then, in the middle of the tale, both Damian and Cass hesitated, and Bruce came fully awake. Or not awake, but full of adrenaline. “What?”

“Tim is okay now. But he was stabbed,” Cass said.

And then the rest of the tale spilled out. What Bruce gathered, in jumbled bits, was that Tim had died. Had died in an attempt to protect Damian. Somehow, Damian had summoned Jason. And then Jason and Cass had used the Chaos Shard to bring Tim back.

And that was too close to nightmares he’d had. The whole past year (had it really only been a year?) had just been one waking nightmare after another. Bruce needed to see his boys.

Damian had backed away from the bed. And Bruce realized he needed to say something encouraging? comforting? soothing? But had no idea what the boy needed. He settled for a brusque “Good thinking on your feet, you two,” which at least loosened those shoulders. Bruce sat up and coughed. He put his hand on his chest and cleared his throat several times. “Does Alfred still make that honey lemon tea?” he asked, hoarsely.

“I can make it, Father!”

When Damian was gone, Cass glared at him. “Dirty trick.” It was. “He will blame me for letting you escape.”

Then Bruce stood. A terrible idea. “You try to stop me, and we can have another discussion about your tendency to risk your life unnecessarily.”

“It was calculated.” Cass’s eyes narrowed. “And you should have that talk with Tim.”

“I will.” As if he had the energy for any sort of talk.

Jason was asleep in his old room. Alfred had tried to explain how the boy got here. But Bruce didn't understand. There had been chasms between them, and now Jason was here. Asleep in his childhood room. Bruce stood in the doorway and listened to him breathing. Each breath was like a tonic, giving Bruce strength.

Finding Tim was a little harder.

He almost ran into Amanda Waller, of all people, in the hallway. He had to duck into another hallway to avoid Dick. Waller was speaking into a phone, “Well, what do you expect me to do about it? Fine.” To Dick she was saying something that sounded like, “We’ll pack up the lot. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry right now.”

And that had been when Bruce had found Tim—very much alive but surrounded by bloody artifacts. (And a pair of pied bats?)

Now, Tim shuddered, and Bruce knew this was the moment when everything hit the boy at once. “I was dying, Bruce,” he whispered. “And I kept thinking about how it wasn’t fair . . . that I wouldn’t get to see you when you got back.”

“But you’re alive now,” Bruce reiterated, pulling back, his hands on Tim’s shoulders. “And uninjured?”

Tim held up his wrapped hand. “This is the worst of it.”

Bruce leaned against the balustrade—the adrenaline draining from him, leaving him feeling boneless. He closed his eyes. “You and Damian can match.”

“Goody. Wait— Bruce, you sleep can’t on the stairs.”

It’s a bad idea, Bruce agreed. But he was already drifting. The last thing he remembered was Tim’s warm head settling itself on his shoulder.

***

That was where Alfred found Bruce: propped against the righthand railing on the first step of the main staircase. Tim was asleep against his side—clothes still blood-splattered but the lines of his face young and relaxed. Dick was sitting on the floor below the step, his back against the wide balustrade, legs stretched out in front of him, eyes closed—and his head on Bruce’s knee. One of Bruce’s hands rested on each boy.

 Alfred stood watching them for a few moments before Dick cracked an eye open. Gingerly, Dick slid to his feet.

“I didn’t intend to wake you,” Alfred murmured. He was sorry to have disturbed something so rare but content that the potential for the other such moments now lay ahead of them.

“Yeah,” Dick whispered, “but that’s not going to be good for anyone’s back.”

Tim came to less easily, groggy with sleep and happiness. If he had been a different sort of boy, Alfred might have assumed he’d been drinking. Tim was downright tipsy with relief.

It took Alfred, Dick, and Tim together to lift Bruce onto a cot and carry him back to his room. Bruce—the ever-vigilant guardian of Gotham—didn’t even stir.

Alfred didn’t worry. A cot was not a pall. The living didn’t weigh nearly as much as the dead.

The guests and staff had long since been questioned and dismissed. Kimberly and the Neon Knights kids had been sent home with apologies and whatever was left of the uneaten hor d'oeuvres. (Tomorrow, Kimberly would receive a bottle of her favorite red wine. And a bonus.) Mrs. Waller and her people had removed Ra’s and his debris (though if she could hold them remained another story, Alfred thought). Miss Kyle had found a quiet moment to slip in and then out of the master bedroom window. (She would return, Alfred knew, whenever there wasn’t a crowd to worry about.) Only a few police officers were still milling about, but most of them were checking their phones and whispering to each other. (“Has to be a hoax.” “Anyone else keep losing service?”) Mr. Kent, the last of the Justice League members in the house, turned his head, listening intently. “Sorry. Gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow?” And he was gone before Alfred could thank him.

Whatever the trouble was, Alfred prayed it would be resolved by morning.

Tonight, God help them, they would all sleep.

Chapter Text

Sunday.

