Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim doesn’t want to shop for new clothes. He hates going to shop for anything. He tells this to Bruce. 

“Do you know your sizes?” Is his response. 

“Yes.”

He starts to sign something else but stops himself, shaking his hands out. 

“Tim?”

Tim crouches down on the floor and closes his eyes, his hands coming up to pull his hair agitatedly.

Big hands pull his fingers loose. He opens his eyes to find Bruce kneeling beside him, concern splashed across his face.

”What’s wrong?”

He squeezes Bruce’s fingers—hard, and the man just lets him.  He sniffs, and then another handkerchief is in his face, and he flops on the floor with a gusty sigh.

”I’m stupid.”

“I disagree,” Bruce says, sitting next to him there in the hallway.

”I can’t tie shoelaces.”

”Okay? You’re also a kid. I bet there are plenty of other kids who can’t tie their shoelaces. I know I’ve seen them running around.”

”I can’t button or snap things. Look at my jeans. They’re elastic.”

”I’m still not seeing a problem.”

He huffs and gets up on his knees, putting his hands on either side of Bruce’s face and staring at him intently. 

He’s pretty sure it’s the first time he’s looked Bruce straight in the eye. It might be the first time he’s ever looked at an adult straight in the eye of his own volition. 

“Kids who can’t do that stuff get labelled as stupid. They have special classes and special teachers and no one wants to be their friend.”

”Ah. I see. We’re not talking about clothes at all, are we?”

He grabs the handkerchief from Bruce and turns his back on the man. He rubs his cheek with it idly. It’s soft. And smells like Bruce. And he’s not giving it back. He puts it in his pocket and turns back around. 

“Mine.” 

“Yours,” Bruce agrees, trying to hide a smile. 

“I’m not going to go to the prom. I’m not going to play on a team. No sleepovers. No birthday parties. You’re going to be stuck with me.”

He grabs Bruce’s hand and pulls it over to rest on his head. 

“Push down,” he instructs. 

Bruce does and he slowly relaxes until he’s sitting on the floor again. He might not deserve it, but he likes it. 

“Explain to me how a discussion about jeans got us here?” Bruce asks once he’s melted against the wall. 

“You buy to provide. You provide to keep. You keep me and then you’re stuck with me.”

”I’d be happy to keep you, Tim. If you’d let me.”

He puts his hand over his face to hide his tears. God, he wants that so much it hurts. 

“I’m not a good investment,” he argues, keeping his eyes down on the floor in an effort to keep his tears hidden. 

From Batman. Who’s only a foot away.

Very logical, Tim, he thinks to himself. 

“You’re also not a stock portfolio.”

”You might have to help me all my life.”

”Tim, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but I like helping other people. It’s kind of a theme.”

Bruce is smiling at him. 

Batman is smiling at him. 

“And if I screw up, Alfred will tell me. And Jay. And Dick. And hopefully you will too.”

They look at each other in silence for a long drawn out moment. Bruce’s eyes don’t hurt as much as everyone else’s. 

“May I hug you, Tim?”

He nods, tremulously.  

He sinks easily into Bruce’s arms.  

It’s safe here, he thinks. 

“I’ll never regret choosing you, Tim.”

Chapter Text

Tim’s skin is prickling by the time he slides into breakfast that morning.

Alfred had insisted on him taking a shower, and he HATES showers. His parents—his former parents—had only ever insisted on him bathing at least once a week, assuming there wasn’t some other reason for it. 

He hates being cold. And wet. And he HATES showers. He had cried the entire time, washing as fast as he dared. 

When he had gotten out, he had discovered that his comfy pajamas had been replaced with new clothes.

He also hates new clothes. 

The T-shirt wouldn’t be so bad, he supposes, if not for the way the front is covered in a large stiff graphic. And there’s a tag. THAT WON’T COME OUT. The khakis are elastic, but with a snap. He can’t work snaps.

He’s so frustrated by the morning by that point that he very nearly turns around and goes back to bed.

He wonders if his—if Jack and Janet are still home. Maybe he could climb through the window if they’re not. 

He rubs his face, his eyes still watery and hard to see through. 

He’s sweating when he slides into his seat; his hair stuck to his forehead, sweat beading on his back. His lower lips trembles. His khakis are zipped up, but not snapped. The tag in his shirt feels like a large hairy spider tickling up his back. 

His breath is already hitching when he looks down at his breakfast plate. Pancakes. And bacon. And fruit. And everything’s touching everything else. And that’s before the syrup is added. 

He looks up and sees that Alfred is heading toward him and Jason. God, Jason somehow just makes it all much worse. Sitting here in front of his hero, acting like the freak his father says he is. 

“Syrup, young masters?” Alfred asks, smiling at them.

Bruce isn’t there yet. Bruce said he’d meet Tim at breakfast and he’s not there.

He can’t help his reaction. He wants Bruce and he wants to run and he wants to go back to being forgotten, but he doesn’t really.  He just wants things to make sense again.

His fingers are twisted in his shirt, and his eyes wide and wet when he finally bursts into tears. 

“Bruce,” he finger spells as he slides under the table. 

“Master Tim?”

He screams in response, his insides already cringing at hurting Alfred’s feelings, but his body moving of its own volition. He scrubs his skin with his knuckles, leaving red lines in their wake. 

“I’ll grab Bruce, Alfie,” Jason pipes up somewhere nearby. 

He rips off his shirt in the meantime, throwing the offending article as far as he can, before doing the same with the khakis, kicking them free.  Alfred crouches nearby, looking vaguely distressed.  He can't handle the idea. 

So he runs.  

He runs down the hall, past Alfred, past someone else--it could be Bruce or Jack for all he can tell.  He hears his name.  He bypasses his room.  Books it for Bruce's.  Heads for the closet.  The big one.  With all the suits and clothes that smell like Bruce.  He runs in, and buries himself in a corner, behind a pile of boxes.  It's dark. He didn't bother turning on the light.  He can hear his name being called.  He grabs his hair and pulls and shrieks until his head hurts.  

He's such a fucking freak.  

Stupid! He slaps his arm.  Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!  

With each reiteration of the word in his head, he slaps himself again.  His arm is screaming.  His head is screaming.  His body. 

"Timmy?"  Bruce asks softly, standing near the doorway.  "I'm going to turn on the light, okay?  It has a dimmer setting.  I'll be leaving it on low.  I just--I need to be able to see you, please, sweetheart."

He sobs in response, wrapping his still aching arm around his legs and hurriedly trying to wipe his face.  He's such a fucking freak.

The light comes on, though it's not terrible.  Bruce heads straight for his corner, before stopping approximately an arm's length away.  He crouches down, and Tim can see his arm and shoulder and part of his neck.  

"Will you come out, please?  I--I need to see you, little one," Bruce asks, hands twitching as though he's keeping himself from reaching for Tim.

Tim scoots out a little bit.  

"Sorry," he signs.  

"For what, little one?" Bruce's blue eyes are crinkled like he's the one who's upset.

He shakes for a moment. 

"Being a freak."

Bruce's breath pushes out in a big whoosh.  

"Why do you think that?"

"I hate showers.  Hate tags.  Hate new things," he pauses to sob.  "You said you'd be at breakfast.  You weren't there.  And now Alfred and Jason know I'm a freak and they hate me."

"I know that's not true," Bruce answers softly.  "They were very worried about you.  And as for me, I had to take a phone call.  It was from my lawyers.  We're trying to make sure there's no way that your dad can't claim any control over you.  I asked Alfred to tell you I'd be delayed.  But I promise I was coming.  Jason found me in the hallway on the way to the dining room.  Please, Tim, will you come out so I can see you?"

Shame is rising in his chest.  Bruce is trying to help him, when all he should be doing is getting rid of him.  

"Why are you helping me?" His breath is still hitching, his limbs trembling as he starts to unwind from his hiding place.  

He's not an asset.

"Forgive me if I'm being too forward, Tim, but I've never found it hard to help people that I love," Bruce admits right as he stumbles out into the space between them.  

Bruce gathers him up in his arms and holds him close for one long drawn out minute.  He's coming down from his distress, the adrenaline rush beginning to fade and the shakes are kicking in.  He feels sick to his stomach.

"Here, let's go get you some water," Bruce says, standing up with Tim in his arms.

Tim shivers and puts his head down on Bruce's shoulder, eyes wide and unseeing as the man carries him down the hall. His arms are wrapped tightly around Bruce's neck, his legs clenched around his side.  His arm throbs; the skin bright red where he'd hit himself.  He doesn't feel any regret for it--only shame that someone might see it.  Bruce is so warm.  He's dressed for a day at home, t-shirt and sweats, and the material is easy to grip with his fingers.  

"Do you care if Jason and Alfred are in the dining room with us when we return?" 

He shrugs a shoulder, and turns and puts his face in Bruce's neck.  

Bruce takes them down the stairs and then back into the dining room, sitting down with Tim in his lap still at his spot at the head of the table.  

A glass of water is pushed at Tim's mouth and he drinks without looking, confident that Bruce will take care of it.  

"He's like a baby bird," Jason murmurs somewhere nearby.  

Bruce turns him over so that he's being cradled in the crook of his arm like a little baby.  Tim can't find it within himself to complain.  

"Want some bacon, baby bird?"  Jason asks, suddenly very close.  

"No syrup, right?" He signs slowly, distantly.  

He feels like he's underwater.  

He shivers, even with the warmth from Bruce's body, and suddenly there's a soft blanket covering him.  He pets it, and then rubs it on his face slowly.  

"Open your mouth, baby bird," Jason instructs, and a piece of bacon appears in front of Tim's face.

He eats it, and another one appears and so on.  He eats that and fruit and then pancakes with the tiniest bit of syrup, and it's good.  He eventually manages to open his eyes to find Jason standing in front of him, and Alfred to the side, having some kind of quiet conversation with Bruce.  

"Baby Bird, did something happen to your arm?" Jason asks, and he feels the room's attention zero back in on him.  

"I was bad," he signs, rubbing his cheek on Bruce's soft t-shirt, and feels the man's fingers stroking his hair.  

"What's that mean, sweetheart?"  Bruce rumbles under him.  

"I punished me.  I was bad," he flails for a moment, not quite certain how to explain.  

"Did you hit yourself, little one?" Bruce asks, his voice cracking.

He turns toward Bruce.  

"I was stupid about nothing.  Have to be punished for being stupid.  I'm better now?"

He doesn't know why Bruce pulls him in for another hug.  He's never been hugged so much in his life.  

"Are you going to get rid of me?" He finally asks, not willing to let it fester inside his stomach any longer.  

"NO!" Jason shouts, making him jump.  

"Absolutely not," Bruce says in agreement, his blue eyes glittering with--with tears?

He looks up and pulls the blanket up to wipe at Bruce's eyes.  

"Thank you, baby boy," Bruce answers, his voice sounding strangely thick.  

He kisses Tim on the forehead gently, and strokes his hair.  

And Tim is confused.

Chapter Text

That evening, after he’s put Tim to bed, he heads down to the cave for some much needed anger management. Once there, he proceeds to punch the hell out of a dummy. He imagines it’s Jack.

His anger is all encompassing. It’s past the point of words. Every time he stops to think about it, he thinks of Tim’s face, thinks of Tim’s poor arm, thinks of the bruise that’s likely to come later. 

That thought makes him punch harder until he stops being able to feel his hands. 

“Master Bruce,” are the two words that manage to cut through the haze. 

As always. 

“Fuck!” He screams as he turns away. 

He covers his face with his hands and shakes for a long moment. 

He can hear Alfred walking toward him. The hug doesn’t surprise him, and he hunches down to bury his face in Alfred’s shoulder. 

For several long moments they stay like that, Bruce breathing careful stuttering breaths into his father’s shoulder, as Alfred holds him and withstands the storm of emotions. 

It’s familiar. 

“I love him, Alfred,” he admits a short time later, his voice still rough with emotion.

He stands up, pulling away from Alfred’s steady hold with several careful fortifying breaths. 

“I know, lad. He’s very easy to love.”

He nods, a scowl creeping over his face. 

“Then why didn’t they love him too?” He asks, scrubbing his face hard. “Will you help me wrap my hands?”

”As if you need to ask, Master Bruce.”

—

Jason waits until he KNOWS Tim is asleep before heading down to the cave. 

He finds Bruce at the computer, his knuckles wrapped, and Alfred hovering nearby the Batmobile, feather duster in hand. 

“Alfie’s not really dusting the car, is he?” He asks in a loud whisper once he reaches Bruce’s side. 

“You can ask him, if you’re feeling particularly brave,” Bruce answers wryly. 

“No, no. He can do what he wants!”

”One would think you would know that by now, Master Jason,” is the measured response he gets back. 

“Ha,” is his sarcastic response. 

He turns back toward Bruce. 

“Please tell me I can punch Jack Drake,” he pleads, making Bruce turn and look at him. 

“I would hope that you’d give me first dibs, Jaylad,” Bruce answers, no trace of a smile anywhere on his face. 

“Does that mean we can?”

Bruce sighs and runs a hand through his hair.  

“Maybe. But I’d rather take him down via a way he’ll appreciate more.”

”Like through his pocketbook?” Jason smiles, all teeth. 

“Exactly.”

Jason wraps his arms around himself and winces. 

“Tim told me he’s had more hugs here than in his entire life before now.”

Bruce, who had turned back to the computer, freezes and then visibly starts to relax.

Jason wonders if he’s running through a meditation technique. He wonders if he should ask Bruce to teach him. 

“We’re going to keep Tim, right?” He asks, his voice cracking. “Is he going to be my brother?”

Damn you, puberty. 

“Yes. That is the plan,” Bruce says, shoulders tense. 

“What about Dickwing?”

”What about him?”

Jason chews on his lip a moment. 

“Maybe you should throw him a party. Like,” he stops and barks a laugh. “Like, surprise! It’s a boy!”

Bruce runs a hand down his face. 

“Dick . . . doesn’t want to talk to me right now.”

“Okay, apologies first and then tell him.”

”I don’t think it’s that simple.”

”Actually, no. I think it IS,” Jason scowls. “Both of you are acting like toddlers. Besides, if you love Dick like you say you love us, then doesn’t he deserve to hear from you?”

--

He tries.  He does.  

He calls Dick later that night, after Jason has turned in for the night.  He calls, but Dick doesn't pick up.  He calls again at dawn.  No answer.  He knows that Dick is on Earth--he checked.  The third time he calls, he opts to leave a voicemail.

'Hey chum, I really need to talk to you.  Something important has happened here at the manor.  And um . . . ah.  I wanted to say that I'm sorry.  For the things I said to you.'

It's a terrible message.  He wants to tell Dick in person, but that's going to require him finding the lad.  The boy.  The man. 

He shakes his head and goes back to his reports.

The next day, after sleeping for exactly 2 hours and some change, he gets awoken by a phone call.  He becomes a lot more awake after learning what they're calling about.

"It's gone through?  Tim's mine?" He asks, sitting straight up in bed.  "Thank you for calling.  No, we're not done, but I'll call you back when there's more evidence.  Thank you again."

He puts the phone down and then rubs his face rapidly.  

"Master Bruce?  You're up early," Alfred's voice breaks his concentration.

"My lawyer called."

"Oh?" Alfred asks, as if he's not invested in the answer as much as Bruce.

"The adoption went through. Tim is ours."

A real smile briefly slips across Alfred's face.

"I tried to call Dick, Alfred," Bruce admits, eyes down.

"Tried?"

"He wouldn't pick up."

Alfred just looks at him.

"I'll keep trying."

"See that you do, sir," Alfred says, stepping up next to him.  "One must put in the effort for those whom we love."

Bruce nods, throat tight.  

"Will you be going back to sleep, Master Bruce?"

"I wish I could."

--

"I think your room could use a bit of entertainment," Bruce says to Tim after dropping Jason off at school.  

Tim cocks his head to the side in a questioning manner.

"What do you want to make it more your space?"

"Can I have a computer?"

"Is that all you want?" Bruce asks, keeping half an eye on the road and the other on the small boy sitting beside him.

"I don't know."

"We'll see if anything else looks good," he decides, putting his arm around Tim.

They end up buying a laptop, but also headphones and speakers.  And then Bruce steers them to the toy section and gets to watch as Tim stares in awe at all of it.

"I'm too old for this stuff," Tim tries to argue, his eyes trailing over everything.

"You're really not. Most of the recommended age ranges include you.  Look at the Lego sets.  I know how intelligent you are," Bruce says, with a gentle smile.  "You could probably handle the 9+ sets.  Look around.  We don't really have a limit."

It's not too long before Tim is running up and down the aisles, pulling Bruce to and fro as things pique his attention.

"B! B! B!" Tim waves, grabbing Bruce's hand.  "Look, they have STAR WARS Lego sets!  Can we get the big one?  Will you help me? What about Jason? Would he help?"

Tim is jumping up and down, flapping his fingers, and a few times Bruce catches a few other shoppers eyeing them.  He ignores them easily. 

"Look!  Puzzles!"

They spend an inordinate amount of time in the puzzle section.  Tim is fascinated by all kinds of puzzles, especially the Perplexus ball mazes.  They add two different ones to their shopping cart, as well as a stack of puzzles both 2D and 3D.

"Look! A Hogwarts' 3D puzzle!"

They walk onto the section where the plushies are and he watches Tim hesitantly touch several of them, before walking on with grabbing any.  His face is set in a sad little moue that Bruce can't help but want to fix.

"I'm too old for these."

"Baby, you're not.  Jason has several stuffed animals, and Dick has even more."

"Really?" Tim perks up, looking at the display with new eyes.

"Really."

In the end, they only get one, but that's because Tim has found a massive squishmallow dragon; one with the teeny tiny wings that look ridiculous and make them both laugh.  

Tim insists on carrying it out of the store, while he handles the rest of the bags.  

It is a good day. 

Chapter Text

He doesn’t know how he feels about Alfred. The man is everywhere and nowhere, and clearly in charge.

He’s happy that Bruce has gotten through to Alfred enough that he doesn’t have to bathe as often, and, at least for the immediate future, can keep to taking baths instead. 

But it’s hard to deny that ALFRED was the one that had to be convinced.

Then again, Alfred is also the one that manages to produce a plate for Tim at lunch with raised segments splitting foods off from one another . . .

He lurks in the kitchen for a while when Bruce is off doing Bat business. He’s probably in the cave, but not only has Tim not been invited down there, he doesn’t even know where the entrance is!!

So he lurks in the kitchen in hopes that he’ll find Bruce or somehow magically get up the guts to ask Alfred.

“Can I help you with something, Master Timothy?” Alfred’s voice cuts abruptly into his brooding. 

“Tim, please,” he clarifies, not wanting to hear the name his father usually screamed at him. 

“Master Tim?” Alfred corrects himself without missing a beat, washcloth in hand. 

“B?” He signs. 

“He is below, at the moment. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

He slumps and shakes his head in the negative. So much for asking Alfred. 

And yet . . .

”If you’re looking for a way in, might I suggest starting with Master Bruce’s study?”

He stares at Alfred and the man stares back with half of a smile. 

Maybe Alfred is pretty cool after all . . .

— 

Bruce comes out of the Batcave later that day to see Jason and Tim both asleep on the sofa in his study.  He quickly pulls his phone out and takes a picture, the flash coming on before he can remember to turn it off.

Predictably, it wakes them both up.  

"B?" Tim signs, rubbing his eyes.

He shoves the phone away, and crouches beside them.  

"I don't see why Baby Bird can't just go into the Batcave like everyone else," Jason grumbles, sitting up with his own jaw cracking yawn.

"Later," he promises, pulling Tim to his feet and offering his hand to Jason.

"Yeah, okay," Jason mutters, latching on and letting himself be pulled up.

"I have good news in the meantime.  At least," he pauses.  "At least, I think it's good news."

"Not ominous at all," Jason whispers to Tim.  

"News?" Tim prompts, latching an arm onto Bruce's forearm.  

He might as well spill.  

God knows the newspapers soon will.

He debates about whether to crouch down, or just pull Tim up on his hip.  He chooses the latter, swinging the small boy up.  He still doesn't like how light or small Tim is, but he knows that after all they went through with Jay, they are likely the best ones to combat the situation.

"I heard from my lawyers early this morning."

Early enough.

Jason narrows his eyes at him, and puts his hands on his hips with a scowl.  

Tim looks at Jason and then at him with wide eyes, his breath hitching as he visibly reacts to the emotions suddenly bubbling up between them.

"I have custody of you.  You're mine--ours," he amends, looking down at Jason, mentally willing him to approve too.

It occurs to him that he probably should have talked to Jason separately.

Tim goes still, eyes going comically wide as he processes Bruce's words.

"I can stay here?  Forever?"

"Yes, sweetheart.  You're ours.  Mine and Jay's and Alfred's."

"And Dick's?" Jason asks, sounding breathless.