Jason didn’t remember these shelves, even though he recognized every book. It was dark in the room, early morning, he guessed. But a small lamp by the desk illuminated some familiar spines, authors’ names looking back at him like photos of old high school friends: J.R.R. Tolkien, S.E. Hinton, Richard Adams, John Steinbeck, Kenneth Grahame. . . .

It’s been ages since I’ve read The Wind in the Willows.

“I could read some to you, if you like.”

Jason recognized the voice. And with it, he recognized where he was. So this is a dream then.

“No, but you’re probably still pretty groggy.”  

“Kept my room t’ same.” Jason realized now that he’d been speaking aloud but barely above a croaking whisper.

“Of course. You should drink something.” A glass with a straw was shoved in front of his face, and after some awkward shuffling and readjustment, Jason managed to swallow what felt like the first water his throat had met in weeks.

He also managed to get a good look at the man holding the glass. There were old lines around the lips and eyes and a graying at the temples that Jason still hadn’t gotten used to. But the gauntness and shallow cast to his skin was definitely new.

“How are you feeling, old man?”

“Like I’ve been dragged backwards through time,” Bruce answered dryly.

***

Earlier that day. . . .

 Drake was humming something to himself as he peeled the wrapper off a muffin. He’d been humming for the past five minutes. He’d probably hum for the next hour, the same song in an infernal loop, if Damian didn’t do something.

But every time Damian opened his mouth, the white dress shirt soaked in blood swam before his eyes with such vivid intensity that Damian had to blink to make sure Timothy’s clean but faded T-shirt was real.

No one else was in the kitchen. Most of the household was still asleep, and the muffins were the only hint of Pennyworth’s presence. The humming increased slightly in volume as Drake found the butter. At least someone was happy this morning.

Not that Damian was unhappy.

But even though the Chaos Shard hadn’t been misused, his own reality had shifted last night. Father was here.

Alfred the Kitten zipped through the kitchen and under the table, bouncing from chair leg to chair leg like a pinball. Pennyworth had promised, last night, to retrieve the cat from the penthouse. Which implied that their base of operations was shifting now that Father was home.

Alfred sniffed the new furniture suspiciously. Then growling, he plopped down in the middle of the floor and gnawed on his own tail.

Yes, precisely, Damian thought in sympathy.

“I think your cat’s gone insane,” Drake observed, spreading out the paper.

“I think your face has gone insane,” Damian snapped, automatically, even though he didn’t know what that meant. (He had allowed Brown too much influence in his life.)

Drake just laughed under his breath. And started humming again. Suddenly, he stopped. His eyes scanned the front page. Then he shot up from the table, dialing his phone as he ran.

“Timothy?”

Damian turned the paper toward him. In 96-point type, the headline read: “BLÜDHAVEN IS BACK!”

He found Drake not in the Cave, but in the garage, standing by a bike.

“What is wrong?”

Drake shook his head.

“Do you think the League managed to reshape reality despite us?”

Drake shook his head again. “No. They have a timestamp. This would have happened right when Jason and Cass were using the Shard, so somehow, they managed this.”

“Is it bad?”

Drake started to shake his head, then stopped and shrugged. “Probably not. It might be complicated, economically, I mean. And traffic’s definitely going to be worse. But it’s not bad. I mean, it’s good.”

What, Damian wondered, will Grayson do now that Father is here, and his beloved Blüdhaven is back?

But he didn’t have time to examine that thought. Drake was breathing strangely. Deliberately. A slow inhale. A hold. And an even slower exhale.

“Then what is wrong?”

“O says that cell service on the East Coast is overloaded. Adding about a million people back onto the planet apparently disrupts phone service as much as any major disaster would.” Drake took another breath. Held it. “And I can’t get ahold of Palmer-Cohen Memorial, not even on the landline.”

“Who’s at Palmer-Cohen Memorial?”

Another round of breath, slower this time. “Dana, my stepmom, used to be there, before. . . .” In. Out. In. “I have to know.”

“Get two helmets. I’m going with you,” Damian declared.

Drake squinted at him.

“Unless you would rather I wake Grayson . . . ?” This certainly sounded more like Grayson’s skillset.

Drake’s expression said “yes,” but his mouth said, “No, we should let him sleep. When he wakes up, we won’t be able to keep him out of Blüdhaven.” Damian didn’t wince, but something in his expression must have changed, because Drake added, “I mean, for the day.”

“Either way, you shouldn’t go alone. You’re highly agitated. And I’m not certain you should be driving.”

“So if I feel too upset to drive, I’ll just what? pull over and let the ten-year-old take my place? If we get arrested, Bruce is going to wish he’d stayed in the timestream.” But Drake grabbed a second helmet and tossed it. Over Damian’s head.

Damian caught it with a spring off of his toes and a glare. “Don’t be ridiculous. Father is too exhausted to do anything, and both Grayson and Pennyworth will have their hands full today.” He smirked. “This is the perfect time to attempt something ill-advised.”