"And Dick's," he nods.  "I've tried to call him multiple times today and yesterday, but we haven't yet connected."

Jason opens his mouth to say something, but apparently thinks better of it with Tim in the room.  Tim, whose breath is still hitching, whose hands are clenched in Bruce's shirt tightly enough to wrinkle Alfred's ironing job.

"Are you okay, little one?" He asks softly, petting the back of Tim's head.  

Tim nods. 

"It's a lot."

"It is," he agrees.  "But we'll help you get through it.  I know it's really soon, but I didn't want--I mean, I needed to know that I could keep you safe.  We love you a lot, and don't want to lose you."

Jason's smiling at him as he manages to eke out the words.

And Tim hides his face in Bruce's shoulder and cries.

He holds him, petting his hair, murmuring encouragements into his ears as he sways back and forth the way that Batman sometimes does when presented with small upset children.  Jason's smile just gets bigger, and if he had time to ask, he'd demand why, but Tim is priority at the moment.  

Tim finally calms, and looks up at him, eyes red and wet.  

"Here," he says, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping Tim's face with it.  

Tim's fingers flutter around the edges of the handkerchief, and he obediently hands it over with a sigh that he tempers with a smile.

"Want to find out what Alfred's making for dinner?"  He asks, smiling at his boys.  

His boys.

They both nod.  

--

Tim is still in Bruce's arms when they begin to hear a commotion coming from the direction of the kitchen.  It sounds like someone's yelling.  Bruce and Jason side eye one another the same way they do in costume, and Tim wraps his arms around Bruce's neck more securely.  

They pick up the pace and soon, Bruce is striding into the kitchen, Jay slightly in his shadow. 

"Oh, look who it is," a man says nastily.  "The father of the year!" 

"Dick."

Tim feels Bruce's minute flinch at the words being spewed their direction.  He doesn't like it.

"One would think that you'd learn from your mistake last time, but no," Dick spits, slamming a newspaper down on the counter.  

"I tried to call you," Bruce answers, reaching for Dick with the hand not currently wrapped around Tim's shoulders.

His hand is slapped away, and Tim feels another small flinch from Bruce.

"I know better than to answer phone calls from you," Dick snarls.  "You already replaced me once.  Seems like you got another just to rub it in? You didn't even adopt Jay that fast!"

"Dick, please.  There were extenuating circumstances."

Tim is shaking.  It's much too loud.  And sad.  And tense.  

Dick is yelling now, Bruce's words being overshadowed by the anger and vitriol coming their way.  A few times Jason and Alfred try to intervene, but those moments are spoken over.  He's just barely holding it together when Dick steps up in Bruce's face and slaps him across the face.

And that's when Tim starts screaming.

"The hell is wrong with him?" Dick yells.

"RICHARD JOHN GRAYSON.  I am ashamed of you.  You will not come into this house only to scream and attack its inhabitants," Alfred hissed, his quiet voice much more frightening that anyone else's yells.  "I have raised you better.  Bruce raised you better."

"You might have, but Bruce didn't do shit.  Just like always," Dick growled, turning on his foot and stalking toward the exit.

--

It takes most of the next hour to get Tim calm.  It doesn't help that Bruce himself is riled up as well.  He's at fault, but he's not the only one responsible for this situation.  He and Dick have both said terrible things to one another, but he tried to start the reconciliation process, only to have his efforts ignored.  Now, if only he could put Tim down, he'd have a chance to go and try again with his oldest.  But Tim refuses to let go of him, literally climbing his arm every time he thinks he's successfully gotten the boy to relax.

--

"This is bull, Alfie," Jason grumbles, hidden in the kitchen beside Alfred. "They're both being twats."

"Language, Master Jason," Alfred soothed, beating the bread dough under his fingertips with more force than was strictly needed.

"Did'ja know that Dick told me he wasn't ever adopted?" Jason stated, suddenly pushing off from the cabinet behind him to pace the floor.  "Why doesn't Bruce fix that?"

"I don't think that Master Bruce understands that to be the problem, lad," Alfred answers calmly.

"Well, then you should tell him," Jason says.  

It makes sense to him.

"If you think that I have not already tried to, then you are even more confused than Master Bruce," is Alfred's dry answer. 

"Huh," Jason grunts, an idea beginning to form in his head.

Chapter Text

Tim wakes up to find himself wrapped around Bruce's arm, in what looks to be Bruce's bed.  He sits up a bit, pulling his arm away from Bruce and flexing his fingers several times in an effort to get the blood flowing again.  The man is ginormous.  The voice in his head that sounds like his mother argues that he shouldn't use that word, because it isn't real, but he chooses not to listen to it.  He hopes (he hopes) that her voice will fade in time.  He'd much rather hear Bruce's head in his mind.  Or Alfred.  Or Jason.  

He flinches as a cramp works its way through his abdomen.  It's a deep one, and it makes his insides ache.  Another cramp and he twists in discomfort.  

Well, he thinks with a scowl, at least we know why I woke up.  

He slides around the giant form of a sleeping Batman and scurries to the bathroom, his arms held protectively over his stomach.  He's already mentally cataloguing what could have set this off. 

Dick and Bruce.  Screaming.  

His stomach gurgles dangerously again. 

Dad.  Angry dad.  Screaming.  Pushing me.  

Not knowing where I'd end up.  Not knowing how.  

He shuts the door and turns on one of the bathroom lights-the one that lights ups the back corner of Bruce's frankly ridiculously sized bathroom.  Sliding across the tile in socked feet, he yanks down Jason's old sweatpants.  At one point, the older boy had cut them off at the knee to turn them into shorts, but they were much too small for him now.  They fit Tim only because the drawstring was intact.  They came down below his knees, but they weren't quite long enough to be considered pants. 

He also had one of Dick's old long sleeved thermals on top, under a super soft shirt of Bruce's hanging off his shoulder that claimed it was from a W.E. charity event fifteen years ago.  Tim had tied it off on one side in a large floppy knot, to keep it from sliding off his shoulders.  It had peeling red letters across the back, and had been washed so many times it was beginning to get a bit threadbare in places.  Tim loved it.  

He hurriedly pulls it up out of the way of the toilet and plunks himself on, his big toes barely brushing the floor.  He curls up and tries to breathe through the pain of his insides revolting, sweat droplets forming on his brow and at the small of his back.

I ate cheese.  I ate cheese when my stomach was already upset, when everything was already uncertain, and that's probably what did it.  

A large wet fart bubbles out of him, causing him to flinch and stare at the door on the other side of the room.  Usually he goes to the other side of the manor, but the Wayne manor is SO MUCH BIGGER than the Drake one, and he barely knows the bathrooms on this hallway, let alone any nearby. 

He tucks his chin to his chest, pulling his shoulders in as he focuses on sending all of the badness in his intestines down and out of his body.  He strains and squeezes and huffs, his body letting out a groan that he's not entirely aware of making as his bowels start to unload into the toilet below him.  It smells bad, and he debates whether he should risk flushing the toilet, fearful that he will wake Bruce.   

He flinches and sweats and bites his lip to keep another moan quiet, not noticing that the door is beginning to open, not noticing the figure in the doorway.  

He wheezes and clenches his fingers down on his arms as pain rips through his stomach, his body fighting against itself to keep flushing his bowels, keep draining away the bad, the hurt, the fear . . .

"Sweetheart?" Bruce asks, making him jump.

"Stop!" He signs weakly, his hand wavering in the air.  

He slumps again as another wave of pain ripples through him, fingernails pushing into his thighs as he fights to push through it.  

Another rush of liquid expels out of him and he whimpers.  In a flash, it seems, Bruce is beside him, holding his hand, petting his sweaty hair.  

He pulls his hand free to sign.

"No!  I'm gross.  You should . . ." he grits his teeth and bears down against piercing pain in his intestines.

"What's wrong, little one?" Bruce asks, voice soft, blue eyes full of concern.

"I have IBS.  Big emotions set me off sometimes.  Little ones too."

He whimpers again as fire licks through him, heavy objects straining to push through a hole too small.

"And this happens?  How often?"  Bruce has pulled a chair from the other side of the room, pulled it over to sit by him. 

Who has chairs in their bathroom?!  Is his briefly hysterical thought.  

"If I get upset.  Or I eat something that doesn't like me.  Or if other people get upset.  I don't know," he shakes his head, tears glimmering in his eyes.  "It hurts really bad."

A whine makes it out of his throat and he flushes in shame.  

"Here, lean up," Bruce instructs, reaching behind him.  

The toilet flushes with a roar, and the smell eases a bit.

"Is there anything I can do?  Did your parents do anything to help?"

"Heat.  And baths.  And sometimes that pink stuff."

"Pepto-bismol?"

He nods, slumping back a bit as the cramps ease up.  

"They used to get mad when I got sick at galas.  The fancy food makes my stomach hurt.  Too much fat and sugar."

Bruce frowns, but doesn't say anything.  Tim doesn't know what he's thinking; doesn't know if Bruce agrees with them or wonders how he got stuck with this situation or what.  

"Is it over?  Can you get up?"  Bruce says, breaking into his thoughts.

He shakes his head in the negative.  

"It cycles."

It's hard to sign when his hands are shaking so much.

Opposite him, Bruce stands up and pulls a washcloth out of a nearby drawer.  He turns on the hot water in the sink, and while it's warming up, he looks back at Tim again.

"What do you mean?"

"It's mostly just a theory, really.  But it comes back again in slightly longer intervals each time.  Like, it'll start up again in a minute or two.  But after that, it'll be as long as five min.  Then ten.  Sometimes more."

"For how long?"  

Bruce is running the washcloth under the water, and Tim's eyes are drawn to his hands, even as the telltale prickle of discomfort starts twinging in his bowels again.  

And oh, Bruce is still waiting on a response.

"Until I pass out, usually."

"What do you mean?"  Bruce's face is scrunched as he wrings out the washcloth and starts walking toward him.  

"Sometimes I sleep on the toilet, or on the floor.  Sometimes in the tub.  I can't--my body keeps going until it's done.  Sleep usually stops it.  After a while."

Bruce is wiping him down with the washcloth, wiping the sweat away from under his shirt, and on the back of his neck, and the tops of his legs.  It's warm.  And steady.  And Tim is crying again.  Bruce puts his big hand on Tim's face, petting his hair and stroking his back, even as his bowels start evacuating themselves again.  He's shuddering and shaking as Bruce pulls his chair right up next to him, and pulls Tim's head over to rest on Bruce's arm.  

"You shouldn't.  It's gross.  I'm gross."

Bruce shakes his head in disagreement, still petting his hair and holding his hand, murmuring encouragements and instructions on how to breathe through the pain.

It helps.  It's mortifying and he's horrified, and he can't believe that Bruce is seeing him like this, but . . . it helps.  

The intervals between get longer and longer just as he had explained.  When his stomach isn't rebelling, Bruce plies him with cups of lukewarm water, medicine for his sore bottom, and an offer of medicine for his stomach.  He refuses the latter.  Pepto-bismol won't help this early on, and he can't take some of the stronger stuff at all.

"My dad made me take Imodium AD on a trip once, and I didn't poop again for another month.  Mom had to take me to the doctor," he signs, inwardly shuddering.  

He doesn't ever want to be that constipated ever again.  

Later, when he's drifting off into a half-sleep on Bruce's shoulder, his rectum still spasming--despite the lack of anything coming out--Bruce makes the suggestion for a bath.  His bottom hurts so bad when the air hits it.  He's not certain if he can handle a bath.  But he knows he definitely can't handle clothes.  

"Too tired," he signs.  

"I could help," Bruce offers softly, big arm wrapped around Tim's much smaller shoulders.

Tim's shirt is soaked through with sweat, his pants long since discarded on the floor, kicked away in a fit of despair.  He trusts Bruce, he trusts Batman so much, but he's never had anyone help him with a bath.  Not since he was little.  Really little.  

Bruce eases Tim upright, and he groans in pain.  His skin is stuck to the seat, his back aches, his stomach simmers in warning.  Despite his half nakedness, Bruce picks him up onto a hip, and then strides to the wide tub on the farther corner of the room.  It has steps up and steps inside.  Bruce fiddles with the taps for a minute and then steps back.  

Tim rests his sweaty head on Bruce's shoulder and his breath hitches.  He's so tired, but he hurts too much to sleep like this.  Maybe.  Maybe he could trust Bruce with this.  He knuckles away a few insistent tears, frustrated at his inability to control his body.  

"Arms up," Bruce instructs, his voice coming from a million miles away.

He obeys automatically.  His two shirts are pulled up and off and dropped onto the floor somewhere.  He finds that he's too tired to care.  He hurts too much to care.  Bruce removes his underwear the rest of the way as well, and then he's lifted up and over the edge of the bathtub, before being settled incredibly gently into the water.  

He can't help it.  He cries out before Bruce lets go, already feeling the pain on his raw hole.  He's gratified when Bruce pulls him back up.  

"Slow," he signs, not even certain that Bruce is looking at him. 

His eyes are clenched shut; his face a rictus of half felt and half feared pain.  

But Bruce is.  

"Slow," Bruce repeats, chest rumbling against his head.  

He nods, not bothering to wipe away the additional tears leaking down his unusually pale cheeks.  

Bruce puts him down into the water again slowly, not moving further until Tim nods his head to let him be set on the floor of the tub.  The water is up to his ribs now, and its heat makes him shiver.  He's so cold.  And raw.  

"Stay," he signs pleadingly, repeating the one word over and over until Bruce grasps his hands.  

"I'm not going anywhere, Tim.  I promise.  I'm staying right here."

Chapter Text

Dick wakes up slowly.  His arms hurt.  He must have done something--he doesn't remember.  His legs hurt too.  What happened last night?

It's the not remembering that bothers him the most.  He shakes himself, trying to get his body to wake up, but freezes at the sound of chain rattling.

What the hell?

"Oh, hey.  You're waking up.  Good.  Thought I might have overdone it a bit."

Jason's voice.  Why?

He groans a bit as he forces his eyes to open.  The light pierces his eyeballs, making his head ache fiercely.  

He's in a warehouse.  It's dark everywhere except the circle of light that he's in.  And he's bound.  To a chair. 

The hell.

"Where?"  He bites out, trying to kick out and failing.  

"Hi, Dickface," Jason says, stepping closer.  

Jason is glaring at him and he can't help but glare back.

"What the hell, kid.  What's this even for?"  

"You hurt our baby brother," Jason hisses, leaning down to stare at him in the eyes.

The hell.  

"We don't have a baby brother.  How did you even get me here?"  

He's twisting fruitlessly in his seat.  He's in his street clothes still.  Jason must have grabbed him sometime after work.  Or at home.  Or on the walk home.  He doesn't remember much of anything after clocking out.

Jason waves a dismissive hand.  

"I brought you here for a reason, Dickface.  And you need to listen to me."

Dick stops his twisting and looks back at Jason with an angry expression.  

"What.  Do.  You.  Want." He grits out between clenched teeth.  

He's not in the mood.  Really.  The lockpicks he keeps in his sleeves are gone.  As are the ones behind his belt.  The chains are tight enough that he's beginning to worry about his circulation.  He doesn't understand the game that the other boy is playing.  And it rankles that someone so much younger and less experienced than him was able to get the drop on him so thoroughly.

Unless he's not alone.

The thought sends a cold chill up his spine. 

"Timothy Drake is our new brother."

"Uh huh," is his disbelieving response.  

Is there someone else that Jason is still close with from his "old" friends?

"Listen to me, Dick.  You terrorized a little kid with autism.  Are you hearing me?"

Maybe someone else is using Jason to get to me.  But I'm not important enough for that.  Maybe they're trying to get to--.

His train of thought is cut off suddenly.

"Agh!  He's not even listening to me!" Jason exclaims, whirling away and looking into the shadows on Dick's left.

His focus narrows at the sound of footsteps coming closer.

"Alfred?!"

--

Tim had, as promised, passed out after the bath.  Bruce had wrangled him into an old shirt of his from a Gotham "Fun Run" some thirteen years prior, and a pair of Tim's shorts, and then carried him--gently--back to bed.  Tim was asleep on his chest now, face still pinched with pain even in sleep.  Bruce, unable to do much of anything else, had started looking up gastroenterologists on his laptop.  He'd quickly discovered that there was such a thing as a pediatric gastroenterologist, and that two of the leading doctors in that field were based in Gotham.  He'd sent an email to his assistant, loathe to attempt to phone anyone at 3:17 in the morning, richest man in Gotham or not.

And then all that he could do was wait--wait and plan his next steps for Tim.  And Jack Drake.   The case against the vile man was still coming together.  The judge was just another cog in an already unstable pile.  Jack had also bribed the board members, and had officially disinherited Tim.  Tim was no longer legally a Drake.  He hadn't yet told the boy.  He wasn't even certain that Tim would be upset about it, but he couldn't yet stand to risk it.  Tim was still reeling from being abandoned; the events of the evening were simply further proof.  

On his chest, Tim shivers and curls up tighter, gripping Bruce's pajamas again as a new set of cramps ripple through his stomach.  Bruce pulls the covers up higher around his thin shoulders, ignoring his own discomfort in the process.  He rubs Tim's back, his heart aching for the small boy.  He wishes, not for the first time, that he could bear this pain for Tim.

--

"What's going on, Alfred?" Dick demands, leaning forward as far as his chains would allow.

Alfred pulls up a chair in front of him, and indicates with a hand that Jason should do the same.  The other boy does, but grudgingly, shooting glares at Dick the entire time.

"You will listen to me, then, I think, Master Richard."

Dick winces.  Alfred only calls him that when he wants to make a point.

"Both Master Jason and I have been much put out over your treatment of Master Tim."

"That was the kid with Bruce?  The weird one that wouldn't stop screaming?"

Jason hisses wordlessly from his right, causing Alfred to raise an eyebrow back.

"The 'weird one,' as you so distastefully put it, is Master Tim.  He has autism, as you would have learned had you bothered listening to Master Jason.  He does not speak.  Are you following me?"

He blinks.  And blinks again as his headache threatens to take over his vision.  And then again, breathing deeply as he does.

"Yeah," he manages hoarsely.

"He was abandoned at the Wayne Manor entrance not ten days ago.  His family has disowned him."

"And they told Bruce he could use him in his bed if he wanted," Jason mutters darkly.

"I do not believe that Master Bruce actually let you read that letter," Alfred counters, taking his eyes off of Dick.

"Oops?"

"As I was saying, then, Master Richard."

He winces again. He can't help it.  It's ingrained.

"You have hurt a small child who has already been hurt greatly.  What do you have to say for yourself?"

Chapter Text

In the morning, Bruce calls Leslie and asks her advice about how to best help Tim.

"He may need to be tested for food allergies, Bruce," was her calm response.  "I can put him through a CT scan to make sure his insides are how they should be, and we can run blood tests to make sure, but you might also just need to talk to an allergist."

"Couldn't we run those tests at home?" Bruce asks, fretting. 

He's calling her from his office.  Tim is still asleep on the sofa across from his desk, his small body dwarfed by the large dragon stuffie he's clinging to.

"You could, but you'll still need help interpreting the answers.  And before you ask, no, I can't run them.  It's quite outside my realm of expertise."

Bruce sighs.  He had been about to ask that question.

"Have you asked him if this is normal for him?"

He fights the urge to sigh again.

"It is.  He says that strong emotions set him off, but also that it could be what he ate.  He has theories."

"I don't doubt that.  Listen, I have to go.  Several gang members just came in carrying a boy with them.  He's bleeding all over my floor."

Bruce is left with only the dial tone for company.

--

Breakfast is strange.  Tim is curled up on him now, instead of the stuffie, his little face scrunched in displeasure as he and Alfred take turns trying to get him to eat something.  Alfred finally cajoles him into drinking a little pedialyte, but that's the extent of their success.  In the meantime, Jason and Alfred keep sharing conspiratorial glances that Bruce is purposely ignoring.  He has a feeling that it will work itself out without his intervention, and he's tempted to say something to that effect when suddenly his cell phone buzzes.

It's a text from Superman.  

'don't forget about the meeting today'

Internally, Bruce groans.  The meeting is with the Justice League, and it's to discuss their annual budget requirements.

'Can't go', he sends.

He isn't surprised when his phone rings a minute later.

"Superman," he growls out, fully in Batman timbre.  

Oddly enough, he feels Tim relax a bit in response.  It's something to explore more fully at a later date.

"What do you mean you can't attend today?  It was your idea," Clark's voice is accusatory.  

"I've got a kid home sick today," he says, glancing down at Tim with an apologetic smile.

"Uh huh," Clark sounds unimpressed.  "I'm sure Robin won't mind being alone with Agent A for a while."

"No. Hn," He grunts.  "He's not the one I'm talking about."

"Nightwing?"

"No."

"You really got another one?  I thought that was just tabloid fodder." 

"Not this time."

Silence. 

Alfred murmurs to Jason that they need to leave for school.  Jason waves at them and Tim waves back.  Bruce smiles briefly at them before focusing back in on Clark.

"You can't miss this meeting," Clark says.  "Diana and Arthur are already here, and I really don't feel like trying to explain to Arthur why the JL's financial backer has decided he doesn't have to show."

"Superman--," he starts to say.

"Batman, I'll see you in an hour," Clark says with forced cheerfulness, his tone final as he hangs up.

Twice in one day.  It feels like it's starting to become a thing.

Bruce swears softly before stuffing a piece of toast in his mouth, and standing up.  

"B?" Tim signs out of the corner of his eye.

"We're going to the cave," he decides.

In his arms, Tim perks up a bit.

--

Tim looks at the clock in Bruce's office with more than a little annoyance.  If he'd known before now that this was the entrance to the Batcave, he knows that he would have been able to figure it out. He can't believe how close he'd been to being in the cave. His grumpiness wanes as Bruce changes the time on the clock face and a door slides open.  Cool darkness greets them, and Bruce stalks forward into the space without a pause, his arm tightening around him a bit.  Tim's eyes widen as they make their way down, his fingers letting go of the man's shirt to flail in excitement at the sights in front of him.  The giant animatronic t-rex takes up most of his vision at first, followed by the computer, and the exercise mats and the car and everything else.  

"Did I die?" he signs absentmindedly, his eyes everywhere as Bruce walked them to the changing rooms.

"I would hope not," Bruce answers, putting him down gently on a countertop as he starts stripping down, his motions smooth and efficient.

Tim watches as Bruce turns physically into Batman, the only thing separating them being the cowl that's still down.  In turn, Tim feels a bit underdressed, wearing Dick's old overalls under Jason's old Wonder Woman hoodie.  His feet are covered in two layers of mismatched socks.  When Bruce turns to look at him, Tim responds by pointing at his own toes and wiggling them a bit.

Bruce smiles at him in response.

"I have an idea about that, actually," Bruce says, turning to a nearby locker and digging through it for a moment before making a pleased sound.

Tim leans forward a bit and his mouth falls open as Bruce turns around, a pair of black and yellow Batman themed rubber rainboots in hand.

He can't help but giggle at the sight; the sound falling out of his mouth without warning.

"I'm guessing you approve?" Bruce asks, stepping forward and presenting them with a flourish.

"Will they fit?  Where did they come from?" 

"I think they should.  Let's try them on.  As for where they came from, well, let's just say that Jason's sense of humor has always been a bit questionable."

Luckily, they really do fit his feet, if just a bit big.  They are completely unlike anything else that he's ever worn, anything else that he's ever been allowed to wear, and for a moment he mourns the moments that he's lost before coming to live here.  

"All right, sweetheart?" Bruce asks, crouching down in front of him.

He knuckles away his tears and nods rapidly.

"Happy," he signs simply.

Bruce looks at him for a moment before nodding and pulling his cowl up.  Then he pulls something else from his belt and presents it to Tim.  

"It's one of Jason's first domino masks.  It should be about the right size."

"For me?"

"Uh huh."

"What are we doing?"

Bruce--now Batman--looks at him with a slight smile and pulls out the glue for the mask.  

"We?  We are going to the meeting."

"In the Watchtower!?" He guesses, flapping his hands slightly in excitement.

"Smart boy," Batman praises.  "Ready?" 

He nods and can't help but hold his breath as Batman fits the mask onto his face.  

A childlike squeal bursts out of his throat at the action and he flaps his fingers excitedly, forgetting to be embarrassed.

"Sorry," he manages a moment later as Batman picks him up again.

"For what?"  

"Being childish.  Not supposed to flap."

"I don't know if it's escaped your notice, Tim, but you are a child," is Batman's wry answer.  

Tim buries his burning face in his hands, forgetting about the mask that's there.  

"Sweetheart," Batman stops outside the zeta tube entrance.  "You can flap as much as you want.  I promise.  I won't ever tell you to stop, unless you're in danger of some kind."

Chapter Text

The Zeta tube makes Tim's already unhappy stomach even grumpier.  He doesn't throw up, but it's a near thing.  Batman carries him into a dark corner and makes him practice his breathing until the corridor stops swimming around them, and only when Tim has looked up and given him the okay, does the man agree to move down the hallway.  He doesn't let Tim walk, and Tim doesn't argue about it.  The Watchtower is amazing and a bit terrifying too, considering they're actually in space.  They don't interact with anyone for several minutes, and Tim doesn't know if that's because Batman has chosen an out of the way route, or if it's just a happy accident.  He decides not to ask.  

He shivers and buries his head in Batman's neck when he hears footsteps at the other end of the hallway.

"Hey, Bats!" 

It's The Flash.

"Who's this little guy?" Wally asks.

The man is vibrating beside them, smiling brightly at him, and Tim feels an overwhelming surge of shyness come over him in the face of such outgoing cheer.

"This is my youngest," Batman answers.  

Tim manages to keep his squeal to himself, if just barely.

"What's he doing up here?  He's only, what, six?"  

That makes him squawk and he picks his head up.  

"Eight!" He signs with a glare.

"What'd he say?" 

"He's eight," Batman translates.  "And he's here because he's sick, and Superman decided to be an ass about it."

Both Tim and Wally stare at Batman in surprise.  

"Ooh, this is going to be a fun morning.  I can already tell," Wally laughs. "Never a good idea to piss off the Bats."

"Indeed."

--

Batman decides to make a detour past his room to pick up a blanket for Tim, letting Wally run off to wherever he'd been going originally.  

Tim, on the other hand, spends most of the walk switching off between having his face buried in Batman's neck and looking up and staring in amazement at the sights around them.

The only blanket small enough to lug around with them happens to be a gag gift from Diana, one featuring cartoon versions of Batman and Superman with their arms slung around each others shoulders.  He almost doesn't bring it, but it's very soft and makes Tim squeal happily, so he chooses not to be embarrassed and brings it along anyway.  

Now, with a cocooned Tim in his arms, they enter the meeting.

Abruptly, the room quiets and a sea of eyes fall upon them.  Tim already has his face buried in Batman's neck, but the added weight of uncomfortable silence makes him whimper softly and curl up into a smaller space against him.

"Batman," Superman starts to say.

"Who is this sweet little person!?" Diana exclaims, rushing to their side.

And the room's silence is further broken by Wally exclaiming loudly that it's Batman's sick child. This prompts a glare from Superman that either Wally is impervious to or simply oblivious.

Batman chooses to address the room as a whole instead of wasting his time on each individual.

"I told Superman that I had a child home sick today.  He told me to come anyway, and hung up on me before I could retort," Batman said with a growl. 

"Batman has a kid?" 

"Batman's a dad?!" 

He doesn't look around to see who's talking.  He has a good enough guess.

"You could have left him with Agent A," Superman loudly proclaims, his cheeks pinking a bit under the room's scrutiny.

"I could not have.  Agent A was busy with my middle son," he clarifies.

He might be enjoying this more than he should.

"How many kids have you got, anyway, eh Bats?" Hal asks, head resting in his palm, swinging around in his chair to look them over.

"I don't see as to why that's pertinent information, but I have three sons."

Someone coos and he rolls his eyes behind his mask.

Tim uncurls a bit and manages a quick look around before dropping his head back onto Batman's shoulder.  

"Now, are you going to keep gawking, or can we get on with it?"

"Surely you don't want to have your son here for the meeting, Batman," Diana asks, reaching her hand out toward them both.

"Apparently what I want is irrelevant," Batman growls.

He moves into a chair opposite the door and sits down, pulling the blanket up around Tim in the process.  Soon, all that can be seen of Tim is his boots and his little head, his bright eyes hidden by Jason's old domino mask.

"Awww.  He's even wearing a little mask!" Someone else says.

He glares in the direction of the voice and is gratified to hear someone make a choking noise.

Tim taps him on the chest and he looks down.

"You're like Darth Vader," Tim tells him. 

Batman doesn't bother to censor himself, and laughs aloud at Tim's observation.  It stops the room in its tracks, derailing all of the conversations around them.

"If your son is sick," Aquaman glowers, "Then you should take him home and let him be sick there."

"Thank you, Arthur.  That had been the plan until Superman told me it wasn't a viable option."

The room's attention turns onto Superman, his cheeks pinking under the scrutiny.

"Come on, B.  That's hardly fair.  You would use any excuse to get out of a meeting.  How was I to know that you were serious this time?" Superman asks.

"You could have waited for my explanation," Batman growls out.

"Boys," Diana interjects.  "What's done is done.  We should make the best of it," she says, her eyes cutting back and forth between them.

--

Tim is terribly, horribly, irrevocably bored when someone finally calls for a break two hours later.  Who knew that the business of superheroes could be so incredibly dull?  

"I think I'm hungry," Tim says when Batman's attention is fully back on him.

He's not sure he is, but any break in the monotony is good.

"Maybe you should take him home," Constantine says, strolling up beside them.

Batman grunts and then turns to look at the man more closely.

"Why do you say that?"

"Your baby bird says he's hungry," Constantine says, thin shoulders shrugging in a barely noticeable way.  "Seems like you should listen to him."

"Why are you here anyway?"

"Zatana had some sort of emergency.  I didn't ask."

"Zatana was never supposed to be here," Batman says in a low voice.  

Tim stares at Constantine.  Something is wrong, but he doesn't know what.  

After a moment of tense silence--silence that seems distinctly wrong in response to the general hubbub of the room around them--Batman's arms tighten around him and his stance changes ever so slightly.

"What can you tell me?"  Batman asks, his voice dropping into a slightly lower register.

"Two things," Constantine says, shifting.  

The air around them seems to be getting brighter.  

"Things will be worse before they get better."

"And?" Batman prompts.

"You'll be better off for it in the end."

Tim's fingers tighten on Batman's shoulders.

"Who are you referring to?"  

Constantine only smiles as the air shimmers around them as time resets itself.

--

Tim is terribly, horribly, irrevocably bored when someone finally calls for a break two hours and seven minutes later.  Who knew that the business of superheroes could be so incredibly dull?  

Abruptly, Tim shakes himself and feels Batman twitch slightly under him.

They're still sitting in the same place they'd been standing beside. But it's not quite the same.  

"B?"

Under his breath, Batman curses before standing up.  

John Constantine is nowhere to be seen.

"Batman?  Where are you going?" Diana asks them.

Batman doesn't stop.  He's striding out of the room and down the hallway, back in the direction of the zeta tubes.

"Something is wrong," Tim observes.

"Agreed," Batman answers a moment later, putting in the coordinates for the Batcave and stepping through.

As the transfer starts, the air around flashes with power.  Tim's stomach drops as the pressure around him pushes against him in an unsettling way.

"Hold on!" Someone yells.

Tim is falling.  Falling through the air like someone just dropped him.

He doesn't even have time to scream before someone is grabbing him again.  Arms tighten around his stomach as the world solidifies around them once more.  In the cave.

He looks up at the man who is kneeling on the floor with him.  It's Batman, but it's not.  

Chapter Text

Tim looks up and finds Batman crouching beside him in the cave, large hands grasping him around his torso, white-out lenses open wide in shock. 

"Tim?" Batman asks, his tone uncertain.  "What--?"  

Tim takes in his surroundings quickly, his hypervigilance pushing all the visual cues around him into his mind rapidly as he also drops his mouth in surprise.  The animatronic t-rex that he had seen previously is facing a different direction, its color far more yellow than he remembers from before.  There are more clear glass display cases of uniforms than there were, including one that looks almost like a memorial.  He flinches as he looks up at Batman, seeing subtle differences in his uniform as his brain finally stutters into realization.  He gasps and pries himself free of Batman's hold, crab walking backward until he trips over his blanket.

"You are Tim, aren't you?"  Batman asks him, still kneeling on the floor, his hands now held helplessly at his sides.

He nods, his breath hitching.  

"How old . . . ?" Batman whispers, looking stricken.

"Eight," he signs, remembering how he had done so earlier that day with Flash, with his Batman.  

His breath hitches again and he brings his hand up to his mouth and bites down on it to keep from crying.  He doesn't need to cry now. 

Crying isn't going to help anything, he tells himself.  

"Do you--," Batman flinches as he bites himself.  "Do you know me?"  

He nods again, his heart leaping into his throat as he watches Batman creep closer to him in a strange amalgamation of crawling and walking while still crouched.  If it were his Batman, he would have laughed.  The thought of his Batman makes him want to cry.  He bites again, only to be startled as this Batman wraps his fingers around his wrist and gently pulls his hand out of his mouth.  

"That's--That's going to need ice," Batman points out in a strangled voice, his tone strangely accusatory.  

They stare at one another again as Tim tries to pull his hand free.  Batman finally relinquishes his hold and he flexes his hand several times to assess the damage.  The bite marks on his skin are bright red indentations, and the pain burns.  Beside him, Batman reaches into his belt and pulls out an ice pack, breaking it to start the chemical reaction and then pulling Tim's overlarge sleeve down over his hand to act as insulation before putting the ice pack on it.  

"Do you know who I am?" 

"B-R-U-C-E," he fingerspells with his uninjured hand.

"Well," Batman sighs softly, "At least that's something."  

--

In another universe, a similar meeting is taking place.  Batman, his arms still around a much taller boy who is wearing a version of the Robin uniform. The boy--and really, that's a misnomer, because Batman's fairly certain he's at least a teenager--more than resembles his Tim, the thought making his insides turn to ice as he realizes that his Tim is nowhere to be found.

"Tim?" He asks, taking a chance as he lets the boy go.

He watches this Robin take in the room around him and stiffen as he takes in the differences.

"Batman?"  Robin asks carefully, quickly sliding himself out of Batman's reach.

Away from harm's way.  

The wariness on this boy's face makes Batman's heart clench.  

"You are Tim, yes?"  Batman asks, carefully holding his open hands out to show he is unarmed and not immediately dangerous.

"Yes . . ." Robin answers slowly.  "I think I'm in the wrong universe.  I don't recognize your cave.  Or your uniform."

"I assume you know my identity?" Batman asks, lifting a hand slowly to his cowl, but not pushing it off until he has his answer.

"Bruce," Tim says simply.

Batman nods and pushes his cowl off.  His hair is sweaty, and he can't help but stare back at Tim in fascination.

"What?  What's wrong?"  Tim asks, reaching for something on his belt but stopping as he registers Bruce's unblinking attention.

"I'm sorry.  I don't mean to be awkward," Bruce shifts uncomfortably.  

Tim cocks his head at him.  

"I think you're more emotionally present than my Batman," he observes.

Bruce can't help but smile at that.  

"My Tim doesn't talk out loud," Bruce says, answering his previous question.  "And even though you're a bit older than him--he's eight--I can still see so many similarities in you both."

"Was he with you in the zeta tube?"

Bruce nods, breaking off his attention to go to the Batcomputer.  He punches in a few commands, and then sits back and grunts in distaste.

"What's wrong?" Tim asks, coming up beside him, still slightly out of reach.

It probably bothers him more than it should.

"There's a massive solar storm happening right now.  I wonder if that's what caused the malfunction."

"Was it predicted?"  Tim asks, leaning in slightly.

"Scientists have been studying it, but it looks like they didn't expect it to be quite this bad."

He calls Diana and gets her up to date, trusting that she'll pass on the pertinent information to the others.  He also asks about Constantine.

"Have you seen him?"

"Not since last week.  He had to help Zatanna round up the rest of the penguin things--."

"Demons," Bruce corrected.

"Whatever they were," Diana says, sounding stressed.  "Listen B, this storm is affecting our systems up here.  I really need to go."

"All right.  Keep me updated."

He tries to contact John next, but the man is a bit hard to find even when there's not a massive solar storm affecting their systems.  

"Look," Bruce says, turning back to the young man beside him.  "How about we find you some clothes and go upstairs?"

Tim nods and then pauses.  

"What?" Bruce asks.

"What are Tim's parents like in this 'verse?"

He can't help but scowl, causing Tim tense ever so slightly in response.

"They are out of the picture for the moment, but my lawyers are currently compiling a case against them for a variety of things."

"Let me guess," Tim squirms.  "Child endangerment?  Neglect?"

"Physical abuse, neglect, extortion, bribery . . ." Bruce trails off, not wanting to get too worked up.  "They dumped him on my driveway.  Literally shoved him out of the car."

"I mean," Tim's hands flutter around his body, though not really touching anything.  "There are worse things."

Bruce looks at him, looks at his anxious body language and his thin frame.  His hair is lank and hangs limply around his face.  

"Do they still have custody in your world, Tim?"

Tim looks away for a moment, his jaw clenching ever so slightly.

"I see.  I'm surprised my counterpart hasn't done anything to counteract their behavior."

Tim shrugs and pulls out the solvent that removes his mask.  Bruce waits.

As soon as the mask is gone, Bruce gasps softly.  Tim has a black eye, and the bruising is dark.  

"When did that happen?" Bruce asks, fingers itching to touch him, to check him.  "Has anyone looked at it?  What did you tell your Bruce?"

"Fell on my skateboard," Tim answers, not looking at him.  "Bruce told me to be more careful.  Demon brat--I mean Damian--he laughed.  Said it was because I was useless."

Bruce doesn't ask about who Damian is, even though he suspects it's an important question.  

"How did you fall?"

Tim looks back at him for a moment, bright blue eyes just like his Tim's.  

"My dad was angry.  I got in the way.  It was a stupid mistake.  I should know better than to be in the way.  I don't--it hasn't happened in years."

Bruce is up.  He doesn't remember standing up.  

Tim is edging away, and he could curse himself, but instead he kneels down in front of Tim, hands open.  

"Can I look?  I just . . . how could your Bruce not ask?"

"He's really busy.  And I don't live here.  And it's really not a big deal," Tim shrugs, not looking at him.

"I disagree.  Have you been icing it?"  Bruce says, reaching for an ice pack without thinking.  

"Yeah, of course."

And then another thought occurs to him.  

"Is that the extent of it?"

Tim doesn't answer.  

"Tim?"

Chapter Text

"It's not really that big of a deal," the other Tim argues as Bruce walks them toward the cave's medbay.  "Hardly noticeable."

He tells Tim to sit and then calls Alfred using the phone on the wall.  He doesn't take his eyes off of Tim the entire time, and catches sight of the slight wince when he sits.

"Alfred, can you come to the medbay, please?  We've . . . we've got a bit of a situation."

"Is Tim with you, Master Bruce?"

Bruce grunts.  

"In a manner of speaking."

"Sometimes you worry me, Master Bruce." 

"Sometimes I worry me too, old friend."

They hang up and he walks back to where Tim is perched on the edge of the medbay bed.  The teenager may be larger than his Tim, but he's still a lot smaller than Bruce.  He doesn't want to loom, but he doesn't want to make Tim uncomfortable by sitting too close.

"Can I sit next to you, Tim?"

Wide blue eyes stare up at him before Tim jerks his head in agreement.

He sits close enough to touch, but keeps his body language casual and relaxed.  

"When did you become Robin?"

"Ah, when I was 13," Tim answers softly, staring at the floor.

"And how old are you now?"

"I'm 15."

Alfred, of course, walks in during that statement.  Bruce can see when Alfred spots the Tim that's beside him, when he marks the differences between the two.  His footsteps do not stutter, but his eyebrow lifts ever so briefly.

"And who might this be, Master Bruce?"  Alfred asks, his tone even and cheery.  

Tim's shoulder briefly bumps Bruce's.  

"This is Tim.  He's been dimensionally displaced.  I'm hoping that he and our Tim have merely traded places."

"What happened to your face, my dear boy?" Alfred asks softly.

Tim glances at Bruce before answering. 

He nods and Tim sighs.

"My dad," he whispers.

"He told his Bruce that he fell on his skateboard."

"I did fall on my skateboard," Tim says with a scowl, and then he shrugs and clasps his hands between his knees, shrinking into a smaller target in front of them.  "But not because of my skateboard."

"And your Master Bruce didn't ask for more details?"  Alfred asks, catching Bruce's gaze, his eyes ablaze, his posture stiff.

Tim shakes his head in the negative.  

"Jack and Janet still have custody in Tim's dimension."

"And clearly they are the same there as they are here," Alfred observes.

"Clearly," Bruce agrees.

--

Other Bruce shows Tim how to take off the domino.  Without it, Tim's eyes are big and blue and watery.  He's clearly terrified, and Bruce feels wildly out of his depth.  

"Do you want to meet the others that are here now, or can you wait until I take a shower?  It'll be fast."

"I want to stay with you," Tim signs.

Bruce shows him a few places within the cave where Tim can wait, but isn't particularly surprised when Tim follows him instead.  

"Can you wait right here?" Bruce asks him, indicating the bench that sits in the middle of the lockers.  "I'll be right back.  Not more than ten minutes, I promise."