***

Tim did not let Damian drive the motorbike. And if he felt “agitated,” the small pair of arms around his middle was more than enough to keep him focused. (“If you don’t hold on, I’m turning around and leaving you at home!” he had shouted over the roar of the road the third time Damian had let go.) He’d also made Damian text Dick and Alfred. So they wouldn’t think Tim and Damian had just dropped off the edge of the planet. (And so Tim didn’t have to find the words to explain things himself.)

According to Babs, the city was functioning as normal. Almost eerily so. No one in Blüdhaven seemed to be aware that they had died. They came back with jobs to get to and dogs to walk and weekends to wrap up, and that’s just what they did. It was only the rest of the world that was thrown off balance by Blüdhaven’s existence. (Blüdhaven commuters showing up in Gotham for jobs that had been reassigned years ago was becoming a minor issue.) Tim was still surprised not to be stopped at the city entrance. (He’d picked the bike because it was good for zipping around barricades.)

The city was roaring with life. Exactly as Tim remembered it from years past (if slightly more crowded with visitors and news crews).

It was almost a shock to turn onto the quiet, tree-lined drive that led to the hospital. The gates, uncharacteristically, were open. The small parking lot was nearly full, but the grounds were whisper quiet. Damian pulled off his helmet and stared at a sign near the door. In small letters at the bottom, it read: “Bereavement and Psychiatric Support.”

“Is this Blüdhaven’s version of Arkham?” he asked.

“No!” Tim should have left him at home. “You don’t know the difference between a private psychiatric hospital and an institute for the criminally insane?”

“Of course, I do! I just—” Damian jammed his hands into his pockets. He looked as uncomfortable as Tim had felt the first time he had visited.

“Never mind. It’s fine. After my dad was murdered—” Tim cleared his throat. “Dana had a rough time. Like, really rough. I was ‘working’ in Blüdhaven, so I brought her here. So she could rest and get better.”

I should have visited her more. So many other things felt important then. Urgent.

Tim looked up at the tall doors. “She won’t be here,” he realized. I don’t deserve that.

“You think her mental state has improved?”

“No, I mean, she won’t have come back. It’s just . . . not likely.”

Damian’s forehead wrinkled. “If the rest of the city has returned, then surely—”

Tim shook his head, firmly. “That’s not how life works.” It would be too much. After everything that’s already happened. . . . “I still have to check. But I’m just warning you now: I’m going to ask about her at the front desk, and afterward . . . I’m going to drive around the city for a bit. Alone. You’re going to need to call Dick to pick you up.”

“Tt,” Damian said.

Tim didn’t look at him. This was not a moment where he wanted to invite snide commentary. “I’ll drop you off somewhere,” Tim added, even though he didn’t want to. But it was probably irresponsible to leave a ten-year-old outside a mental hospital, however nice the facility and self-reliant the ten-year-old.

In the past, all visits had to be pre-approved. But the receptionist only looked mildly surprised when Tim walked through the doors. Tim wondered if they’d had a lot of unexpected visitors today. Every line on her phone was lit up, but the ringer had been silenced. “You’re here to see. . . .”

He’d forgotten to hook his helmet to the handlebars, and now it felt heavy and out of place in his hand.

The waiting room was as quiet as the grounds had been. But Tim could hear someone wailing, down some distant hall. Then some soft voices murmuring. And a door pulling shut.

“Drake. Dana Drake,” Damian supplied.

The receptionist opened a book and turned the pages with painstaking care, scanning the color-coded lines with her index finger. Then she smiled at them. “Yes, she is receiving visitors today.”

There has to be a mistake.

“Ha!” Damian said, as if he’d just won something.

The receptionist glanced back down at the chart. “Ms. Drake is also one of our patients who is aware of the lost time. So you don’t have to worry about talking around that.”

“Lost time?” Tim echoed. She’s here. Dana’s here.

The receptionist glanced surreptitiously around the room and then pulled up a local news story on her phone: “How Does a City Lose Over Two Years?”

Tim licked his lips and nodded. “Oh, yeah.” Oh god, what if none of this is real? What this is all a hallucination or some dream or a drug-induced super-villain scheme? What if Dana is still gone and Bruce is still dead?

“We don’t allow her newspapers right now. Too distressing. But general information about the time skip doesn’t need to be avoided. If she seems confused, that’s normal. We’re all a little confused right now.” The receptionist laughed in a slightly strained way.

Actually, that seemed real. Tim had a good imagination, but he wasn’t sure his brain would have been able to conjure up that exact mixture of cheery professionalism-in-the-face-of-absurdity and manic I’m-downing-mimosas-as-soon-as-I’m-off-the-clock energy.

Also, if this was some sort of wish fulfillment, why was Damian here, stalking the soft yellow and blue waiting room like a tiny grim reaper?

***

“Tim!” Tim had forgotten the way Dana had always seemed happy to see him. Even if he had only come home from picking up milk. Even if had gotten in trouble earlier and his dad was still mad at him. Even if her husband was dead and Tim had to be a reminder of everything she had lost.