Tim's feet don't touch the floor, and they swing as he sits, grasping his fuzzy blanket with both hands. 

Bruce is back in seven minutes, hair still wet, towel wrapped around his midsection.  And Tim is in exactly the same spot, but he's curled up in a ball now, blanket over his face.

"Tim?" Bruce hovers, not certain if he should touch the small boy.

"I'm okay," Tim signs, sitting up, rubbing his eyes hurriedly.  "I'm tired."

"I'm sure you've had a long day," Bruce manages, grabbing his clothes and quickly getting dressed.  "How's your hand feeling?" 

Tim shrugs.  

"Does your Tim look like me?" His shrewd eyes stare up at Bruce, a calculating look on his little face.

"He's a lot bigger," Bruce says.  

Which still isn't very big, he thinks with a pang.

"That's not what I asked."

"You two look very similar," Bruce concedes, sitting at the end of the bench. 

Tim sits up slowly and then scoots himself over so that they are touching.

"Where does your Tim live?"

"Next door.  With his parents."

Tim scowls and looks away. 

"What?" Bruce asks, stiffening slightly.

"Do they travel a lot?"

Bruce grunts and then nods, realizing that this boy doesn't know him quite as well as his Tim.

"And you're okay with that?"

Tim's eyes are on him again, the small hands twisted in his blanket at odds with the weary look in his eyes.

The way that Tim is looking at him makes him hesitate.  He feels like he's missing something, and he doesn't care for it.

"Where do you live, Tim?" He asks instead.

"My Bruce.  My--," he stops and looks away.  "Janet and Jack had me--I don't know the sign for it."

Bruce has a sinking feeling that he knows what this Tim will say.

"Just spell it, then," he suggests, fighting the urge to stand up and pace.  

He's very aware of the small leg pressed up against his.

"E-m-a-n-c-."

"They had you emancipated!?" He interrupts, eyes wide.  "How?  Why?"

"My Bruce says his lawyers are putting together a case against them," Tim says with a shrug, swinging his legs as his hands continue to twist the blanket in his lap.

"Why?" Bruce asks, stressing the word with a hoarse voice.

He becomes aware that his hands are balled up in fists and he makes the effort to relax them.

"My--My Jack said that Janet is pregnant.  They don't need me anymore."

"What.  That's."

He stands up and gives into the urge to pace.  

"That's ludicrous.  That's insane.  Why.  How could they do that?"  He asks, looming over Tim with a scowl.  

Tim scoots away this time, eyes wide and he forces himself to take a step backward, dropping into a crouch and taking a deep breath.

"I'm not--I'm not what they wanted in an heir, and now they don't have to pretend."

--

There are more bruises on other Tim's torso, including some contusions on his right flank.  He also has many more scars than either Dick or Jason ever had as Robin.  Bruce wonders if they are a result of Jack's abuse or his counterpart's inattentiveness toward the boy in question.  Either way, both options are unforgiveable.  

"What happened here?" He asks, pointing toward a deep looping scar across Tim's forearm.

He is painfully reminded of his Tim asking him the same sort of question earlier that week.  The idea of his Tim being subjected to the same violence makes bile briefly rise in his throat.  Tim is just a child.  For fuck's sake, this Tim is just a child too.  

"The demon brat," Tim grunts, looking away.  

"That's the second time you've called someone that.  Who is it?"

Tim looks back at him with a calculating look.  Beside them, Alfred slows his actions as well.  

"What are you looking for?" Bruce asks, slowly offering him his hand.

Tim's reaction to his hand is even more unsettling.  He twitches and then swallows hard, staring at him incredulously. 

Bruce doesn't retract his hand immediately.  He chooses to wait and see.

Slowly, Tim reaches out and slides his own much smaller hand into Bruce's, interlacing their fingers with an almost imperceptible shudder.  Tim's hand is clammy.

"Did," Tim swallows hard. "Um.  I've never asked this, and my Bruce never really admitted to it, but my Alfred told me, and I heard from Clark later, and--."

"Tim.  Just say it.  I won't be angry.  Not at you."

Never at you.

Tim slouches a bit more, leaning slightly into Bruce's side with a shaky exhale.

"Ah.  Talia," Tim manages softly.  

The demon brat, Bruce thinks with dawning horror.  Ra's.  Talia.  Oh my god, no.

"My Bruce.  Um, Talia.  She drugged him with some kind of date rape drug . . . and then had a kid.  And raised him as an assassin.  And then sent him to live with Bruce.  A little murderous assassin kid.  And um, I'm still rambling.  I'm gonna shut up now."

Bruce closes his eyes as he remembers waking up the next morning with the surefire certainty of what she had done to him, what she had taken without his permission.  It's his turn to shudder.

"I'm sorry, Bruce," Tim offers.  

Bruce shakes his head to clear it before trying to speak. 

"Not your fault," he manages, opening his eyes.  "It's the same here, but if she had a child . . . she never told me."

"Yeah, she didn't tell my Bruce either until the kid showed up."

"Christ."

"Yeah," Tim says, shivering.  "His name is Damian and he hates me.  He likes to try to kill me."

That statement shakes Bruce free of the fog of his memories.

"He likes to what!?" He hisses, looking at Tim in shock.

"It's not a big deal?"  Tim says again, with a squeak.

"I very much disagree," Bruce growls, dropping briefly into Batman's lower register.  

He releases Tim's hand and instead puts his arm around the boy's shoulders.  

"Tim, I'm sorry.  That should never have happened to you."

Unobtrusively, Tim pulls his hand up to knuckle away the moisture that had begun to gather in his eyes.  

"My Bruce never apologized about it," he says, his voice halfway between a giggle and a sob. "You certainly don't have to."

"You are far more precious to me than that.  Even though you are not my own, I would claim you.  I promise you that, Tim."

Chapter Text

Tim is having such a strange day.  Being displaced from his universe should have been upsetting, scary or downright dangerous, but instead it's mostly just been bewildering and a bit surprising.  Alfred had wrapped his ribs after their talk--they were badly bruised--the other Bruce sitting with him, a warm, solid, steady weight next to him.  It was a bit unnerving, having Bruce's full attention on him, but he would never say so.  He doesn't want him to leave, despite the truths he's being forced to admit to him.  He is humbled by how different this Bruce is to his own, and he feels a heavy weight in his stomach at the idea of having to go back to his Bruce's cold inattention, especially after knowing how he can be.  

It was like being part of a family, and he couldn't let himself get too attached, lest he be shattered by the absence thereof.

Alfred tells him he's a bit underweight after his check-up, something he's familiar with, at least.  Then, he's being led to the showers by Bruce with a promise that they'll find something for him to wear afterward.

They shower at opposite ends of the room, and he keeps his eyes on the floor most of the time.  He's not sure if he can handle any more surprises at the moment.

There is a pile of miscellaneous clothes waiting for him when he gets out of the shower.  Bruce tells him that they are a mixture of Dick's and Jason's, making him drop the pants he's inspecting as he realizes what that means.

"J-Jason?"

Bruce grunts affirmatively, still on the opposite side of the room, quickly dressing himself in sweats and a t-shirt.

"Do you have a Jason in your world, Tim?" Bruce asks, turning to look at him curiously as he fights to unfreeze himself.

"Y-Yeah," he whispers, pulling on a pair of black sweatpants and cinching them up tight around his hips.  "Sort of."

They're too long, but luckily the elastic at the ankles still grips well enough to keep him from tripping over his feet.

Bruce sits on the bench to wait for him and he nearly trips again in surprise.  He's not used to anyone waiting for him.  It's nice.  He blinks hard as his eyes tries to water.  He must be more tired than he thought.

"What do you mean, 'sort of'?" Bruce asks, blue eyes tracking him.

Tim's hands are a little shaky as he fights with his socks.  His feet are cold and clammy and its hard to pull the socks up, especially since they are so big.

"Um, well.  How old is your Jason?"  He asks instead.

Bruce hands him a pair of slippers, and he slides those on too, and then grabs a long sleeved shirt.  It's a faded red and very soft, and Tim idly wonders if they'd notice--or care--if he stole it.  

"He's thirteen."

Tim lets out a breath and Bruce raises an eyebrow at him, before nodding toward the stairs.  

"Why?  What happened to your Jason?  Is it something I should be concerned about?"

"Maybe," he hedges.  

Bruce walks up the stairs beside him, even though it pushes them closer together.  He has to fight the urge to fall behind, out of reach.  They reach the top of the stairs and Bruce opens the clock, sliding it to the side easily and gesturing him through before closing it behind them with a soft click.

Tim walks out only to freeze as he sees that someone is waiting for them.

"Jason?!" He whispers.

--

The other Bruce gives him a rundown of who will be waiting upstairs when they finally make it.  Dick is a possibility, since he's supposed to be dropping by sometime that weekend, but there's also Damian, Bruce's birth son.  

"I want you to be careful with Damian.  His mother hid him from me, and he was raised by something called the 'League of Shadows.'  Do you know who or what that is?"  Bruce asks from the other end of the bench.

"Yes," he signs, frowning.  "They're assassins."

Bruce looks surprised at his answer.  

"That's right.  How do you know about them?"

Tim doesn't know how to tell him that Batman is his special interest--and has been since he was four.  He'd have to be an idiot not to know about the League at this point.

"I read a lot," he signs instead, shrugging with feigned nonchalance.  

He kicks his legs, slumping with the force of his exhaustion.  He hasn't eaten for most of the day, and he was sick for most of the night, and the pain from missing his Bruce feels nearly overwhelming now.

"What about Jason?" He asks, realizing that Bruce hasn't mentioned him.

Bruce hesitates for longer than he expects.

"What?" 

"He . . . He lives in Gotham now.  Near or in Crime Alley."

"You don't know?" 

The strangeness of Bruce's answer wakes him up a bit from his daze.

Bruce stares at the lockers in front of them, his eyes distant.

"He--" Bruce's voice breaks.  "He died.  But now he's back somehow, and . . . and he's angry.  Mostly at me, but also at our Tim."

"Why?"

Bruce sighs. 

"It's a long story.  You don't need to know the details."

Tim scowls, but his exhaustion lets him accept the answer for now.

"Is there anyone else I should know about?"

"Just Cass--Cassandra.  I've adopted her.  She doesn't talk much, but that's because she never learned.  She's the child of David Cain and Lady Shiva, though I don't expect you to know who they are."

Tim's jaw drops at both the information and also at this Bruce's casual disregard of his intellect.  Is his other self an idiot?  He wouldn't think so.  Does this Bruce think he's slow because he's a child?  Or because he has autism? Or some combination of the two?  He doesn't know.

"Cain and Shiva are both world famous assassins.  M-E-R-C-E-N--," he fingerspells the word until Bruce interrupts.

"Mercenaries, yes.  They are here as well.  I'm surprised you know about them," Bruce answers, finally looking at him again.  "You look exhausted."

"I've been sick," Tim says, glaring at him.  

He's still angry that this Bruce seems to think he's an idiot.  He only ever put up with that sort of behavior from his parents, and after spending the last few weeks as a member of the Wayne household, he's not ready to go back to being treated like a fool, especially not by another Bruce Wayne.

--
"Bruce?!" Jason squeaks as they enter the study.  "Who is this?  Where's Tim!?" Jason demands, rushing up to Bruce. 

"Tim . . ." Bruce sighs and then kneels on the floor in front of Jason.  "We had a problem with the zeta, and we believe that Tim has been displaced dimensionally.  This is his counterpart from another universe."

This time, Jason turns and stares at him with open scrutiny.  He's a little taller than Jason, but they're both shorter than they should be.  Tim doesn't really want to think about why.

"Do you think they traded spots?"  Jason asks Bruce, his eyes still looking Tim over.

"I hope so, Jaylad.  For now, let me introduce you to Tim.  He's had a rough few days, so I need you to be gentle with him.  He's injured."

Tim pulls back slightly behind Bruce, suddenly feeling uneasy.  He would have rather not have had Bruce tell Jason that he was anything less than his best.  Even though the green madness in Jason's eyes is missing, he can't help but remember what Jason is capable of.

"Tim better be safe there," Jason spits harshly in Tim's direction.

"Jason, son.  It isn't his fault," Bruce soothes, resting a hand on Jason's shoulder.  "I've contacted Diana, and she's going to try and get ahold of Constantine for us, but communications are being affected by the solar storm going on right now.  We'll get your brother back, I promise."

Jason seems somewhat mollified by that, enough to turn back toward Tim and slump out of his defensive posture.

"Sorry," Jason mutters, unprompted.  "'S'not your fault.  Right?"

Wordlessly, Tim shakes his head. 

"B and I were coming back from a debriefing at the Watchtower," Tim says, still keeping slightly behind Bruce's broad shoulder.

"You can talk?" Jason asks, perking up beside him.  

"Yeah," Tim ducks his head, scratching his neck. 

The action makes him hiss in pain, having forgotten about his ribs.

"Should you even be up right now?" Jason's eyes roam over him.  "No offense, but you look like shite." 

"Jason," Bruce groans, standing up and herding them both into the hall.  

"No, it's true," Tim agrees, walking slightly behind Jason and Bruce as he tries to spot any differences from their two universes.

"So," Jason says, slowing down to walk with Tim, "What's your Bruce like?"

Chapter Text

Other Bruce ends up carrying him upstairs, his strides much longer than Tim's own.  Tim hangs onto this Bruce's t-shirt tightly, his legs clamped around his waist carefully.  He doesn't think that this Bruce would drop him on purpose, but he doesn't trust him like he does his Bruce. 

Thankfully, the manor's layout seems to be rather similar.  

Bruce takes him to the kitchen in order to find Alfred.  He's going to leave Tim with Alfred so that he can go and find Damian, Bruce's son, and warn him against harming Tim.  

Privately, Tim worries that the warning won't be enough.  He's always had a face that begged to be hurt, or so his father often stated.  He worries quietly for his own counterpart, stuck with a boy raised by assassins.  

Other Alfred is a lot like his own.  

He greets Bruce with a raised eyebrow and a look that would make Tim shudder if it were directed at him.  

"What have you done with Master Timothy?" The other Alfred says by way of greeting.

Tim is pleased that this Bruce seems to flinch a bit at the other man's words.  He's not entirely certain that he likes this Bruce, but it's nice that he's not alone in his assessment.

"We had some sort of phenomenon while we were using the zeta tube," is Bruce's non-answer.

This Alfred doesn't even have to say anything. He just waits.

"The Justice League is looking into it for me," Bruce adds, looking out the window.

It's dark outside.

"And?" 

"This is Tim.  He's been dimensionally displaced.  I assume that our Tim is where he came from, and vice versa."

He zones out a bit while they talk.  Bruce's shoulder is just at the right height for him to rest his cheek, and he does.  He's actually beginning to nod off when Alfred asks him a question.

"When's the last time you ate, little Master Timothy?"

He jerks upright, nearly colliding with Bruce's chin.  He must have slid a bit in his daze. 

"T-I-M," he fingerspells dutifully. 

If there's nothing else to be done for his alternate self, he can at least fix this.

"My parents only use Timothy when they're angry at me.  They're always angry at me.  Please don't call me that."

"Master Tim.  My apologies," Alfred says smoothly, his face gentling as he looks at Tim.  

He chooses to ignore how Alfred goes back to glaring after looking back up at Bruce.

"I had some pedialyte at breakfast.  I had a bad stomach episode last night."

Last night?  It feels like eons have passed since then.

"And nothing since then?"  Alfred's disapproval is pointed at him now. 

He fights the urge to flinch in response.

"My Bruce tried, but I felt really bad all day."

"I wonder . . ." Alfred murmurs to himself, reaching into the refrigerator and pulling out what looks like a pot of soup.  "Our Master Timo--Tim," he corrects himself, looking regretful. "Our Master Tim is intolerant to gluten.  It causes him very bad stomach problems."

"It does?" Bruce asks, sounding surprised.

"Really?" He signs at the same time.

He looks at this Bruce in open confusion.

"Isn't he your Robin?" 

"I wonder that as well, Master Bruce," Alfred adds, his glare directed once more at Bruce.  

"He just never mentioned it," Bruce answers, sounding defensive.  

Alfred harrumphs quietly, but doesn't say anything else.  

"I need to find Damian," Bruce rumbles quietly, glancing between him and Alfred.  "Before he meets Tim," he clarifies, leaning over and putting Tim down carefully.  

There's a small table in the corner of the kitchen, and Tim works his way toward it, fighting the urge to lay on the floor and scream.  He's so tired.  Alfred is heating up some soup on the stove, presumably for him.  He puts his arms on the table and leans his head down on them.  

It feels like only a moment has passed when suddenly Alfred's hand is on his shoulder, and he's handing Tim a bowl of soup.  It smells really really good.  

"I can tell that you're exhausted, Master Tim, but please try to eat something.  I think you'll feel better for it."

"What is it?" He asks, thinking that he'd like to have his own Alfred make this too.

"Just some homemade chicken and rice soup.  It's a bit plain, but it's good to eat when you don't feel your best."

He nods and blows on a spoonful.  Eating for the first time after a bad stomach bout is always a little hit and miss, but he'll try.  For Alfred, if nothing else.  For his Bruce.  He barely notices that he's wiping tears away as he eats, not noticing anything out of the ordinary until Alfred pulls out a chair and sits down next to him.

"There, there, lad.  It'll be all right.  We'll fix things and send you on your way before you know it."

He nods, his lip wobbling a bit.  

--

Bruce can't help but watch the other Tim in amazement.  He had wondered what it would be like to hear his Tim talk, but hadn't really bothered worrying about it.  His Tim was perfectly capable of making himself understood, but it was still a novelty to look at this Tim and hear the things coming out of his head.

He can't help but worry for this Tim's living situation, though, especially given his injuries.  He desperately wants to go find other Tim's Bruce and have a few words with him, maybe with his fists, maybe using his mouth.  It doesn’t matter how it happens, so long as the message is received.

Alfred meets them in the dining room, his face softening a bit as he sees Tim again.  

"Do you have any nutritional requirements I should be aware of, Master Tim?" 

Tim looks at him and then the floor, putting his hands behind his back in a pose that seems a bit unnatural.

Perhaps a learned behavior from his father, Bruce frets quietly.

Bruce wishes he could keep this Tim here too, but he suspects that someone--like Tim himself--will probably have issues with that plan.

"I'm not supposed to eat anything with gluten, er, wheat.  It makes me pretty sick," Tim says, his voice soft and a bit uncertain.

"Noted.  Thank you for telling me," Alfred answers smoothly, catching Bruce's eye as he exits the room.

"When did you find that out?"  Jason asks, sliding into his chair at the table.  

Tim sits down in the chair to Bruce's left, across from Jason, his eyes tracking them both carefully.

"Shortly after I became Robin.  Alfred noticed that I was having trouble gaining weight, and he took me to Leslie's."

"Your Bruce didn't notice?" Jason asks, his eyes darting back and forth between Tim and Bruce.

"Naw.  I'm not--he doesn't really.  I mean, it's not a big deal.  I can take care of myself," Tim says, sticking his chin out a bit in a stubborn pose that Bruce has seen a few times from their own Tim.

Bruce has opinions on that, but he won't say them out loud in front of his boys.  

Luckily, the awkward moment is broken up by Alfred coming to the table with dinner.  It's a pot roast with carrots and potatoes, and they all dig in.  For once, Alfred chooses to stick around and eat with them, sitting next to Jason.  After dinner, Tim turns to him, expectantly.  

"Are you going to patrol?"  Tim asks, his all too familiar eyes looking Bruce over carefully.

"Not tonight," Bruce answers.

"Why not?" Tim asks.  "If it's because of me, then there's no need."

Bruce interrupts before Tim says anything about being able to take care of himself.  He thinks he might be forced to loudly disagree if he has to hear those words again.

"It's been a long day, and our Tim was sick most of last night.  I'm not at my best, and I don't want to take unnecessary chances on patrol."

He might as well have danced across the room in a tutu, considering Tim's absolutely gobsmacked expression. 

"What," Tim looks like he's never heard anything so ridiculous.

"Wellll," Jason drawls, sharing a quick smile with Alfred.  "We could watch a movie.  Bruce makes a pretty good pillow," he says conspiratorially toward Tim.

"Don't you need to make sure Gotham is safe?" Tim’s voice squeaks a little, staring at him in disbelief.

"Gotham can handle my absence once in a while," Bruce decides, standing up and stretching.  

He's fairly certain that he'd be too distracted with worries for his Tim if he tried going out tonight.  The concern for what might be happening to his sweet boy is almost certainly worse than the reality, whatever it might be.  He hopes.  

Chapter Text

Damian is already at the dining room, waiting at the table with a peevish look on his face, when Bruce finds him.  

"Damian, good.  I need to talk to you," Bruce says, sliding into his chair.  

"What is it, Father?"  

"Tim and I had a problem coming back with the zeta.  There was a surge of power, and when we materialized in the cave, Tim was gone and there was another Tim in his place."

"Where is he?  Should I interrogate him for you, Father?" Damian asks, now standing beside his chair.

Bruce shudders internally.  

"No.  No, Dami, it's not like that.  This Tim is very young."

"How young?"  

"Eight.  I believe he's from a different dimension, and I think our Tim has likely switched places with him." 

Damian scoffs and returns to his seat with a mulish expression. 

"He doesn't talk, but he signs with ASL," Bruce continues, watching Damian closely.   

"How soon will you be able to get rid of him?  Will someone come looking for him?"

Bruce scowls at his son's reaction.

"He lives with his Bruce, and presumably Jason.  I don't know the rest of the details."

I didn't ask, he realizes with a pang of regret.  

"I need you to treat him gently, Damian, like you would one of your stray animals."

"Our Drake is already useless and I'm not scared of him.  I hardly think this one could be dangerous, given what you've told me, Father."

"Our Tim is not useless.  And we need to be careful with this Tim because he is a child.  Do you understand me?  Do not touch him."

Their conversation is derailed by Alfred bringing in supper.  

"Finally!" Damian snaps as the food is put in front of him.

"Remember what I said, Damian," Bruce reminds him.

"I understand.  Ignore the useless interloper.  I've got it."

Bruce sighs and pulls out his phone to send a group message to the rest of the family not currently at home.

Bruce:  Tim has briefly been interdimensionally displaced.  In exchange, we have an eight year old Tim here.  He's going to be staying at the manor until we can figure out how to get them back to their respective dimensions.

Dick texts back immediately.

Dick:  a baby Timmy!? can i come over and meet him? when?

Bruce:  Come over at breakfast.  I suspect he'll be asleep soon if he isn't already.

Barbara:  make sure to take pictures 

Steph likes Barbara's comment.

A minute later, Cass responds too.

Cass:  what's he like

Bruce:  He's a bit shy.  You'll probably like him; he seems to be completely non-verbal and uses ASL.  

Dick:  squeeeeeeeee - i'll be there for breakfast  - i'll take off work!  

Dick:  you told dames, right?

Bruce:  That was the first thing I did.

Alfred:  He's asleep. 

A picture of the small sleeping Tim is sent to the group.  He's wrapped up in his blanket on the bed in their Tim's room.  His bandaged hand is barely visible at the edge of the shot.  He's curled up in a ball and barely makes a lump under the blanket. 

Steph:  ohhhh, hes little

Cass:  smol

--

Jason watches the other Tim as they get set up for the movie.  He flits around at the edges of the group, an anxious behavior that makes Jason glare at Bruce over Tim's head.  Thankfully, Bruce seems to get the message.

"Tim," Bruce says, making the boy freeze and stare back at him.  "Will you come sit next to me?"  

Bruce is lounging in the middle of the largest couch and Jason is already sprawled next to him, a popcorn bowl perched in his hands.  Tim hasn't found a spot to sit yet, and has been frowning at the room as if the furniture is personally offending him.

Tim doesn't make a move until Bruce pats the unoccupied spot next to him and smiles gently at him.  Then he inches toward them, looking wholly uncomfortable in a way that makes Jason want to hug him.

Jason is about to offer the spot next to him as an alternative when suddenly Tim sits and slumps into Bruce's side.  

"Where do you usually sit on movie nights?"  Jason asks, blithely ignoring the sudden warning look in Bruce's eyes.

Tim shrinks farther into the couch, pulling his knees into his chest as he does, shrinking down under Jason's confused eyes.

"Usually sit on the floor," Tim mumbles.

"Would that be more comfortable--?" Bruce starts to ask.

"Do you sit on the floor because you want to?" Alfred interjects as he comes into the room.

Tim shakes his head in the negative.  

"Usually they don't invite me at all.  But sometimes I join anyway. They don't leave me a spot."

Jason's hands clench at Tim's words and he opens his mouth to say something, but Bruce beats him to it.

"Who is 'they', Tim?" Bruce rumbles, putting his arm around Tim's shoulders and pulling him in that much closer.

"My, My siblings.  The other Bat kids."

"Like Dick?" Jason asks, face scrunched in confusion. 

"Dick's not too bad," Tim admits.  "But Steph and Cass are really close, and I'd never voluntarily sit next to Damian.  And we haven't quite convinced Jason that he's welcome at the manor yet, and oh gosh, I'm rambling again." 

Tim puts his hands over his face, and Jason stares up at Bruce in confusion.

"That's still only four people.  There's three sofas in here?" Jason asks, choosing to ignore what Tim said about his alternate self.

For now.

Tim drops his hands into his lap, but still doesn't look at them as he starts to answer.

"And there's also two big dogs, and a cat, and sometimes Bruce himself, so there's not really room for me, but that's okay.  I'm kind of small, and I don't really need to watch things.  I usually have cases I'm working on, and there's no good reason for anyone to spend time with an interloper.  I'm not--."

"You're not what?" Bruce asks, his voice hovering somewhere in-between Batman and Bruce.  

His eyes are piercing, even in the half-dark of the media room.

"I'm not really family.  I'm just the weird next door kid that comes over sometimes. But mostly to the cave.  It's only really, well, it's only really Alfred that I see most of the time.  And Batman.  I don't spend a whole lot of time with the Bruce part," Tim admits in a low voice that has Jason straining to hear.

"Oh, fuck that! Bruce!" Jason can't help but spitting out.  

Fix this! He can't help but think at Bruce.

"That's--That's not right, Tim.  Your Bruce should have adopted you already, I don't understand why--," Bruce cuts himself off, visibly upset for a brief second before pulling it back in.  "I don't presume to know the dynamics of your family, Tim, and I can't without witnessing it for myself, but even if it's just a misunderstanding--which I would hope--it still doesn't make sense to me that your Bruce is so . . . lackadaisical about your health and safety."

Jason blinks.  

Tim blinks, his jaw opening a bit.

"That's the most words I've ever heard from anyone with your face," is what Tim manages a moment later.

Alfred snorts, and Jason can't help but smile widely in response.

"Anyone who can make Alfred laugh has got to be pretty cool, right Bruce?"  Jason asks. 

He feels like he's reaching, but sometimes that's kind of necessary.

"I think Tim is plenty cool already, Jaylad," Bruce rumbles peacefully.

They both ignore how Tim squeaks in response.

--

Little Tim wakes up in the dark some unknown amount of time later.  His stomach isn't what wakes him this time.  Instead, it's his bladder.  He squirms out of the blankets and reaches blindly for the lamp that he knows is next to the bed.  He knows because he saw it before succumbing to sleep earlier.  He clunks into the side table with his shin and curses loudly in his mind.  From there, his fingers follow the table up and find the elusive lamp, which he turns on with a slow pull, trying not to make any more noise than he already has.  

Thank you, he thinks as his leg continues to throb from where he hit it on the table.  His hand aches too, and he tries to use the pain to wake up more.  He spots an open door on the side of the room and stumbles in that direction, pleased and relieved when he finds that it's a bathroom.  He runs in and does his business and then comes back out into the room with a perplexed look on his face.  He doesn't know when it is, but he's pretty sure he recognizes this room.  It looks just like the room that Alfred gave him back in his world. 

For a wild moment, he wonders if it's possible he's managed to make it back to his universe, but he squashes that thought back down immediately.  His Bruce would be here with him if that were true; he's almost positive of it.  

Instead, he grabs his blanket and takes inventory.  Someone--probably Alfred, now that he thinks about it--took off his boots, and they're on the floor next to his bed.  He's still wearing his hoodie, but his overalls are laying on the nearby armchair, and he's only got his boxer briefs on (they happen to be identical to the ones that his Bruce wears, but he doesn't think he's going to mention that to anyone).  In his overall pockets, he has the stub of a pencil, and a Hotwheels car that resembles the batmobile, and a flashlight that his Bruce gave him to help with his fear of the dark.  He also has two purloined Bruce handkerchiefs and he grabs one and ties it around his wrist for safekeeping.  He pads softly out into the hallway.  It's strangely quiet, and after a glance at the hallway clock, he sees that it's just after 3 in the morning.  Batman of his universe would be returning around now, but he doesn't know if that applies to this Batman.  He shivers and is about to walk further down the hallway when he hears footsteps.  

A boy in pajamas appears at the doorway to one of the nearby rooms and glares at him.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

The boy's eyes are piercing like Bruce's, but without any of his Bruce's gentleness.  He wonders if this is the son.

"I couldn't sleep," he signs.

"Hmph. Well, I'm going back to bed.  You better not bother me again," the boy snaps back.

He can't help but flinch at the boy's abrasive tone.  

"Sorry," he signs, ducking back into the room they've put him in.  

He waits until he's certain the other boy is gone and then sneaks back into the hallway.  He creeps to Bruce's room, certain that he's got the right room by the size of the bed, and then bypasses it and heads for this Bruce's closet.  

At least they smell the same, is his only thought as he crawls into the back corner of the man's ridiculously large closet.  

He finds the laundry hamper and carefully climbs in, burying himself in the other man's dirty clothes.  The weight of the clothes and the familiar smell make him relax enough to get sleepy again.  He wraps his blanket around his face and lets himself drift back to sleep.  

Chapter Text

Tim and Jason were both asleep at the end of the movie, Jason's head in Bruce's lap and Tim's head on his shoulder.  He smiles at Alfred, briefly content with how things are for the moment, his own concern for their Tim briefly muted by the peace he can feel in that moment.

He gathers both boys in his arms and carries them to their respective beds, Alfred beside him, helping him open doors and pull back covers as he does.  He lowers Jason into his bed with one arm, and Alfred smiles to indicate that he will finish tucking him in; allowing him to turn around and head to Tim's room with the boy still passed out in his arms.  Tim squirms a bit when he puts him on their Tim's bed, nestling him against the pillows and the giant dragon squishmallow that may or may not be named 'Bruce.'  He pulls the covers out from underneath the small teenager and smiles when he sees Tim's eyes open slightly to squint up at him.

"What're you doin'?" Tim mumbles, curling up in a ball.

He adjusts the covers around Tim's shoulders and pets his hair, making his eyes flutter sleepily.

"Just tucking you in.  You fell asleep," Bruce whispers.

"Oh," Tim hums softly.  "Never had that before.  'S'nice."

Bruce ends up staring down in shock at the sleeping boy for far too long after that statement, only leaving his side when Alfred comes to find him.  

"What has you looking so perturbed, Master Bruce?" Alfred asks softly once they are in the hallway.

Bruce stares at the floor for another long moment before shaking himself and looking at Alfred, a haunted look in his eyes.

"Tim said," Bruce frowns, and walks them farther away.  "Tim said he'd never had anyone tuck him in before," he finishes.

They walk to his study and then make their way down to the Batcave, its darkness calling to him more strongly than usual.

"Perhaps when you find Constantine, you can convince him to let me take a trip into that world for you," Alfred suggests after a long silence.  "I would dearly like to have a word with our counterparts."

"As would I, Alfred," Bruce agrees, heading to suit up.  

His patrol starts out slowly enough.  He stops a few burglaries and an attempted mugging before hearing sirens.  

"There appears to be a disturbance at Gotham Botanical Gardens," Alfred says in his ear.

He groans softly but dutifully heads in that direction.

"Have we got eyes inside?"  Batman asks when he's onsite.

"Two of the six cameras you left there last time are still operable.  Well," Alfred trails off, typing.  "Three, but the third is blocked by a rather large plant."

"Hostages?" He grunts.

"Looks like two security guards and two, maybe three civilians."

Ivy had been out of Arkham for almost a month, but she had been laying low, not causing problems.  Until now.

"IDs?"

"Looks like the Stanley brothers."

"Of Stanley & Stanley Oil?" 

"Yes."

Great, he thought.  They weren't exactly upstanding citizens, but generally flew under the radar.  Unfortunately, legalities weren't exactly a selling point for Ivy.  

"Any egregious crimes of late?" Batman asks, already guessing the answer.

"Only the usual . . . minus their latest deal, of course."

"Which is?"

"600,000 acres of rainforest cut down in Borneo." 

He can still hear Alfred typing as he scales the building.  He's heading for the ventilation shaft that perches on the western tip of the roof.  The eastern shaft is too small for him to fit through--though Robin would fit well enough.  

It's just as well.  He doesn't really want Robin exposed to Poison Ivy just yet, anyway.

"Ah," Alfred adds.  "This particular segment is home to the fanged pitcher-plants, or Nepenthes bicalcarata.  A carnivorous plant.  How delightful."

"Great."

He slips inside and creeps along the outer edges of the room.  Vines slither along the floor like snakes as he walks toward the sound of voices.  He steps over them carefully, knowing all too well exactly how dangerous they are.  

"Angle to the left a bit, sir.  Security guards are closest," Alfred says in his ear.

He follows his instructions and soon is kneeling behind the first of the two.  They're both handcuffed to one of the structural supports that supports the sprinkler system.  He can hear Ivy.  She's ranting at the two brothers opposite them.  In between both groups is a massive fanged plant.  

"Normally, fanged pitcher-plant eat insects," Alfred says dryly in his ear.  "Do try to dissuade it from eating bats, if you would, sir."

"I'll try," he says under his breath.  

Using bolt cutters, he snaps through the handcuffs of both men and sends them on their way, quietly admonishing them to be careful.  He doesn't have to tell them twice.

Gothamites are not stupid, despite their often blasé approach towards public safety.  Gotham city schools focus on the usual drills (guns, severe weather, fire, etc.) but they also run drills on what to do (or not do) in the case of high-profile rogues, like not stepping on plants when Poison Ivy is involved . . .

"S.W.A.T. is outside," Alfred adds.  

He grunts irritably in response.  S.W.A.T. would be difficult to work with under any circumstances, but adding a rogue like Ivy into the mix is just asking for trouble.  He needs to get this wrapped up sooner than later.

Stepping back, he tries to shift around to the side, trying to find a way to get to higher ground without being seen.  He spots a maple nearby and heads for it, shimmying up into its branches until he's reached a good vantage point, and then pulling out a handful of smoke pellets.  He moves out farther on a sturdy branch, and then nearly has a heart attack when he catches sight of a small face looking back at him from within the leaves.

"How many civilians did you say there were?" He asks softly, not looking away from the small person wedged on the higher branch.

"Definitely two, but I thought I saw movement . . . ah, I see what you're looking at.  That might account for the third heat signature that registered."

It's a child.  A small asian child with tangled dirty hair, though he has no idea whether it's a boy or a girl.  Their presence makes for another variable that he wasn't expecting, forcing him to mentally rework some ideas.  

"My plant is hungry, but luckily for it, I have a ready supply of food on hand!" Poison Ivy yells suddenly from below.

The plant, which is a truly massive monstrosity, has a body shape like that of a pitcher of water, but instead of a lid, it has fangs and is bright yellow, glistening with some sort of dampness that he is certain he doesn't want to touch.  And it's moving toward the larger of the two men, opening its maw as the man screams and pisses himself in terror.  

He looks back up where the child was, only to curse under his breath as he sees them gone.  He throws the pellets and jumps down, aiming for Ivy.  He hits the plant instead, the bulk of its body swinging around to meet him mid-air.  

Ivy screams as the smoke lifts and he sees the child on her shoulders, punching her in the back of the head. 

The plant under him snaps at his feet, the wetness on its skin slippery and pungent enough to make his nose burn slightly.  Vines come up from the ground and he dives through them to the men behind them.  He cuts through the vines binding one of them, and a stinking ichor sprays up from it.  He shields with his cape and hears it hiss as the poison makes contact with the protective coating.   He hears a scream from behind him and turns in time to see that the vines have gotten the child and is hoisting them in the air in the direction of the monster pitcher plant.  Throwing a batarang at the bulk of the vines, he darts past the plant and grabs the kid before they hit the ground.  

Just in time for the massive plant behind them to slam into them.  He twists around, putting his arms around the kid and putting his body in-between them and the teeth.  He throws an elbow backward into a fang and tosses in a bomb to the mouth, only feeling slight remorse for what he's about to do.  As he does, the other fang slams down on his shoulder and he throws them forward to the ground with a grunt of pain.  Ducking his head and pulling his cape around them both, he hits the button to detonate.  

--

Other Alfred knocks on Tim's door but doesn't get a response.  After knocking harder, he opens the door to find the bed and the room empty.  Quickly checking the bathroom and closet, he determines that the small boy is not there.  Feeling his heart move into his throat, he quickly checks the hallway before heading back to the dining room to make certain that he didn't just miss the child in transit.  Nothing.  There's no hide nor hair of the boy.  

"Master Bruce," Alfred says, stalking into the master bedroom and snapping on the lamp to make sure the child isn't hiding out somewhere on the bed.  

Nothing.

"Master Bruce," he says again, putting a bit more inflection on the word.

This time he gets a grunt in response.  

It's only half-past eight, and he knows the other man probably went to sleep no earlier than four, but the truth of the matter is that he's beginning to be concerned about Master Tim's whereabouts.

He shakes Bruce's shoulder gently and steps out the way in case the man has a violent reaction.  It has happened before.

"What is it, Alfred?" Bruce grunts, swinging himself sideways with a groan.  

There is a new bruise down his side and a deep scratch mark across his left pec that looks inflamed.  He eyes it, but doesn't have to say anything.  He knows the man can feel the weight of his gaze.

"I cannot find little Master Tim," Alfred says.

Bruce looks at him, the tiredness falling from his eyes as his gaze abruptly sharpens into something closer to Batman.

"What!?"

"I cannot find little Master Tim," Alfred repeats.

"Where have you looked?"  Bruce asks, rubbing his eyes and grabbing a pair of sweatpants from the set of drawers beside his bed.  

Alfred explains it to him as Bruce grabs an old faded t-shirt and pulls on slippers.  

"Do you want me to look with you or head back to the kitchen?"

"Kitchen," Bruce says after a moment of thought.  

Bruce's eyes are bloodshot as he retraces Alfred's steps, checking under the bed in Tim's room.

Alfred heads back to the kitchen just as the front door bangs open, revealing Richard Grayson.  

"Hiya, Alfie!  What's got you looking so dour?" Dick asks him brightly.

"Little Master Tim is missing."

"Uh oh," Dick says, bright face falling.  "Where's Bruce?"

He directs him upstairs, and starts heading for the kitchen again, only for the door to open again, revealing Cassandra and Stephanie.  

"Uh oh," Cass says when she sees him, unwittingly repeating Dick's words from only moments before.  

"What's wrong?" Steph adds, looking between them uneasily.

"We cannot find Master Tim.  He may be missing," Alfred says.

He feels like he's caught in some sort of terrible time loop.  

"We'll help look, Alfie," Steph promises, sounding earnest as she drags Cass upstairs by the hand.

--

Tim, for his part, is largely unaware of the hubbub going on around him.  He wakes slowly, feeling cramped but secure, briefly forgetting what had transpired the previous day.  It hits him as he pops his head up and out of the laundry basket and takes in this Bruce's closet.  

Oh, he thinks solemnly as he takes in his surroundings.  They might smell the same, but he's definitely not in his Bruce's closet.  For one thing, the clothes are more muted in color than his Bruce.  For another, it's oddly neater.  He frowns and pulls himself out of the laundry basket, only tripping a little as he reaches back to grab his blanket.  He misses his Bruce so much.  That want for his other world hits him right in the chest and he crumples a bit inwardly at the pain.  He rubs his hand, and hisses out loud at its fierce ache.  It centers him enough to keep from crying and he takes a deep breath to try and bolster himself.  He slips out into Bruce's bedroom, only to find him not there.  He frowns and walks to the hallway. He hears voices near Bruce's study, but ignores them and heads to the dining room.  He's ravenous suddenly.

He trots down the stairs, looking at the pictures on the walls with interest.  He doesn't know most of the faces, and that makes him uneasy.  

In the dining room, he settles into the chair to the left of where his Bruce usually sits and looks at what's on offer.  The young boy from the previous night is sitting on the opposite side of the table, dressed in a school uniform and blatantly ignoring everything Tim is doing.  

For a moment, he nearly reaches for the pancakes, but then he remembers what Alfred said the previous night about their Tim being intolerant to gluten.  He didn't have anything with gluten in it the night before, and after taking a moment to assess, he tentatively thinks that his stomach may feel more at ease than it usually does.  Maybe.

Or it could just be wishful thinking, he thinks with a wry sort of hum to himself.

Regardless, he reaches for the yogurt and then for the bowl of fruit beside that.  He has to stand on his chair to reach the yogurt, but he manages it finally--with no thanks to the other boy sitting there.  He'd ask for help, but that would mean getting his attention, and he's pretty sure that he doesn't want this boy's attention anywhere near him.

He eats pretty fast, eyeing the other boy with an arm around his bowl, but the other boy doesn't ever look at him.  It's just as well.  