It was easy to hug her. She smelled of the hospital, but she felt familiar. Home, in way he’d almost forgotten.

“How are you?” Tim pulled away and examined her.

She was sitting up today, wearing clothes instead of a hospital gown—a pale pink sweater, despite the summer heat. “I’m okay.” But she looked just as tired as she had the last time Tim had seen her. The dark circles under her eyes were a painful contrast to her smile. They reminded Tim that she hadn’t had his two years to grieve and heal. (Or grieve and heal, and grieve and heal again, in a strange repeating spiral.) Dana had always been physically strong, and her frailty felt like insult added to unforgivable injury.

Tim wanted to give her something, but he didn’t know what he could possibly offer.

“But how are you? What having you been doing for—oh my gosh—two years, Tim? I don’t even understand how that’s possible.” That frightened, confused look was like a dart in Tim’s chest. But then it was gone. “Oh! And who’s this handsome young man you’ve brought to see me?”

Damian stepped fully into the room and shook Dana’s hand with a solemnity that obviously amused her. “I’m Damian Wayne, Timothy’s stepbrother.”

Tim wasn’t sure if the “Timothy” or the “stepbrother” was the more surprising. “Um, so Bruce adopted me.” Tim watched Dana’s face, but her smile, though pale, didn’t waver. Instead, she squeezed his hand. “And Damian had been staying with his Mom, but he’s living with us now.”

“And your uncle was okay with the adoption?”

Damian raised an eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah, Uncle Eddie thought this was probably for the best. I’ve known Bruce for the longest, so. . . .”

Dana squeezed his hand again. “I know. You stayed with him when—” She took a shuddering breath and then another. Her eyes began watering.

She had cried ceaselessly after Jack died. Tim would walk in on her in the kitchen, head bent over a carrot, knife stilled, her cheeks raw from the continuous tears.

She had only stopped crying when she began to forget. Setting places for three instead of two.

Tim wondered if he should call a nurse.

But Dana shook her head and resumed in a softer voice: “When Jack was in the hospital. I’m glad you get to experience having siblings. I always thought you’d make an awesome older brother.” She winked at Damian with a twinkle in her eye. “Or is he terrible? Bossy and hogging the bathroom all the time? You can tell me the truth; I had an older sister. I know what they're like.”

“He is adequate.”

Dana laughed. It had been a long time since Tim had heard her laugh.

***

At the end of their visit, Dana Drake grabbed Damian’s hand in both of hers. Her fingers were lighter than his kitten’s paws. “It was good to meet you, Damian. I’m so glad something good has come out of—” she took another of those shuddering breaths and her eyes turned bright with pain “—this for Tim. You should come again, if you want to.”  

“I will,” Damian found himself promising before he could consider whether he should.

Afterward, Drake sat down on the stoop outside the hospital door. Damian expected some kind of explosion—laughter or tears. Or something.  

“Do I still need to tell Grayson that you’re abandoning me?” Damian pulled out his phone. He had twenty new notifications. He stuck them back in his pocket, unread.

“Nah. But I think I need a minute to just sit in the sun.” Drake leaned against the building and smiled. The smile felt private to Damian, a small pure moment of contentment he hadn’t been meant to witness. “Blüdhaven’s only forty-five minutes away. Why does it get so much more sun than Gotham?”

“Will you return? Now that the city is back?”

“Nope.” Drake popped the p. “This isn’t really my city.”

“But Dana is here, and your uncle . . . ?” Damian had been confused about that. He’d thought all of Drake’s relatives were deceased.

Drake tilted his head up toward Damian. “I’ll keep visiting Dana, and she says she wants to live close when she gets out. But Eddie Drake?” He laughed. “I made him up. A counterfeit relative. He was really just an actor named Richard Beren. Who is probably another person I should check up on while I’m here. . . . But anyway, I did such a good job that even Batman was fooled. At least for a while.”

The story was almost as unbelievable as the idea of Drake fooling Father. But Drake’s level of smugness couldn’t be faked.

“Why didn’t you want Father to adopt you?” Damian asked once the tale was over. Damian had always imagined that Drake had jumped at the chance.

“That’s . . . complicated.”

Colin had told him to stop making things so complicated. But “I think everything in this family is complicated,” Damian said.

Drake didn’t protest Damian using the word family. Just as he hadn’t when Damian had said stepbrother. He just said, “Complicated isn’t always bad. If my life hadn’t gotten complicated, I never would have met Dana—or become Robin.”

Finally, Damian opened his phone. “Grayson is in the city. And he has a van. He says he can pick us up, and the bike, if we want.”

“A van?”

“Yes. He had some ‘things’ stashed throughout the city that he wanted to collect.”

“Ah.”

“So you will stay in Gotham?” Damian pressed. “Even if Grayson does not?”

“Yeah. Except for Dana, all my family’s in Gotham.”

Damian nodded, tapping out a response to Grayson’s text.

Drake nudged him with the toe of his sneaker. “And for the record, yes, that includes you.”

“Obviously.” Damian’s returning “nudge” was perhaps closer to a kick. “Do you think I would tolerate such indignities otherwise?”

Chapter Text

Sunday afternoon.

Damian had slid almost below the window of the passenger’s seat. From outside the van, Dick could only see the top of his head. Somebody’s getting grumpy.

Damian didn’t look up from his phone when Dick opened the driver’s side door. “Do you know every street sweeper in this florescent cesspit?”

No. Dick only happened to know Joe. He’d been the street sweeper near Dick’s old apartment. Last time Dick had talked to him, Joe had been considering getting back together with his wife (they’d been separated).

“Yes,” Dick said, cheerfully, jumping back into his seat. (Joe had told him that they’d moved in together—just today, giddy with the idea of second chances.)

“Then do you have to greet each one individually? We’ll never get home at this rate.”

“We’re not getting home until Tim’s done,” Dick pointed out. “So I might as well enjoy myself.”

Tim had found Richard Beren, his “Uncle Eddie.” Dick wasn’t sure how much of this was an “I’m glad you’re alive” conversation and how much was a carefully considered payoff. Either way, Dick didn’t mind waiting.

But Damian obviously did.

Dick reached over and ruffled the boy’s hair.

Without setting his phone down, Damian started to lean into the touch. Then he jerked away, pressing himself against the van’s door.

“I don’t know,” Dick admitted.

Damian looked up.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

“It seems clear that you’ve already made up your mind.”

“I haven’t,” Dick said. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take Bruce to recover. I don’t know which city is going to need me more.”

“But you want to be in Blüdhaven.”

Dick didn’t try to deny this. He wanted a lot of contradictory things. That was part of being human. “You remember what I told you when we were first talking about being Batman and Robin, and figuring out what that meant for us? We were sparring, and—”

“‘Don’t anticipate,’” Damian supplied. “That’s almost impossible, Richard.”

“I know,” Dick said. They were all planners and overthinkers. It came with the job. “But whatever happens, we will still be us, okay? That’s never going to change.”

This time, Damian allowed Dick to card his fingers through his hair.

After a moment, Damian asked, “What do you think Waller will do with Talia?”

“Talia” not “Mother.” “I don’t know,” Dick admitted. “I suspect Waller doesn’t know yet either.”

“Waller doesn’t have a code against killing,” Damian noted.

“No. But she doesn’t waste resources either.” And there would be a power vacuum in the LoA now. It might be defanged, but it wasn’t disbanded.

Instead of seeming reassured, Damian snapped, “Waller’s a fool if she thinks can control Talia al Ghul in any capacity. Talia will take any opportunity to further her own ends. She tried to use me to kill you, and last night, she tried to kill Timothy. She didn’t even hesitate.”

“I know.” Dick moved his fingers in a slow even pattern until the boy’s jaw unclenched. “But she’s still your mom. It's okay if you still worry about her.”

“I only worry about her escaping.” And Damian seemed to believe that for now, so Dick left it alone.

It was awkward to lean over the gear shaft between them, but Dick had already committed to the awkwardness. There were some things Damian needed to hear, even if he was embarrassed in the moment. “I love you; you know that, right? It’s been a hellish ride, but you are the best thing that’s happened in the past year, and I’m not going to give you up.”

Damian didn’t say anything, not even a tension-cutting “Tt.” He just nodded and leaned fully against Dick’s hand.

Oh, sweetheart. . . . Dick kissed the top of the boy’s head. “That’s a promise.”

***

By the time Tim came out of the building with a middle-aged man behind him, Damian was back on his phone and Dick had turned up the radio.

“Hey, I’m ready now,” Tim said through Damian’s open window. “Also, this is my Uncle Eddie. Uncle Eddie, Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne.”

“Charmed.” The man’s smile faltered when it landed on Damian. And Damian’s suspiciously raised eyebrow didn’t seem to calm him.

“Anyone ever tell you that you look a lot like your dad?” Uncle Eddie muttered, uneasily.

“Anyone ever tell you that you don’t look much like your ‘nephew’?” Damian retorted.

“Heh.” He stepped back from the van and shook Tim’s hand. “Take care of yourself, kid.”

“I’ve met plenty of people who are scared of Batman. I don’t know very many who are terrified of Bruce Wayne,” Dick observed.

“Yeah.” Tim watched his “uncle” scurry away with a frown on his face. “I’m still not sure what Bruce said to him after he discovered I’d been lying. But ‘Eddie’ is permanently spooked now.”

“Probably ‘Hands off, Beren. Get your own orphans.’” Dick dropped his voice an octave.

“Tt. Your Batman impression is terrible. It would have been more like ‘My Robin stash is getting low.’”

“Damian’s impression is better,” Tim said, climbing into the back. The traitor.

Dick threw up his hands. “How is it better? I’m literally Batman.”

Damian clicked his tongue. “With a growl like that? Not for long, Grayson.”