After he's done, he debates with whether to take his bowl to the kitchen or not, but ultimately decides against it as the boy at the other end of the table finally deigns to look at him.

"It occurs to me that you may not know who I am.  I am Damian Wayne, Bruce's blood son," Damian says with a haughty tone.

"Okay?" He signs, shrugging.  

"You would do well not to cross me while you are here," Damian adds, looking down his nose at him.

"Got it," he signs, slipping away from the table and back upstairs.

He's walking back to his room, wondering what he should do, when he runs into two girls.  Literally.  He blinks as he bounces off one of them, hitting the floor with a light thud.

"Is that you, Tim?" The blonde girl asks.

"I'm Tim, yes."

"You okay?" The dark haired girl signs. 

"Who are you?" He asks instead.

"Cass," the girl says with a grin.  "They're looking for you," she signs.

"Who?"  He asks, feeling uneasy.  

He hadn't meant to cause problems.  

"Just everyone," The blonde girl says with a laugh.  "I'm Steph," she says when he looks at her in confusion.

"We take you," Cass adds, offering him a hand.

After a moment, he reaches out and takes it.  He's got his blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and he strokes it as they walk down the hall toward Bruce's office.

"You know what would be funny?" Steph asks.

"Hm?" Cass responds, glancing down at him.

"If we surprised Bruce.  Snuck up on him and said, 'Look what we found!'"  Steph laughs softly. 

"He won't be mad?" He pulls away to ask.  

"How could he be mad?  We found you and you're not missing anymore," Steph retorted.  "Where were you, anyway?"  

"Closet.  I feel safer there."

Cass smiles at him, taking his hand again after he says it.

"Me same.  Safer," Cass agrees with an easy smile that he can't help but smile back up at.

Chapter Text

The other Bruce runs his hand through his hair for the umpteenth time that morning.  He hopes (he hopes) that Tim is still in the manor; losing another man's son is really not on his to do list for the day.  Dick is standing beside him, his arms crossed as they discuss where to look next.  

"Have you checked the cameras?" Dick asks.

"Yes.  He went into my room, but never came out.  But he's not there.  Cass and Steph already checked," Bruce sighs.

And speaking of them, he looks up as Cass and Steph appear in the doorway, shuffling slowly into the study.  

"Anything?"  He grunts, not looking at the girls as they come up beside them.

He rubs a hand over his face, grimacing at the feel of stubble.  He feels a hand on his arm, but doesn't look down.  It's probably Cass.  She's the most tactile of his children, outside of Dick. 

"Dad," Cass states.

Even in this time of stress, the word still makes him smile.  He doesn't deserve her, or any of the others. 

"Have you called Clark?" Dick asks.

"No," he admits with another sigh.  "But I will if I have to."

The hand on his arm slides down to wrap itself around his hand.  Small fingers.  His mind takes longer than it should to process that.

He looks down in surprise and his heart nearly stops for the second time that morning.  It's Tim.

"What!?" He hisses, dropping to his knees with a grunt.  "Tim!" He grabs the boy in a hug, ignoring the startled squeak that comes out of his throat. "Where have you been?!  We've looked everywhere.  Don't do that," he pleads, pulling away to stare urgently into the boy's eyes.  

Tim seems just as startled as he is, staring back at him in shock, seemingly frozen.

"Surprise!" Steph interjects, clapping her hands.  "It's a boy."

"What?" Bruce asks, not quite comprehending what she's trying to say.

"We find Tim," Cass adds, stepping up behind Tim and rubbing his fuzzy head.  

"Or, he found us when he bounced off of Cass," Steph mutters.

He makes himself let go of Tim's shoulders, but the boy doesn't move.  

"B?" Tim signs at last.  

"Where did you go last night?  Why did you leave your bed?  Why didn't you tell anyone?" Bruce questions, not caring that he's not leaving Tim enough time to answer.

"Saw D-A-M-I-A-N," Tim signs.  "I woke up alone.  I don't like being alone," Tim's lower lip wobbles for a moment.  "I usually sleep with my Bruce, but I didn't think you'd want me to bother you; so I went to your closet and slept there."

This Tim is so tiny and little and, dare he say, frail looking.  He doesn't wait for Bruce to answer, but instead shuffles forward and leans his face on his shoulder.  He's trembling. 

Bruce brings his hands up Tim's shoulders and hesitantly wraps him in a hug.  After a moment, he stands up with the little boy still in his arms.  Tim wriggles until he's perched on Bruce's hip, and then rests his little head on Bruce's shoulder.  

"Next time," Bruce suggests in a hoarse voice, "Just wake me up.  Please."

I couldn't live with myself if we lost you, he doesn't say.

"Hold up.  You say you saw Damian?" Dick asks.

Inexplicably, Tim flinches at the sound of Dick's voice.

"Tim, this is Dick.  He's my oldest son," Bruce decides to explain.  

Who knows if Tim has ever met the Dick of his world.  Although there are plenty of similarities, there are still differences too.

"I know who it is," Tim signs slowly, not looking at anyone.  "He doesn't like me."

Dick frowns and perches a hip on Bruce's desk, allowing him to look up at them.

"Why not, Baby Bird?" Dick asks.

Tim raises a shoulder up in a lopsided shrug.  

"Lots of people don't like me," he signs.  

His comment makes Bruce scowl.  

"We like you, Tim," Steph says, leaning down to look Tim in the eye.

"And I like you too," Dick adds, smiling gently at him.

"My dad doesn't.  My mom got pregnant, and he said they didn't need me anymore."

Bruce and Dick are now both scowling.  

"What happened then, Tim?" Dick asks in a kind voice.

Bruce sits down with Tim on the couch and then turns to watch his answer.

Cass sits in front of them on the floor, with Steph dropping down beside her after a moment of indecision.  Dick takes the spot to Bruce's side, facing Tim.  

Bruce feels his exhaustion try to take over, but he pushes through it. 

"Dad told me to get my stuff and then he drove to the gates out front and pushed me out," Tim signs quickly, not looking at any of them.  "He told me to go be someone else's problem.  Sorry."

"You're not a problem, Baby Bird," Dick says, sounding earnest as he leans into Bruce's side.  

Bruce pulls Tim up from where he's starting to slide behind him, and sets him on his lap.  Tim instantly buries his face in his shirt, small shoulders shaking.  

Bruce and Dick glance at one another in concern.  Cass readjusts herself onto her knees and reaches out to rub Tim's back.  

"Tim is brother.  Tim is family," Cass says, looking at Bruce with a frown.

"Then why doesn't your Tim live here?" Tim signs back, lifting his head to look at Cass and then Bruce with wide wet eyes.  

"He has parents," Bruce answers.  "He doesn't need a home."

Tim shakes his head in the negative, disagreeing with Bruce's words.  

"When he was younger, he had a nanny," Dick adds.

That makes Tim sit up and stare back at them piercingly. 

"When?  How long ago?"

"Um," Dick says, looking at Bruce. 

"Until this last year. Why?" 

Tim shakes his head again, little fingers pulling at the sleeve of Bruce's shirt.  

"Your Tim is lying, I think.  I haven't had a nanny since I was six, and I have autism.  If your Tim isn't like me--if he talks and is normal and stuff, there's no reason for him to have had a nanny.  Mom, J-A-N-E-T and J-A-C-K wouldn't have wasted the money on it."

"I don't think anyone has ever referred to our Tim as 'normal,'" Steph snorts from her spot on the floor.

Bruce gives her a warning look, but doesn't say anything.  His mind is too fixated on the possibilities that this Tim has raised.

"There was a paper trail for a nanny," Bruce argues half-heartedly.  

"I made one up a year ago in case CPS got involved.  No one asked questions."

--

Heat explodes behind them as the plant bursts outward around them, its viscera splattering warmly against the back of his cape and uniform.  S.W.A.T., of course, chooses then (of all times) to charge into their midst, filling the room with shouting and noise as pandemonium spreads around them.  He gathers the child up with one hand and grapples for the roof with the other, quickly flying above the madness with an almost manic drive.  He leaves Poison Ivy and the brothers to their fates and quickly escapes to the roof. He doesn't stop moving until he and the kid are ten rooftops away, the sound of sirens still ringing in his ears.

"Are you okay?" He asks when he feels a bit more steady.

The kid looks at him with a look of confusion, so he asks again.  Nothing.  He changes languages, and then goes through the different sign languages he knows.  Nothing.

They wind up staring at one another in silence, the sounds of sirens and his slowing breaths providing them with a backdrop. He moves slowly, watching as the kid's eyes follow him closely.

"Batman," he states slowly, putting his hand in the center of his chest.

Just as slowly, he gets his response.

"Cass," is her soft answer, as she too puts her hand on her chest.  

She's little and filthy, and he already knows he wants to take her home.  There's just something about her.  He doesn't want to put her through the trials of the city's foster system, and if she truly is non-verbal, she won't know how to follow his directions to get to the nearest Wayne supported shelter.  He could take her to Leslie's, but he really doesn't think that Leslie would be able to keep her safe.

The decision is taken from his hands as a new voice crackles into life on his intercom.

"B!" It's Tim.

"Why are you up?" He asks in a soft voice.

He doesn't want to scare off Cass, and he has a feeling that he could easily do that. 

"Never mind that, B!  That's Cass!  She's my sister.  You adopted her in my world.  You can't let her leave!"

And that's enough of a reason for him.  He mentally vows to talk to Tim about his sleeping habits later.

"Agent A?" He asks.

"I agree.  If you can get her home, then do so, please."

He offers her a protein bar and after a moment of staring, she grabs it, practically inhaling it as she does, and then they're back to staring at one another.  He squats down, and offers her his hand and another protein bar.  He has one more on him, and then he's down to the spare candy he sometimes gives out to street kids.  

As bait, is his wry thought.  

After a moment of staring at him, she takes both his hand and the protein bar.  She eats the second bar too, but slightly slower.  They head for the fire escape and he mimes that he wants to pick her up and they devolve into another staring contest.  Eventually she acquiesces, allowing him to carry her down the fire escape.  He conveniently forgets to put her down until he gets them back to the batmobile, and then he straps her in before doing up his own straps.

--

Back in the cave, Alfred eyes the other Tim in disapproval as he squirms in place beside him.

"Why are you up, Master Tim?"

"I--ah, I get wiggly sometimes.  Can't sleep.  Can't sit still.  I drink coffee at home for times like this.  Helps me relax enough to go back to sleep."

"Coffee helps you relax?" Alfred asks, looking dubious.

"Uh huh," Tim agrees shyly, looking at the floor.  "Or caffeine pills work too.  I can drink black coffee and nod right off, especially if it's strong enough."

"I can honestly say that it's not clear whether you're having me on or if this is a real thing for you," Alfred answers. 

"I wouldn't lie.  Not to you, Alfred," Tim says, finally looking at him.

"Hmph.  I will table that for the moment.  In the meantime, what can you tell me about our young visitor?"

Chapter Text

Cass stares in awe as the Batmobile stops and opens.  The space around her is massive, and holds so many spots to hide.  She almost darts off before remembering the large man beside her.  Batman.  She's known of him, in something of a vicarious manner, since she came to this place.  She doesn't know the name of the place, but she knows that it is dark and massive and seemingly chockfull of people.  She stayed because of the possibilities.  It's easy to hide here, even with the colorful people, and until tonight, she was content with not being involved.  She had found that the place with the plants was easy to hide in, and the workers, though they took notice of her, didn't seem to care if she stayed there, provided she stayed out of the way during the day. 

And then the woman with the bright hair came with the giant plant that tried to eat her.  She doesn't think she likes giant plants.  She's never had one try to eat her before now, but once is enough.  

She touches her stomach where bruises have formed from the plant things that wrapped around her.  Bruises that were made worse when Batman grabbed her.  And saved her.  And saved her again across the rooftops.  

It's enough for her not to run immediately once the car opens.  

There is a man-boy who comes up to meet them after Batman leaves the car.  He's small, but not as small as she is.  He is excitement, and wariness, and, she squints, exhaustion.  Deep exhaustion.  Like the kind she sees when she looks at her reflection.  He speaks to Batman in a low voice, but trails off when he sees her looking at him.  

She jumps out of the car after Batman releases her bindings.  

Batman puts a hand on the man-boy's chest and says a word, "Tim."

She watches Batman go to another man, an older man, who is coiled with danger, and wariness against a backdrop of kindness.  It's a strange combination.  Batman introduces him too.  He's Alfred.  

She turns away from him to watch Batman take off his mask.  Abruptly, her understanding of him changes.  Before, as Batman, it was wariness and protection and care, but now it's weary-kindness-guilt-sorrow-fierceness all rolled into one.  Understanding Batman feels like peeling away the layers of an onion.  She has no doubt that she'll see even more should she stay.  She doesn't know if she will.  She doesn't know his rules and that's frightening.

--

"I'm going back to bed," other Bruce says, making it to his feet with a groan.  

He moves to put Tim down, but Tim disagrees, grabbing onto Bruce's neck with a wild eyed sort of focus that makes Bruce stop and stare back.

"No?"  

"Go with you.  I have to show you something," Tim signs, careful not to get himself dropped.

He doesn't think this Bruce will drop him.  Probably not.

They stare at one another for a second, before Bruce's shoulders slump and he puts his arm back around Tim.  

"We're going to go talk in my bedroom, then," Bruce announces, glaring at his other children as if he thinks that's enough to dissuade them from following them.

"That's fine," Dick grins at him.  "I'm going to go wheedle some pancakes off of Alfred."

"Wheedle?" Cass asks as Bruce and Tim leave the room. 

Once they're back in Bruce's bedroom, Bruce walks them over to his bed and maneuvers himself under the covers.  Tim lets go of Bruce's neck and wiggles until his head is pillowed on Bruce's bicep.  

Bruce drags a hand down his face, looking absolutely exhausted as he does so.  Tim feels bad for inconveniencing him so much.  

"Sorry," Tim signs, not looking at Bruce.

"Just wake me up next time.  Everyone else does," Bruce mutters, pressing his palm into his eyes for a moment. "You care if I take off my sweatpants?"

"I'm not wearing pants either," Tim shrugs, pointing out his own boxer briefs that are hiding under his long sweatshirt.  

"I did notice that," Bruce says, pulling his sweatpants off and flinging them off the bed.  "What did you need to show me?"

"My-My J-A-C-K.  I can show you," Tim falters and then sits up, pulling off his shirt and turning his back to show this Bruce.

Bruce's fingers are featherlight as they trace the scars on his back.

"Jack did this?" Bruce asks faintly.  "Do I want to know how?"

Tim turns back to Bruce to find him looking conflicted, his brow furrowed as he stares at Tim.

"Belt," Tim signs, watching Bruce carefully.  

He hadn't been able to watch when he had told his Bruce, too distraught to look at anything, really.

This Bruce's face crumples at his answer, brief horror shining through his eyes before he schools his face and goes back to impassivity.  

"This is why I don't think your T-I-M is telling you the truth," he told Bruce seriously, before pulling his shirt back on.  

He emerges from his sweatshirt to find Bruce reaching for the lamp on his side table.  

"I'm going back to sleep for a while, and then we're going to talk about your parents some more."

--

Other Bruce lays in the dark for several long minutes, trying to process everything that's happened that morning, with varying levels of success.  Tim doesn't move from his side, but burrows closer instead, pressing his fuzzy head against his shoulder, very nearly in his armpit.  He obliges him by wrapping his arm around Tim's back and pulling him in close enough to hear his breathing.  

He doesn't understand why his Tim hasn't told him about Jack, if that's indeed what's going on.  No, he hadn't wanted to understand, he decides.  Or he hadn't, until now.  There are too many things coming to mind now that he's focused on it, too many things that don't make sense about his Tim's behavior surrounding his parents and his house, and too many things he hadn't asked about, because he truly hadn't wanted to know, hadn't wanted to figure out, because he's been too selfish to bear spending any energy thinking about it.

But now, with the pale shadow of his Tim resting against him, he can't help but think about it.  His Tim's actions from the previous day, for one.  His Tim had suited up, looking away from him, but he'd still been able to see his bruises, the marks on his face.  He didn't think that Tim was particularly clumsy, but children fell all the time on skateboards, didn't they?  His Tim might be good at skateboarding, he might not.  He didn't talk to Bruce about it, at any rate.

And why was that?  He thought angrily to himself.

Because he hadn't wanted to know, and he'd let Tim know it.  

He clenches his eyes tighter, against the recriminations his mind has started to supply against him.  

This Tim moves beside him, straining his little body, reaching out and putting a small hand over Bruce's eyes.  

And then he hears something surprising. 

Tim is humming, humming out loud, to Bruce.  It's a *lullaby, and Bruce is caught between the awe that Tim can sing, but also the shame that he was somehow able to pick up on the conflict roiling in Bruce's mind.  

More importantly perhaps, is the fact that no one, aside from Alfred, has tried to soothe him to sleep with a song since his parents were alive.  

It's terribly humbling.

--

Other Tim hadn't meant to wake up in the middle of the night and bother anyone, but as always, it wasn't really up to him.  His body had other ideas.  

He had tried pacing for a while, but it hadn't been enough, and after an hour or so of twisting in bed, of then staring at the unfamiliar patterns his eyelids made in the dark, he'd rolled back out of bed and headed for the cave.  And that's when he had caught sight of Batman's cowl footage broadcasting on the screen in front of Alfred, and he'd seen Cass.  She was small, far tinier than the Cass he'd ever known, even during No Man's Land, but she'd definitely been Cass, and he knew he couldn't let Batman just move on without her, not without trying at least.  Who knew when he'd get another chance?

Alfred had taken it upon himself to show Cass the showers, and that left Tim with Bruce, trying to explain how they'd met in his universe.

Except, that led to a conversation about No Man's Land, and now Bruce was taking notes, and Tim yawned, swaying on his feet.  His Bruce would never have noticed his exhaustion, not without Tim actually falling down (or just plain passing out), but this Bruce did, visibly startling, before standing up and offering a hand to Tim. 

"It's pushing 5 o'clock in the morning, Tim.  I'm so sorry that I didn't realize how late it had gotten."

And.  That's.  Tim feels like he's bluescreening.  

He can't do anything but blink in shock as Bruce leads him back to bed, his hand held tightly in his Bruce's gloved fist, the man having only unmasked and nothing further.  Bruce deposits him in bed, tucks him in (again!, Tim's mind unhelpfully points out) and then wishes him a good night.

"Feel free to sleep in a little," Bruce offers as he leaves the room.  "I know I will," Bruce adds softly enough that Tim is left wondering if he didn't just imagine it.

He can't help but go over the conversation one more time in his head before rolling over and burying his face in the pillow.  

--

Other Alfred is busy cleaning in the Batcave, mending some of Batman's suits, when the citywide alert goes off, the message being broadcast especially loudly on the cave's computer.

"ALERT! THERE HAS BEEN A BREAKOUT AT ARKHAM ASYLUM.  THE JOKER IS LOOSE.  REPEAT, THE JOKER IS LOOSE.  PLEASE HAVE YOUR GAS MASKS AT THE READY.  AVOID UNNECESSARY TRAVEL.  ALERT!  THERE HAS BEEN . . ."

"Damn," Alfred swears, going to the computer and silencing it before heading upstairs to wake Master Bruce. 

Chapter Text

Bruce manages another two hours of sleep before the city's alarms start blaring.  By the time Alfred has come in to get him up, he's already upright and grabbing his robe, hastily sparing a glance for Tim and then rushing back down the hallway.  The Joker, despite his opinion otherwise, is not a laughing matter.  He's honestly glad that he knows Tim is safe at home.  Damian is still at school, though, but he's certain his son will take whatever steps are necessary to stay safe, if not necessarily out of trouble.  

He comes across Dick and Steph in the hallway, both moving down to the Batcave with him.

"Where's Cass?" He asks.

"Think she's gonna stay behind with Tim," Dick tells him.

"You think that's necessary?" 

His mind is on logistics, and he'd rather put Black Bat to use on the streets.

"Given that it's Tim?" Dick scoffs, changing the hands on the clock.  "And he's already managed to get himself lost once today just within the manor?"

Okay, Cass may have a good point.

They're in the Batcave and heading for their individual suits.  Dick, luckily, has extras here.  Steph, unfortunately, does not.  She jumps on a motorcycle and roars off.

And why is that, Bruce? His newly awakened consciousness asks.  

He ignores it.  He'll focus on that issue later, after this immediate threat has been resolved.

He grabs a protein bar and chugs a bottle of water before pulling on his uniform.

Nightwing is at the computer when he emerges from the changing rooms, pulling up the latest reports.  

"Looks like's he's not gone underground yet," Nightwing offers, fingers flying across the keyboard.  

On the screen, Oracle pops in with another report.

"And I think I was promised pictures, was I not?" Her disembodied voice floats across the speakers.

"Of?" Batman asks, eyes tracking the reports popping up on the screen.

"Oh, Baby Timmy!" Nightwing realizes, slapping his forehead.  "I'll send some to you after we're en route." 

"You riding with me?" Batman grunts, already heading for the Batmobile.

"Yeah."

Once in the car, Nightwing sends Oracle a few shots of Tim, including a few of him asleep on Bruce's chest.

"When did you take those?" Batman asks, eyes narrowing as he turns on the engine.

"Oh, you know.  After we had pancakes, before the alert went off.  The usual," Nightwing says with a grin.  

Batman grunts, choosing not to argue the point.

--

Little Tim wakes up as Bruce runs out of the room.  Alfred waits for him to stretch and then he takes a minute to explain what's going on. 

"Cass is going to stay with you while I pick up Damian from school.  They've issued an early release, given that it's the Joker."

Tim nods.  

"They do the same thing in my Gotham," he signs, sliding off the bed carefully.

"I took the liberty of washing your overalls," Alfred says, striding out of the room only to return a moment later.

They're still warm and Tim hugs them to his face for a minute, breathing in the familiar scent of Alfred's laundry detergent, which is thankfully the same in both worlds.

"Thank you," he signs, pulling them up and back over his hoodie.

"Might I suggest you have some late lunch?"

He nods, padding after Alfred down the hall and then downstairs, where he finds Cass sitting at the table, eating nachos with a vast spread of toppings.

"Normally I wouldn't consider nachos to be particularly healthy, but Cass has argued the point, and I really don't have the time to disagree at the moment.  Of course, there are other options in the refrigerator to choose from."

"I like nachos," he signs.  "Is there anything else I should avoid eating?"

"Master Tim usually avoids onions," Alfred offers over his shoulder, already striding off in the direction of the car garage.

"Tim!" Cass shouts after he slides into a seat next to her.  

He grins back, feeling shy.

"Seven layer dip. Alfred made," she offers, sliding the dish over.  "Tasty."

He gets on his knees, prepared to serve himself, but she offers to do it, and he sits back in his spot.  

"Baby brother," she says, scooping up a serving of nachos and dip for him.  "Need to get big.  Strong."

"I'm not a baby," he signs a bit petulantly, only pouting a little bit.

She puts the serving spoon down and leans over, reaching out for him.  He nods and she hugs him, kissing his forehead. 

"Baby."

He sighs, resigning himself to it.  Abruptly, he's glad that she and his Jason aren't friends.  He doesn't want to imagine them ganging up on him.  

"Does your T-I-M have a laptop?" He asks, suddenly thinking of something.

"It's probably in his room," Cass signs, her mouth too full to talk.

"Here?"

She nods.

After lunch, they clear the table and put away the food, and then he heads back for other Tim's room, Cass on his heels.  

"I'm just going to be boring for a bit, provided I can find his laptop at all," he signs.

He doesn't know how to tell her that she should probably go entertain herself elsewhere.  

"I have my phone.  Will play."

He shrugs.  It doesn't bother him either way, and to be honest, he's glad enough not to be alone.  

Once in the room, he digs under the bed and is gratified to find other Tim's laptop right where he normally would have put his own.  He opens it up, and sees that Tim has it locked with a fingerprint.  He pumps his fist silently, pleased when he's able to get in relatively easily.  From there, he digs through his alternate's files, trying to figure out exactly what other Tim knows of Jason.  His files are extensive, and several times Tim gets distracted on an unrelated tangent, causing him to have to double back and try to pick up where he had been before.  

Beside him, Cass hums to herself on her phone, watching videos on near silent or playing some sort of game that looks like some kind of knock off Candy Crush.  He tries to keep aware of the room, so he's not surprised when Damian and Alfred get back, but also so he can spot when or if Cass starts getting bored of him.  He doesn't want to accidentally push her away.  

He follows the pathways his other self has laid out and finally (finally!) finds what he's looking for.  Other Tim had taken all of the known sightings of Red Hood and worked out a map of where he suspected his safehouses were.  He had apparently been in the process of confirming each of the theories when they'd switched places.  The file save dates for the Red Hood files were all from a couple of days ago, so he knew they were probably pretty accurate still.  Other Tim had confirmed three of his seven probable safehouses, and had furthermore determined that safehouse #2 looked the most lived in of the three confirmed sites.  

Now, it was only a question of finding a time to slip out and track down his brother.

--

BOOM!

Batman watched as a second explosion rocked the docks.  He and Nightwing had split up in an effort to more fully cover the real estate.  They had had six Joker sightings in this area, and another three in Crime Alley, which was being covered by Red Hood and Spoiler.  They were down two people, with Robin and Black Bat off the streets, and he was left wondering why he had agreed to let Black Bat stay at home.

"Nightwing, report!" He shouts into his comm.

Static.

"Oracle, do you have eyes on Nightwing?" Batman growls out, already grappling to where Nightwing's signal was.  

"Hold on," Oracle returns, sounding harassed.  "Two of my three cameras were knocked offline with that last explosion.  The third isn't showing anything useful."

"I'm closest to the docks," Spoiler offers.  "Do you need assistance?"

"Oracle, get ahold of Black Bat and get her out here," he instructs as he lands hard next to the ruins of the factory Nightwing's signal was still pinging from.  "Spoiler, meet me at these coordinates to perform search and rescue.  Tell--Ask Red Hood to keep patrolling."

--

Next to Tim, Cass's phone starts buzzing and she sits up abruptly, her back stiffening at the message blinking on her screen.

"Gotta go, baby brother," Cass says before jumping gracefully off the bed and running off.  "Dad needs me," she calls out as she goes.

Tim gets up too, pulling his boots on and heading for the hallway.  He hears a thumping sound and turns to find Damian stomping up the stairs, a foul expression on his face.  

"I offered my help to Pennyworth, but he believes my time would be better spent babysitting you," Damian all but spits, throwing his bag and blazer into his room.  

"He said that?!" Tim signs, horrified.  

"More or less," Damian sniffs, pushing past him to head for the media room.  

Tim didn't move, causing Damian to glare at him.  

"Ah, boys," Alfred says brightly, as if he hasn't just walked into a showdown between them.  

"I don't need a babysitter," Tim says before anyone has a chance.  "Damian doesn't need to spend time with me."

He'd really rather not, if it's all the same to Alfred.

"That's what I said," Damian adds, turning to glare expectantly at Alfred.

"Perhaps you could find a movie to watch together?" Alfred asks, as if they hadn't spoken.  "I'm needed in the Batcave."

"Why together?" Damian asks, looking speculatively at Alfred.

Tim watches Alfred and sees him glance his way.

"I'm not a baby.  I'm not going to get lost."

"Both of you have a history--and yes, that includes your counterpart--of getting involved with things that we would prefer you stay out of," Alfred admits.

Tim scowls.  

"Just until the situation on the docks is under control, Master Damian.  Then I'll be back upstairs," Alfred says, smiling apologetically at Tim.

"What's happening on the docks?"

Alfred doesn't answer him, instead turning and hurrying down hallway.

"This is your fault!" Damian hisses at him.

"Sounds like it's just as much your fault!" Tim says, stomping over to glare at the other boy.  

"At least I'm not an incompetent baby!" Damian retorts.

Tim rolls his eyes and stalks off in the other direction, back toward his room.  

"You're so weak and soft.  I can see why your parents didn't want you," Damian calls out.  

Tim stops in his tracks, feeling his hackles rise over the other boy's comments.

"You don't know anything," he signs after turning back around.  

He can feel his skin getting hot.

"I bet they don't even miss you," Damian taunts.  

He's clenching his hands tight enough to dig his fingernails into his palms.

"Why would they?  Bet they can't stand you," Damian adds with a laugh, coming up right into Tim's space.  "Just the same as our Tim.  Stupid.  Worthless.  Boring.  Weak.  Nobody wants you around, and we won't miss you when you're gone.  You're a nothing.  A waste on Father's resources. I bet--."

Tim doesn't bother to listen to what Damian says next, too fired up to continue ignoring the other boy.  

If he had been able to spare a moment to think about it, he might have realized that his reaction was a long time in coming. He hadn’t reacted when his father had said the same things, or when he had explained it to his Bruce or this Bruce (the first or the second time). He could even argue that it had been building for the majority of his life, watching as the others around him were constantly chosen in favor of him, how the stressors around him kept building and he kept gaily striving forward regardless. 

Until now. 

He doesn’t think about it as that moment is reached. He gives himself over to the fire he can feel in his veins, over to the roar he hears in his ears as he finally reacts to everything that’s happened over the past few weeks. Damian might have been the trigger, but he’s not the entire reason. 

His vision turns red and he mentally checks out for a moment. He watches himself as he grabs Damian’s arm, his movements more sure and steady than normal. He grabs Damian’s arm and yanks it up, and he knows that Damian’s not expecting it, his expression shifting quickly to shock, as Tim brings that arm up to his mouth and chomps him hard. 

He comes back to himself with the taste of blood in his mouth, the sensation of his ear swelling up from the repeated punches to the side of his head, Alfred’s suddenly there again, pushing a thumb into the hinge of his jaw to make him involuntarily release Damian’s arm from his mouth. 

He’s on the floor spitting blood on the carpet, not quite able to hear the sound of Damian screaming a mixture of English and Arabic at him, his arm covered in blood and Tim’s saliva. And then he’s up, shellshocked and mildly disassociating as he stumbles down the hall, away from Damian, away from the moment entirely. 

Chapter Text

Tim stumbles to other Tim's room.  He can hearing Alfred and Damian out in the hall still, but he doesn't pay them any mind.  If his alternate is anything like himself, then he has a hidden cache of money somewhere in the room.  

He checks inside the chest of drawers first, and then goes back under the bed.

There!  The tip of one of his fingertips has caught on something under the bottom edge of the bedframe.  He slides further under the bed and peels away at the bit of tape he's found.  Underneath, rolled up tightly against the metal is a roll of cash.  It's $100, in tens and twenties.  He's sure that there are another two or three similar spots within the room, if he cared enough to check, but he doesn't need them, not now.  

The side of his head is swelling from where Damian hit him, and his eye has already closed on that side.  He squints with his good eye into the hallway, and when he's certain that Alfred isn't looking, he skirts past them.  He goes downstairs to the kitchen and spends a few minutes rinsing and spitting at the sink before drinking a glass of water.  Normally, he'd bring a bottle of water with him, but his head is a bit muddled and he can't quite remember where the extra bottles are at present.  

He grabs the notepad that lives on the refrigerator, the one that Alfred writes his grocery lists on, and scrounges in his pockets for his stub of pencil.  He leaves the pad on the countertop next to the sink and scribbles a short message on the top sheet.  

'Gone to find my brother Jason - Tim' he writes, trying to be neat enough for someone to actually be able to read.

Then he leaves it next to the sink where the Bruce in his universe always leaves messages for their Alfred.  He goes to the front door and grabs the smallest gas mask that's hanging there.  It's probably Damian's, and wouldn't that just be the best irony ever.  

He loops it through one of the straps on his overalls, and then takes his money and divvies it up across his body, partially inside his hoodie, and the rest in various front facing pockets on his overalls. Then he makes his way down the driveway, only pausing briefly at the end of the path to realize he hasn't brought any paper with him.  He mentally frets for a second and then shrugs. It's too late to go back for it now, and the last bus will be leaving in roughly 30 minutes, provided the bus schedules are the same here.

He scratches his head as he walks, not realizing that his head is actually still bleeding until he looks down to see the blood caked under his fingernails.

Whoops, as his Jason would say, usually with a big shit eating grin.

He misses his Jason a lot.  

The bus comes right when he's expecting it, and the bus driver opens the doors up with a pensive frown.

"You know the Joker is loose, don'tcha?" He says, looking down where Tim is standing.  "And don't take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.  I hope I'm taking you to the hospital?"

He shakes his head in the negative and clambers up the steps.  He pulls the money out that he owes the driver and then mimes writing something down.  The bus driver fumbles for a pen and a scrap piece of paper and hands it over, then hands him back his change. 

"Thank you," he signs, before glancing down the aisle.

He's the only passenger, which isn't surprising, considering the circumstances.

'I'm going to go stay with my older brother for a bit,' he scribbles out.  

He hands the note over with the pen and then looks at the man expectantly.

The bus driver sighs and then nods to one of the seats.

"Go on then.  At least you have a mask.  If you didn't, I think I'd tell you to find a different route."

He nods and sits down.  The bus starts with a lurch and he leans his head back, ignoring the new spike of pain that it causes him.

--

Other Batman rappels down into the hole that has opened up under the factory.  It's the fifth spot he's climbed down in as many minutes, and he's beginning to get a little more worried.  

"B!" Spoiler calls out over his comm.

"What is it?" He asks tersely.  

"I think I've found him."

The wave of relief that floods his system makes him shiver slightly, but then he's up and moving to the side of the site that Spoiler was searching.  Black Bat is still en route, but her ETA is less than two minutes.  

He climbs into the pit that Spoiler indicates over the comms, and then has to shimmy down the hole she has apparently made in the debris.  He finds her straining against a stack of corrugated metal panels, and he jumps in to help once he realizes what's going on.  Together, they work to free Nightwing from the rubble, and after he's gotten the portable neck brace on, he carefully pulls his son up from the wreckage.  

"Good work, Spoiler," he manages, wincing as she looks at him in surprise.

"Who are you?" She whispers as he walks past, carefully carrying Nightwing with him.  

At the edge of the site, Black Bat is waiting for them, the Batmobile idling beside her.  

Black Bat opens the Batmobile for them, and he places Nightwing carefully inside.  He sets the autopilot for the cave, and calls Agent A to let him know who's coming. 

"Sir," Agent A answers, sounding flustered. 

Spoiler and Black Bat freeze next to him at the unusual sound, and he puts his hand on the side of the car without thinking.

"What's wrong?"

"We've had an incident here."

He looks at Black Bat and Spoiler, his lips thinning in distaste as he waits for Agent A to elaborate.

"I had left the boys to return to the cave, but I heard screaming before getting completely downstairs.  I rushed back in time to pry Master Tim off of Master Damian."

"What," Batman growls, nonplussed.

"It seems that Master Damian decided to taunt Master Tim, and he, well it seems that he pushed Master Tim too far, and Tim retaliated by biting him.  He drew blood, and I am administering stitches at the moment."

Spoiler's mouth drops open a little bit in response.

"Agent A," Batman asks, mind whirling.  "Where is Tim now?"

"I'm checking the manor's feeds," Agent A responded, still sounding harried.

"I'm going to return to the cave," Batman decides, hopping in the Batmobile with one hand.  "Keep searching for the Joker, but do not engage.  Understand me?" He glares at Black Bat and Spoiler until they both nod. 

He sighs and puts the car in gear, the top closing overhead. 

It's another two minutes--two very long minutes--before Alfred finally responds. 

"Sir," Alfred has switched to the secure private line just between the two of them. "He's not in the manor."

Batman growls and hits the gas, switching the car back to manual control at the same time.

-- 

Batman looks up at the cave monitors as his alarms blare.  It's Constantine responding to him at last.

He switches from rereading the letter he's written to the other Bruce, and opens a line to him.

"Constantine," he bites out, with no care for niceties.  "Where the hell have you been?"

"Nice to see you too," Constantine laughs as he slides into view onscreen.  "What do you need?"

He stands up and lightly punches the desk.  

"I need my son back," he says with a growl.  "And you're going to help me do that."

"Ah."

"When can you get over here?" It's not really as much of a question as it is a demand.

"Can I open a portal straight to you?" 

"Yes," Batman says, messaging Alfred to come down with Tim.  

"Be there in two," Constantine states before the screen goes dark.

The portal flares into being right as he hears footsteps on the stairs.  It's Tim, but he's got Alfred, Jason and Cass with him as well.  He's still wearing the red long sleeved shirt he'd gotten the first day there, with some of Jason's old jeans.  They're only a little short, as opposed to Dick's old jeans, which are all at least a foot too long for Tim's shorter frame.  

"Constantine," Batman greets, stepping up into the other man's space.  "Did you know what was going to happen when you talked to us on the Watchtower?"  

How Constantine answers will determine whether he drives a fist into the man's face.  

The man seems to realize the danger he's in and quickly steps backward out of immediate reach.

"I knew that something was going to happen, and I had reason to suspect it would have to do with interdimensional travel.  There were an unusual number of dimensional fluctuations happening around your kid."

"Why did you warn us?" 

"Besides the fact that I'm a nice guy?" 

Tim snorts from where he was standing beside Alfred.

"Okay, fair," Constantine barks a laugh.  "Believe it or not Batman, but that kid of yours was fascinating to look at--I mean his aura was, good grief, man," Constantine says as Batman steps closer to him with a menacing growl.  "You don't see pure auras like that very often, and hell, even I know that you don't mess around with that kind of thing.  I gave you a warning because I didn't want you to freak out.  Sometimes fate decides to fuck around with people, and we don't have a whole lot of control," Constantine adds, looking sour for his statement.  

"And where have you been since then?" Batman asks.  

"Hell," Constantine spits, abruptly looking exhausted.

"Okay."

--

Tim's bus driver almost doesn't let him off when he stands up at the Park Row stop.  

"Kid," the man sounds worried.

He flashes him a double thumbs up and pats his mask.  The streets are nearly deserted anyway.  No one wants to run afoul of the Joker.  

"You'll go straight to your brother's place, right?" The man asks, his hand on the button for the door.  "No detours."

He crosses his heart for good measure.

"Jesus, kid.  If I see your face on the evening news . . ."  the man trails off, opening the door with a wince.

He hurries down the steps before the man can change his mind, and sets off for the safehouse he memorized the address for earlier that afternoon.  He hears the bus close up behind him, driving off slowly, the driver no doubt watching him as he scurries away.  It kind of makes him feel warm inside, but he pushes that thought out of his head and tries to keep to the shadows.  It might still be daytime for another hour or so, but the streets are eerily quiet.  

He makes it another block before slowly feeling the eyes.  Someone's watching him, so he walks faster.  He's almost there, it's just another alleyway and he has to cross the street.  He makes it across the crosswalk just as a hand comes out of the shadows and yanks him hard into the narrow alleyway between the two buildings in front of him. 

"Whatcha doin' kid?  Sure is a lousy day to be takin' a walk," the large scruffy man in front of him says.  

He's swinging a pipe in one hand, his hand still gripping Tim's arm too tightly to be anything other than uncomfortable.

"Ain't got nothin' to say?" The man shakes him hard enough to make his headache bloom back to full force.  

He can't help but whimper a little at the lightning bolt of pain that shoots through his good eye.  He shifts and throws an elbow backward into the man's ample gut, stomping on his foot hard before twisting out of his grasp and running.  He makes it a foot or two, before getting yanked back by the back of his hood.  He makes a loud, "URK" sound as it cuts off his airway.  

"You're gonna pay for that," the man growls, raising his pipe.  

"No," says a new mechanical sounding voice, "You are."

A gun fires and the pipe is suddenly flying out of the man's hand, rolling harmlessly away down the alleyway.

"R-Red Hood," the man stutters, letting go of Tim's hood as he does.

Tim doesn't waste anytime scrambling farther away.

"What's my rule about kids, Scranton?" Red Hood growls, stalking towards him.  

"Not to?" Scranton whimpers, raising his hands in surrender.

Tim looks away as Red Hood's gun goes off again.  The man screams, and when Tim looks back, he's on the ground clutching his bleeding knees.

"And you!  What the hell are you doin' out?" Red Hood spits out, whirling on him.  

"J!" He signs, running towards him.  

He grabs Jason around the waist and hugs him tight.  It's been so long.

"What the hell, kid?" Red Hood says in a softer voice.  

He's sobbing.  He can't help it.  He's inconsolable as Jason puts a big gloved hand on top of his head.

"Who hurt you?" Red Hood growls, reaching up and turning off the voice modulator in his helmet.

He can't answer.  He just hugs tighter until Red Hood leans over and scoops him up, setting him on his hip to look more closely at him.

"Brother," he signs.  "J-A-S-O-N, I missed you so much."

Chapter Text

Batman jumps out of the Batmobile and moves to help Alfred in getting Nightwing on a stretcher to carry over to the medbay.  Damian is already there, still looking a bit worse for wear as they walk past.  There's a bandage on his forearm, but the most noticeable thing is his silence.

"Damian," Batman turns toward him once he's certain that Alfred doesn't need him.  "What were you thinking?"

"I . . . I was angry, Father.  I thought I was being relegated to the manor because you needed someone to watch Drake.  Our Drake doesn't ever retaliate, so I thought the same would be true for this one."

"We've asked him not to retaliate, since he's older and bigger than you," Batman explains with a frown.  

"I see.  I fear I may have misjudged his character.  I thought he was a coward.  I didn't know he had orders not to engage."

"Hn," Batman grunts, glancing back at Nightwing.  