***

Later, of course, there were casefiles on the Batcomputer that Barbara had access to. Bruce was almost fanatically meticulous about documentation. But Barbara kept a small file for herself to which she occasionally added information that satisfied her personal curiosity about that night.

Her file started as a list of questions, some essential and some that had just tickled her curiosity.

1. How did Silver Keys get into the Batcave?

While Bruce recovered, Dick, Tim, Damian, and Alfred would catch and examine hundreds of bats. (“A mass check-up,” Dick had called it.) With a UV light, they found small silver “key” symbols painted on a couple dozen bats’ heads and wings. Six of the bats still had cameras on them. No wireless signals. Just high-quality minuscule recorders, some of which must have been collected by Silver Keys. The footage showed that they'd been sent in while the Cave was still in use and probably had collected enough footage to reveal the keystrokes and passwords required for certain types of access.

No red flags had been raised because the Batcave programs had been accessed legitimately and few changes had been made to the system itself. Silver Keys had been good enough to disguise her presence on the server, appearing as a recognized user, not a secret lurker. But this meant that Silver Keys hadn’t created her own security protocols or overrides—nothing unusual that might have drawn attention. She had just worked within the parameters of the system. The lockout had been one that Bruce had pre-programmed. One to shut everyone out of the Cave in an emergency. Bruce had contingency plans against everyone. Including himself.

Barbara’s own mechanical “bat” had been too small and non-reflective to show up on the Cave’s exterior radar. And Jason’s abrupt breach of the Cave’s security had allowed her “bat” an uncomplicated entry.

Her “bat” had tiny feet. Small enough to type out the complicated manual override she’d written into the system. (She would never know if she had pulled one over on Bruce, or if he had known she held this key to his backdoor and let her keep it—for an event such as this.)

Back in the system, Barbara had sprung the traps they had so carefully laid: an electrical grid with nonlethal volts that could be targeted down to the square foot—suddenly limiting the number of opponents to those closest to Tim and Damian. The odds had shifted like a flipped hourglass.

Later, they would add extra lights around the computer and any keypads to discourage the bats from getting too close to those areas and add extra roosting options further into the less used portions of the Cave. Mostly just to hear his response, Barbara pointed out that there were humane ways to drive away bats. "They were here first," Bruce said in his gruff, "end of discussion" voice.

2. Did the Chaos Shard bring Bruce back or was it Annie’s ritual?

Obviously, Jason and Cass and the lasso had managed to wrestle some new, healed version of reality out of the Chaos Shard. But had it worked because of the Shard . . . or because Annie’s components had all come together at the right moment?

“It had to be the Shard,” Dick said, later. “That’s what the Shard does. It rewrites reality. Or do you think Bruce is a bat-demon?”

And Barbara didn’t argue with him. Maybe the Shard had saved Tim’s life (and removed any deadly “gifts” left behind during the LoA’s impromptu splenectomy—though Dick had run half a dozen more tests afterward to doublecheck). Maybe the stubbornness of Jason and Cass combined with their Lazarus Pit resurrections and an Amazonian lasso really was equivalent to the power of gods. Maybe Nyssa had, through her experiments with the Lazarus Pits, somehow become godlike. She certainly seemed confident in her own divinity. Or maybe Nyssa’s promise to Tim, to return Bruce to their timeline, became tied to the prophecy's need for a bat-demon/protector—and the Shard could not destroy her until the prophecy was complete.

“Anyway,” Tim had said, “I think a Chaos Crystal from the dawn of time trumps a prophecy from the 1600s.”

But Bruce, when he was well enough to hear to the story in all its excruciating detail, had looked at the photos of Annie’s diary and said, “I knew her.” Being Bruce, he was economical in his description of the witch (and his relationship with her), but Barbara gathered that Annie had summoned a creature that was some otherworldly manifestation of the horror Darkseid had released to pursue Bruce through time and to its end.

     (2a. If Jason and Cass used the Shard, did that mean that Jason wanted Bruce to return? 2b. And what did that say about Red Hood’s relationship with the Batman?)

(Maybe it had been Cass’s influence that brought Bruce back. Or the completion of the ritual. But Cass insisted that she had only “grabbed the things that were already in Jason’s head.” Maybe second part of this question could only be answered by a “wait and see.”)

3. What happened to all that Omega Energy?

If Rip Hunter kept files on his trip to the Vanishing Point to stop Bruce, they weren’t anywhere that Barbara could access. Booster Gold, when asked, had said, “It was pretty anticlimactic, actually. We got to the Vanishing Point just as stuff was shutting down. And Rip said the Omega Energy was off the charts. And then, it wasn’t? But anyway, I got to see the end of time, so that was kind of cool."

Barbara supposed that if anything was powerful enough to stop Darkseid then it was a piece of the Chaos Crystal.

Over time, bit by bit, Barbara added new information to this file.

The day after the gala, the newspapers were consumed by the return of Blüdhaven. The excitement at Wayne Manor had to wait until page five of the Gotham Gazette. The Metropolis Planet didn’t even mention it.

A few months afterward, the Gotham Archeological Museum hired a new director and published an “in memoriam” collection of Dr. Smith’s work on colonial Gotham and some of his interpretations of Bialyan myths.

About three years after the gala, a local conspiracy theorist self-published, with little acclaim, a book titled The Bat-demon of Gotham and the Mysterious Disappearance of Dr. Bartholomew Smith. It laid out the events of the gala chronologically as gathered from police reports and eye-witness accounts. Although it was littered with comma splices, Barbara was still impressed by the amount of research that had gone into the book.

The author concluded with statements from the many guests at the Neon Knights gala who claimed to have seen “a giant red creature with bat-wings.” He noted that several sightings of the cryptid continued to the present day—including ones of a person riding on the beast’s back. The author posited that Dr. Smith, in his research on various bat myths, had befriended the monster and now roamed the woods of Gotham County, free and half-wild himself.  

The book sold poorly. But Barbara purchased several copies as Christmas presents that year. Including one for Bruce, which she labeled: “To our favorite bat-demon.” He did a bad job of pretending not to be amused.

***

Sunday.

“Are you supposed to be up?”

For a moment Jason thought Bruce was directing the question at him, and he was confused. They’d been talking for several minutes already.

But then Cass’s head craned around the doorway. “Are you?” she challenged.

They stared at each other in silence. A gray blur streaked into the room and then clawed its way up the comforter. Jason had heard about “Alfred—no, the other Alfred.” But he hadn’t seen the cat before now. It curled up on Jason’s pillow as if it had been invited.

Cass slipped into the room and pulled the door closed behind her.

“Did you tell him?” she demanded.

“I was working my way up to it,” Bruce said. “He just woke up.”

Cass bounced on the balls of her feet. This couldn’t be good.

Well, if it was anything that required Jason moving more than a pinky finger they were darn out of luck. He was probably glued to this bed for at least another twenty-four hours. And that was outside of any strictures from Alfred. He was just that tired.

Cass pulled a newspaper from behind her back and held it in front of Jason’s face.

“He’s still recovering,” Bruce warned.

Jason yanked the paper down and speed-read the front page. “Is this real?” he demanded.

“Yes.” Cass bounced again. “You did this.”

“What? No, I didn’t.”

Cass smacked the back of his head. “Yes. This was in your head when the Shard was looking for a picture of reality. I was there.” There being inside Jason’s head. Should I apologize for the mess? Or demand compensation for the intrusion?

“That’s—that’s about one million lives saved, Jay,” Bruce said softly. It had been a long time since Bruce had called him Jay. Or spoken to him in that voice.

Jason hated that it was for something he hadn’t even intended to do. “First, are you always this violent with invalids? Second, that was an accident. My brain was on fire. I forgot Blüdhaven didn’t exist anymore. I was just trying to keep the Replacement alive.”

Bruce, for some reason, was squeezing his hand. Tight. It hurt. This family had the worst bedside manner. Where the hell was Alfred? (The real one?)

The kitten started attacking the edge of the paper.

“Speaking of the Chaos Shard. . . .” Ah, this was a tone Jason was familiar with. Stern. Disappointed. Though the added a layer of exhausted hoarseness was new. “That was a stupid risk. It’s pure luck that either of you survived.”

“You would have preferred if you came back and ole Timmy was dead? Yeah, I’m not apologizing for that.”

Cass nodded.

“I don’t want an apology.”

“Well, then what the fuck do you want, old man? I just saved a million lives and your favorite Robin! That’s literally the best I’ve got.”

“I want you to finally believe that I don’t have a ‘favorite,’ and that if I came home to three children dead instead of one, I wouldn’t be parsing out which death was killing me the most!” He ended on a growl that had Jason jerking in surprise.

Bruce’s chair legs squealed on floor. That was fast. Usually, Batman had a few more rounds in him.

Cass blocked the door. “No. Stay.”

“Move!” For a moment, Jason thought that Bruce would fight her. That fury had to go somewhere.

But he just glowered at her. After a moment, he stumbled back into the chair and covered his eyes with his forearm.

Cass looked at uncertain as Jason felt.

Bruce’s chest was heaving. “Cassie. . . .” Pleading.

But she whispered, “You have to talk.”

Instead, Bruce hunched over in the chair, arm still covering his face.

Jason stared at the wall and stroked the cat’s head with a fingertip.

Cass started to put her hand on Bruce’s shoulder and then just hovered, undecided. Finally, she turned to Jason: “Remember that you said you didn’t know why you were here, but it was probably all an accident? You were an accident?”

The kitten purred and bit his finger.

“I remember thinking that was a private conversation,” Jason said, sourly.  

“I didn’t promise that. Remember I said you decide why you are here?”

“Yeah. And then you said that my reasons were stupid.”

“They were. But maybe this can be part of why you are back. One million lives. And Tim. And Bruce. Maybe. . . .” her face screwed up as she tried to find words “. . .maybe you make accidents good. Maybe accidents are like gifts? Sometimes.”