"Master Bruce," Alfred says without looking at him.  

"Alfred?"

"I put a tracker in Master Tim's overalls.  Might I suggest using it to find our wayward child?"

"I could kiss you Alfred," Batman announces, jumping to his feet.

"I'd rather you didn't, Master Bruce, at least not until I have Master Dick in better shape."

"Ew," Damian says, wrinkling his nose.

Batman's not listening, he's already striding to the batcomputer.  

It only takes a few minutes to find the tracker, and to realize exactly where it's sitting.

He swears under his breath, but somehow Alfred hears him and turns to look at him with a frown.

"What is it?  Where is he?" 

"He's in Crime Alley."

--

They're in Jason's safehouse #2, sitting on his couch.  Tim is sitting in Jason's lap, actually, since he's refused to let go of him since being rescued by the man.  Jason's helmet is on the floor by his feet.

"Okay, let me get this straight," Jason says.  "You're Tim Drake, but from another dimension."

He nods, wincing when the motion makes his head ache.

"Who knocked your face in?" Jason asks, standing back up, Tim still in his arms.

He walks them into the kitchen and pulls out an ice pack from the refrigerator, and wraps an old hand towel around it before putting it against Tim's face.

"D-A-M-I-A-N."

Jason scowls.

"What happened?"

"He said that my parents didn't want me because I'm weak and stupid and a bunch of other stuff like that," he signs, huffing aloud, still upset about it. 

Jason walks them back to the couch and sits down, turning him sideways so that the ice pack is wedged between his face and Jason's shoulder.

"And what'd you do in return? Please tell me you did something."

"I bit him."

Jason snorts, covering his mouth when his mirth threatens to boil over into actual laughter.

"That's amazing, Timbers.  Now, who did you say you live with in your dimension?"

"B and you and A-L-F-R-E-D," he signs.  

"How old is other me?" 

"Thirteen."

Jason whistles.

"Has he ever been to Ethiopia?"

"No?"

"Good.  Don't let him."

"Okay."

"And you like your Bruce?"

Tim nods, trying not to displace the ice pack.

"He gives me and Jason lots of hugs, and he sits with me when I'm sick.  And he bought me my first ever plushie, and we watch movies together!  He gave me Jason's old boots!" He signs excitedly. 

He points to his Batman rainboots that they left by the door when they came in.

Jason lets out a gasp of surprise at the sight.

"I once tried to wear a pair of boots just like those during my first month of being Robin.  Bruce . . . he didn't agree with the idea.  I wouldn't have thought he'd have kept them," Jason admits with a frown. 

"My Jason is learning ASL for me.  He's gotten a lot better really fast."

Jason nods at this, but his eyes are still on Tim's boots.

"I wish our Tim was like you," Jason says softly, looking back at him finally.

"He is!" Tim signs forcefully, dislodging the ice pack.  

"No, Timlet, our Tim is a stuck up rich kid who stole my spot.  You're nothing like him," Jason growls.

"No, J-A-S-O-N.  He's not.  His parents are just like mine."

"How's that?"

"They're gone for months straight.  He's all alone in that house by himself.  B thought that he had a nanny, but he couldn't have!  I haven't had a nanny since I was six, and he can talk and everything!"

"Baby, you're talkin' just fine to me," Jason tries to smile, but his eyes are distant.  

It's Jason's thinking face.

"Check the dates of when they're in the country.  I bet B hasn't even had to tell them that their T-I-M is missing.  I've been kidnapped twice, and I only got back because the kidnappers felt bad about taking a little kid who didn't talk and whose parents wouldn't pay the ransom for," his lip starts wobbling. "They disowned me, because my mom--J-A-N-E-T is pregnant, so they don't need me anymore."

--

Batman finds the apartment easily enough.  It's one of the locations that his Tim had tagged in the Batcomputer as a possible home base for Red Hood.  There's only three windows currently lit up, which makes it easier to narrow down little Tim's location.  And somehow he gets the right apartment on his first try.  It's his first lucky break of the day.  

He breaks in easily enough, the locks on the windows complex, but doable, and he disables the sensors in the process.  But as he climbs in, he's met with the sound of a gun cocking.  

"Did you know you're breaking and entering?" A helmetless Red Hood stands in the middle of the floor, a small figure standing behind him.

"I just--," he stops, staring.  

This close, he can see the man behind the helmet and the sight makes him feel like his heart is breaking all over again. 

"Jay?" He asks, breathlessly.

He holds his hands open in an attempt to show that he doesn't mean any harm.  

From behind Jason, little Tim peeks his head out.  He waves at Batman.  

"Tim?" Batman licks his lips.  "Why--."

"Don't look at him.  Look at me," Jason orders, voice rough.  "I want to know what you think you're doing, letting someone as dangerous as Damian have unfettered access to Tim.  Look what your son did to his face."

Tim slides further out from behind Jason and Batman gasps at the sight.  Tim's eye is swollen shut, his ear twice its normal size. 

"I didn't know."

"What's your excuse this time?" Jason growls, his gun never wavering.

"Nightwing," Batman whispers.  "He was trapped."

"Is he okay?" Tim signs.  

"I don't know yet.  He's still unconscious."

"Typical Batman behavior," Jason spits.  "Trying to save the world while failing to save the people he proclaims to care for the most." 

He doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing.

"I tried to save you, Jason.  I'm sorry.  I'm so damned sorry," Batman manages, his voice breaking.  "There's not a day that goes by that I don't regret what happened."

Jason opens his mouth to retort, but he's cut off by the sight of a shimmering portal opening in the room.  Another Batman appears within it before stepping through, looking wildly around the room.

--

((at some point, I'm just going to start referring to our Batman as "Bruce" and the other just as "Batman"))

Tim shrieks at the sight and darts out from behind Jason and over to his Batman, throwing himself forward.  Batman grabs him and pulls him up into his arms, kissing his head repeatedly as Tim wraps his legs around his stomach and sobs for the second time in an hour.  This time though, he doesn't calm down as quickly, just keeps crying, his crying nearly hysterical as they are finally reunited.  

His Batman runs his hands over his head and back, rocking him side to side as his tears finally began to slow.  As Tim's cries die down, they begin to be able to hear the man's words.

"Oh sweetheart, I missed you so much.  My sweet sweet boy.  What happened to your face?  I'm here now.  It's all going to be okay.  I've got you, my sweet sweet boy."

The new Batman turns toward Jason.

"Who are--Jason!?" The new Batman exclaims, eyes widening behind his mask.  

Jason's shoulders slump and after a pause, he holsters his gun.  

"I guess that's that," Jason murmurs, sitting back down on the couch and putting his head in his hands.

"Where's my Tim?" The other Batman asks, stepping forward. 

After a moment, he reaches up and pushes off his cowl.  His hair is stuck to his head, the circles under his eyes so pronounced that his skin almost looks bruised.

Tim's Batman reaches up and pushes his own cowl off as well.  The difference between the two is stark, despite the physical difference of only five or six years.  Tim's Bruce has never lost one of his sons to the whims of a madman, and it shows in his countenance. The weight on his shoulders, especially now that he has his Tim back, is quite a bit less than the man standing opposite him.  Other Batman is tired and it shows.  

"He doesn't think you want him back," Bruce tells Batman in a quiet voice.  

Jason looks up at that statement, eyes glittering as he waits for Batman to respond.

"Take me to him," Batman pleads.  "Please."

Bruce studies him for a moment before nodding at the portal.

"After you," Bruce says, waving him forward.

Batman steps through without another thought, reappearing in the other man's Batcave a second later.

Bruce steps through the moment after, his Tim still in his arms.

"Tim!" Jason shouts.

Batman turns and does a doubletake at the sight.  Jason, a much younger Jason, rushes forward and throws himself at Bruce and their Tim, turning it into a group hug.  A moment later, a younger Alfred joins the huddle.  Apart from the group hug stands two more figures.  One is what looks like a very tiny Cass, and next to her is his Tim.  

His Tim's face is still bruised, but the marks have started fading into a myriad of green and purple shades.

Batman rushes forward and kneels down in front of him, reaching for his hands.  He holds his Tim's hands and looks into his boy's face for a very long moment.  

"I'm sorry, Tim," Batman manages, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"B, you don't have to--," Tim mutters, looking embarrassed, but also quietly pleased.

"No.  I do," he disagrees. "I'm so sorry I didn't realize.  I'm sorry I didn't ask," Batman swallows hard, looking down as tears swim in his vision.  He shakes his head and makes himself look back up.  "I'm sorry I didn't try to ask.  I've missed you so much, and it occurred to me that you would never know because I've been an idiot."

"Oh no, B.  No.  I didn't say anything.  It's my fault," Tim says, shaking his head, still looking uncomfortable.

"No, baby.  It's my fault.  I'm sorry.  I've thought of you as my son for so long, and I didn't think--." 

Tears drip down his face, unbidden.  Tim looks both fascinated and horrified at the same time.

"I didn't think that you needed me anywhere as much as I needed you," Batman finally manages, squeezing Tim's hands gently.  

His Tim is shaking.

"I've thought of you as my son ever since you first entered my life, sweetheart.  And I'd," Batman swallows hard.  "I'd be honored if you'd join my family.  Formally. Forever.  As long as you'll have me.  Us."

Tim is crying silently, his shoulders hitching gently.  

"What do you say, son?" 

He doesn't have long to wait.  Tim wrenches his hands free just to throw them around Batman's neck.  

Batman pulls him in closely, squeezing him tightly. 

"I don't want you going back to those people ever again.  Your home is with me, with us.  Please say yes, son."

Tim nods his head against his shoulder rapidly.  

And in a move reminiscent of Bruce and little Tim, Batman stands, pulling his Tim up with him in his arms.  His Tim wraps his arms around his neck and his legs around his waist, still crying into his neck.  Batman keeps his arms wrapped around his son, not letting go as he turns around and heads back to the portal.  He catches Constantine standing at the edge of his vision, watching silently as he prepares to exit.  

Beside him, Bruce extricates himself (and Tim) from the hug and strides over to his side, reaching for something at the back of his utility belt and then handing it over.  It's an envelope. 

"Just a few observations," Bruce mutters, pushing it into Batman's fingers.

"Tim, you okay?" Bruce asks other Tim.

Tim nods, his face still pressed into Batman's neck.  

"Don't screw this up," Bruce says to him, briefly dropping into Batman's range, his blue eyes dark with promise.  

"I understand," Batman murmurs, walking back to the portal.

He turns before walking through.

"Did you know that your Tim can sing?" He asks with a wry smile.

And then they're gone.

Chapter Text

Jason is gone from the apartment when Batman and Tim step back through the portal.  The glowing ring they came through closes up shortly thereafter as well.  Batman pulls his cowl back up, but doesn't let his boy down.  He carries him out of the building and then to the Batmobile.  Tim doesn't show any sign of wanting to be alone when they get in the car, so he moves the seat back from the wheel and puts it on autopilot.  

"Is Dick okay?" Tim finally manages to ask, his voice hoarse and wet sounding.

"I don't know," Batman rumbles.  "But we can ask."

He calls Alfred.

"I have our Tim back, Alfred.  We'll tell you more about it at the cave."

"Oh, thank God," Alfred murmurs, looking them both over carefully.  "And what of little Master Tim?"

"He's home with his Batman," Batman says.  

It was a good trade off, but he still felt a pang at leaving him.

Tim shifts on his chest. Batman frowns, but doesn't say anything.  He knows his chest armor isn't the most comfortable to rest against.  

"How's Nightwing?"

"We're just waiting for him to wake up now.  He has a broken leg and three broken ribs, as well as a number of lacerations.  All in all, he was very lucky."

Batman lets out a sigh of relief.  

"We'll be back soon.  Have you heard anything from the girls?"

"They have disabled two more bombs, but there haven't been any further sightings of the Joker."

"Well, tell them to keep their eyes open."

He'll decide if he's going back out after they get back to the cave. Even though it's obvious that Tim is uncomfortable, he still hasn't let go of him, and if he continues to be this clingy back in the cave, then Batman may have no choice but to stay with him.  The Joker is important to find, but three of his kids are already on his trail, and honestly, Tim's behavior is unusual enough that he really doesn't have the heart to leave him yet (nor does he want to).

--

Little Tim waits for Bruce outside the showers in the Batcave, Jason and the tiny version of Cass sitting with him.  Alfred is preparing the media room for a movie night, which will probably end up turning into a sleepover in Bruce's bed.  Tim wants to keep all of his people close, and he's not willing to take no for an answer.

Jason has been telling him about his alternate self, and he nods along with the story, adding what he knows from time to time.  Little Cass just watches them both quietly, probably confused, but oddly peaceful.  

"I've been teaching her ASL," Jason says, smiling at them both.  "It's helping me get better too, because I've been having to look up stuff and practice more than I already was."

Tim smiles back at his big brother.  

"What have you taught her so far?" He signs.

"We're working on the alphabet, and some basic signs like, 'Stop, more, yes, no.' That sort of thing.  Basics to begin with," Jason says, signing what he knows as they go.

Cass smiles at them, her eyes lighting up anytime she recognizes a word.

Bruce steps out from the showers, his robe already on and cinched tight as he smiles at the three children waiting there for him.

"Ready?  I just need to go upstairs and get dressed, but then I can meet you in the media room," Bruce says, offering his hands to Cass and Tim.  

Tim takes him up on it, but Cass lags behind, eventually taking Jason's hand when he offers it to her.  Tim skips beside Bruce until they get to the stairs, then he slows down, taking them at a moderate pace.  

"I think I'll ask Alfred to get you another ice pack before we start the movie.  You said that the other Jason already iced your face for a bit?"

"Yes.  Do you think I could have a pain killer too?  My head still throbs."

Bruce frowns at that, but doesn't say anything.  

Upstairs, he sends them on while he diverts to his bedroom.  While he's getting dressed, he has a thought and stops and makes a phone call.

Halfway through the movie (The Little Mermaid), they're all surprised when the doorbell rings.  

Alfred leaves the room to check on it, and he comes back a few minutes later, another person following in his wake.

It's Dick.

Tim stiffens from where he's sprawled on Bruce, but he doesn't react otherwise.  Dick comes over to where they are and kneels down in front of them. 

"Hi, Baby Bird," Dick starts, smiling gently at him.  

Tim waves tentatively. He's trying to be openminded.  Dick's alternate had been really nice to him, and it makes it easier to give this Dick a second try.

Dick takes a deep breath and lets it out in a big sigh.  

"I can't tell you how sorry I am that you got hurt in the fight between me and Bruce.  It was never my intention for you to think I was mad at you too.  I was only mad at Bruce, but I can see why you were affected."

"No shit, Sherdick," Jason mutters from beside Tim, getting a warning look from Bruce. 

"It's hard to respond calmly when your father figure keeps spontaneously adopting children and then not telling you about it."

Tim nods.  He understands that feeling all too well.  His mother and father had replaced him and it felt terrible.

He tells that to Dick, and watches his face crumple.

"I'm sorry that happened to you.  It's not right."

"Did Bruce apologize?" Tim signs, leaning back to look at Bruce upside down.

"He did."

Another thought occurs to Tim and he looks back to Dick and then Jason.

"Did he tell you about Cass?"

Jason barks a laugh.

"Dad stayed up until he thought Dick would be awake, and then he called him that morning.  I think he's learned his lesson."

Tim smiles and turns around to kiss Bruce's cheek.  He leans up and pats his head too, and it makes Bruce laugh.  

"Thanks, baby," Bruce says, kissing Tim on the forehead.  

"Anyway," Dick says, with a small smile.  "I just wanted to say sorry, and I'll keep saying it for as long as you need me to, Tim.  Can we try again?" Dick asks, looking at him earnestly.  

Tim can't help but nod and give him a wobbly smile. 

"Thank you," Dick breathes out, looking a thousand pounds lighter.  

"Want to watch the rest of the movie with us?  We're going to invade Bruce's bed later and have a sleepover," Jason says, smiling brightly at them.

"Yeah, um, I mean, if that's okay with everyone else," Dick answers, looking hopeful.  

Tim thinks for a minute and then nods, pointing to the empty spot next to Alfred on the other sofa.  Then he offers his fist to Dick for a fist bump, making everyone laugh.  

--

Tim is uninterested in letting Bruce out of his sight after they get back to the cave, so he makes the executive decision to turn in for the night and take up vigil next to Dick's bedside.  He radios the girls and lets them know he'll be in for the rest of the evening, as well as why.  He also sends an email to his lawyers about his decision to remove Tim from his parents, asking them to get started on the case in the morning.  Bruce manages to leave Tim in Alfred's capable hands while he takes a quick shower and change, before he comes back to the cave's medbay to wait with them by Dick's bedside.  He brings the letter with him, and climbs in an empty bed to read it, Tim climbing back in beside him only a second later.  

"Hey, sweetheart," Bruce says, trying to smile for his boy.  

Damian eyes them from his own spot next to Dick's bed, but doesn't say anything.  He does nod at Tim when he spots him looking, causing the other boy to startle.  Bruce decides to take it as a good thing.  Change has to start somewhere, and he'll talk with Damian more later when Dick is a little better.

Tim looks absolutely exhausted, and he spends a few minutes just petting his hair, getting him to relax enough to hopefully take a nap.  It's not even midnight yet, but he feels like he's lived an entire lifetime this past week.

He waits until Tim is beginning to nod off, his eyes closed and his breath evening out before opening the envelope.  Keeping a hand on Tim's head, he continues to pet him as he unfolds the letter with his other hand.

Bruce -

I debated with myself about writing this letter for a while, but ultimately I decided it would be better than going to your world and screaming at you.  My Alfred was in favor of heading over there too to "knock some sense into you," but I talked him out of it.  You're welcome.

Bruce shudders.  He's glad he doesn't have to face another world's Alfred glaring at him with disapproval.  One is enough, thank you very much.

These are just a few loose ends that I thought you should consider addressing after Tim is back in your hands.  Alfred and I are honestly not particularly impressed with how you've been handling your Tim's safety (though, if you're reading this now, it's because something has changed, and I've decided to let him go back with you to your world).  I hope for your sake that you change your methods.  I am going to have Constantine open a portal in precisely a year to check on Tim and your progress, and if I'm not satisfied with what I see, I may decide to return him to my universe.

Bruce scowls.  He'd like to see the other Bruce try.  Tim is his.

1.  For starters, you should know that Tim has not at any point tried to actively keep any knowledge from me.  Not really.  It's almost as if he wants someone else to know what's going on, but no one has bothered asking.  And I think that may be the crux of the issue.  Tim desperately wants someone to listen to him.  He wants someone to look at him and see him for himself.  He is a child.  He is not an adult, regardless of how good he is at taking care of himself.  He is a child and you are the parent, and that's the way it should be, NOT THE OTHER WAY around.

2.  Ask him about the looping scar on his forearm.  Ask him who did it.  It was one of your children, and I think you'll know who it was if you think about it.  And while you're at it, do something about his behavior toward Tim.  Tim deserves to feel safe in your house, especially if you are going to keep him.  If you don't want to keep him, then bring him back, because I WILL.

3.  I tucked Tim in a few times this past week.  He told me that it was nice to experience, because no one had ever done it before.  Think on that.  That better not still be the case when I return in a year.

4.  Buy the child some toys, please.  For the love of God, at least buy him a stuffed animal.  He slept with my Tim's squishmallow every night.  He said he'd never owned one.  My Tim hadn't ever owned one either, not before coming to live with me.

5.  Look at the dates that his parents have been in town and compare it with the times they have not.  I'm almost certain that you'll find he's been legally abandoned more than once.  Check their signatures too against the ones on file at his school.  Tim can forge their signatures very easily (and why is that?).

6.  Explicitly tell him that he is wanted, that he's loved.  He's not like Dick, or even Jason.  He needs you to tell him that you approve.  He needs to be told that he is welcome and that he's invited to your family functions.  He won't assume for the better.  He's already told me that he only hangs out with Batman and Alfred. Not Bruce.  He doesn't think he's welcome at your movie nights, and he told me that he sits on the floor because there's no room on the couches for him.  That stops now, or I think you'll know what I'll say in a year.  

7.  I suggest having him evaluated for ADHD.  He uses caffeine to self-medicate, not because he needs to be stimulated, but because the caffeine acts as a depressant in his body, letting him relax.  Again, why are we the only ones who know this?

8.  Check him for injuries after patrol.  He won't tell you if he's hurt.  He thinks that your lack of notice is just another example of how you don't care about his well being.

9.  He flinches when people come toward him quickly.  I don't know if that's because of his parents, or because of his siblings or something else.  But you need to figure it out.

10.  He is incredibly touch-starved.  He leans toward other people like plants lean towards sunlight.

Honestly, I could fill several pages of notes, but I think this is enough to get started.  

I'll be back in a year.  I hope to find a happier, more well adjusted child.

Sincerely,
Bruce Wayne