“Maybe,” Jason said, but he could tell that she knew he wasn’t convinced. He was too tired for philosophy.

“So here’s where everyone is! Damian was looking for—” Stephanie bounded in and then frowned at Bruce on the chair. “Should he be back in bed?”

“Yes,” said Jason. He pulled his finger and the newspaper away from the kitten.  

“I’m fine.” Bruce ran his hands over his face and sat up straight, as if he hadn’t just been having a mini-breakdown.

“How’s your back?” Cass asked.

When Bruce and Jason looked at her, Stephanie explained, “The Chaos Shard burned me trying to escape its sealed container.” She shrugged. “It’s healing.”

“Hn.” Bruce glowered at Jason and Cass in turn. "Even contained, it—"

Stephanie gaped at him. "You just got back. You can barely stand. Are you honestly lecturing people over stuff you weren’t even here for?”

“Cass wants me to stay and talk,” Bruce accused.

“Oh, Cass. . . .” Stephanie put her arm around the other girl’s shoulder. “That’s never going to work. Bruce can’t talk to people. He can only grunt or give hour-long presentations on what you did wrong.”

Cass poked Stephanie’s arm. “Exaggerating.”

“Maybe a tiny bit,” Stephanie allowed. “Anyway, welcome back to the age of internet and Starbucks, big guy.”

Bruce cleared his throat. “I hear you did a good job last night,” he said, finally.

“I do a ‘good job’ every night.” All traces of humor gone from her voice now.

“I hear that too.”

Stephanie nodded, once. “Hurry up and get better, and maybe you can come hang out with the cool crime-fighters in Burnley some night.” Then she leaned over and hugged his neck.

“Ow,” Jason muttered as the cat, and all its claws, dove at his chest. Still purring.

Stephanie grabbed the cat and placed it on her shoulder, where it blinked at Jason with a calm smugness. “There’s pie left from dinner,” Stephanie told Cass, pointedly. “But not for much longer.”

Cass kissed Bruce’s cheek before moving toward the door. “No more arguing,” she declared. “Too late.”

“Tell Alfred that Jason’s awake enough to eat.” Even at his most exhausted, Bruce couldn’t resist giving orders.

“Did I say I was hungry?”

“You should be.” Bruce seemed to sense that was the wrong thing to say because then he sighed. “I just want you to get better.”

“I just want you to eat.” Warm fingers on Jason’s scalp. Cold icepack dripping on Bruce’s shirt.

Jason settled back into the pillows, unaware of when he had leaned forward in the first place.

Cass nodded. “’Night. Be good,” she tossed out before shutting the door behind her.

Jason wasn’t sure if that last bit was directed at him or Bruce. Wait. “’Night?”

“It’s evening, chum. You slept through most of the day.” That soft tone was back again.

“Well, I’m pretty awake now.”

“Me too. I could read you something.” Bruce stood up and scanned the shelves.

Jason wasn’t foolish enough to think that these past twenty-four hours made everything better. Bruce was still Bruce. The one rule couldn’t be unbroken. And even if Jason could, he doubted he’d bring back some of the men he’d killed.

And he knew as well as anyone, that one life could not replace another. So much of what was lost remained lost.

Still. “Though much is taken, much abides.”

“‘Providential,’” Bruce said.

“What?”

“Not accidental but providential. That’s the word I used when Alfred accused me of impulsively snatching up the first kid who lifted my tires.” Bruce was facing the bookshelf, but Jason could make out a small, fond smile.

“You don’t even believe in Providence,” Jason pointed out. That was more Alfred’s territory. 

Bruce didn’t disagree with him. “Any requests?” he asked, fingers trailing book spines. His own spine looked more curved and weary than Jason remembered it being. But the face that turned to seek the answer was patient, as if this was the only urgent question in its bearer’s life.

“I think I’m in the mood for Dickens,” Jason said. Those long, rolling passages had a soothing effect sometimes. “Maybe Tale of Two Cities?”

(“I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.”)

Bruce huffed a little under his breath.

“I’m not picky,” Jason tossed out, trying not to feel disappointed. The man’s voice still had a rough, unhealed edge to it. Perhaps paragraph-long sentences were too cruel.

“No, it’s not—” Bruce coughed. It took Jason a moment to realize he was covering a laugh. “I just remember reading this to you when you had strep.”

Jason had forgotten that. Even now, he remembered feeling hot and miserable more than he remembered being read to.

“You hated the ending. You sulked for days afterward.”

Jason didn’t remember this either. But he had a vague memory of Bruce stroking his sweaty head and saying, “There are sadder things than death, chum.”

And then opening up an Agatha Christie novel as a peace offering.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to see if I hate the ending as much this time around.” Jason wasn’t going to mention that he’d read it several times since then. That some of the sentences now lived and sang in his brain.

Bruce pushed the chair closer to the bed and settled in, as if he planned to be there for a long time.