Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dick has dealt with alternate dimensions, time travel, time streams swallowing up family members like nothing else– point is, he’s seen it all. But waking up missing the top five inches of his body? Somehow, it managed to surprise him and not phase him all at the same time.

He jolted up from the bed, examining the room around him with scrutinizing eyes. It was his room, but not the one in the manor, not even the one in his apartment. Dick was in his old room at the Titan Tower. His T-communicator sitting innocently on the nightstand. Numbly, Dick stumbles out of his bed, shoving open the door to his bathroom and taking one, long, suffering look in the mirror. 

The Robin costume feels wrong on his skin. He never took it off back then, worried the Titans would barge in with some emergency at any moment. Hell, Dick kept domino masks in his shower after Gar almost saw his face during their hunt for Deathstroke. Paranoia he’d inherited from Bruce. 

He–he shouldn’t be here–it–it was a mistake. It wasn’t supposed to work. But the experiment he ran was days ago, there was no knowing for sure that this was even related. Dick took one last, painful glance at himself. Slighter, shorter, younger . Whatever this was, it wasn’t just time travel. 

Dick woke up in the tower, not in his apartment where he’d fallen asleep the night prior–red flag number one. Dick was definitely no longer in his thirties, that final growth spurt in his late twenties abandoning him back to ‘shorter than average’--red flag number two. And finally, red flag number three, there was no way of knowing what or who had put him here. 

Which meant getting back would be a pain in the ass. 

A dangerous part of Dick didn’t want to go back. What would even be waiting for him? His brothers? They’d stopped talking. Not since–not since… 

He could go to the league, Zatanna–hell even Dr. Fate might be willing to find a way to send him back. There was also a question of what exactly had happened to his younger self, if he had somehow switched places with Dick and was currently living every one of his worst nightmares, or if he was lying dormant somewhere in the back of Dick’s brain waiting to wake up. But, if this was his experiment, if what Dick had been working on worked then–then he didn’t have to worry about his younger self. Didn’t have to worry about a future where everything went to shit. 

Dick could–he could save everyone. 

Bruce had made them promise. No Lazareth pits, no supernatural revivals. After what it did to Jason, after everything his younger brother had to go through, Dick agreed wholeheartedly.

Then… then he lost Bruce again. And Dick would break the rule a million times over if it meant he’d get his dad back. Gotham had pretty much fallen to shit without him, and there was nothing they could do to stop the uproar. 

Because Bruce’s death had been public. Broadcast to every TV on the entire goddamned planet because Batman was about to save the world again. They were all there, they were all beat up, Bruce told them to stay back.

He didn’t listen. 

Nightwing didn’t listen. He never had. 

When had it ever even worked out for him, anyway? He got himself shot, beaten, and bloodied countless times over the years all because he was an arrogant little shit. All because he wanted to be the one to protect Bruce for once. Wanted his father to look at him as more than that scared 9-year-old kid. 

If he was in his right mind Dick would remind himself that wasn’t fair. It was hard to separate cool, calm and collected Batman from his emotionally unstable, self-sacrificing dad. Mostly because they were the same person 82.1 percent of the time. Dick knew his dad saw more than that snot-nosed brat when he looked at him. But he was, decidedly, not in his right mind. So he gives himself a pass. 

Gotham lost its symbol that day, and with it, the last thing opposing the rot taking over the city. 

Even if Dick could stomach the thought of donning the cowl with all his failures, the whole world had seen Batman die. Criminals would know it wasn’t the same man under the suit even more than when Bruce had been stuck in the time stream. Public support wouldn’t find him either, Gotham’s people wouldn’t tolerate it if they thought someone was trying to take over Batman’s legacy. 

Dick doubts he’d even be able to look at the suit without throwing up anyway.

So he tried to help as Nightwing, tried to save the city from eating itself. But he wasn’t Bruce. No one could be Bruce. The short stint that Dick had been Batman left a bitter taste in his mouth. His workload had doubled from his nightly patrols as Nightwing, and there were still items on Bruce’s meticulously planned out to-do list Dick didn’t get to, couldn’t get to. How his father had run a company and a team of superheroes on top of being Batman, Dick would never understand. 

When they announced Bruce Wayne’s death on top of everything, the last glimmer of hope in the dark city had been snuffed out.

GOTHAM’S PRINCE DEAD: The city mourns yet another hero. Billionaire philanthropist Bruce Thomas Wayne announced dead this morning. 

Dick had torn apart so many newspapers it felt like he had permanent paper cuts on his palms. Nothing they did eased the city's silent despair, eased their own pain. They had just started being a family again. Every single one of them present and accounted for, every one of them alive. Jason and Bruce didn’t avoid each other, Damian and Tim didn’t try to kill each other. Duke was finally treating them like family too, pulling pranks on Tim with Damian and hanging out with Cass in the lounge. His siblings, his family. It was the closest to perfect he could get. 

And it was shattered just like that. 

“Robin?” Kori’s voice snapped him out of the spiral, calling softly from outside his door. She must have been knocking. He stifled a shudder at the address, no one had called him ‘Robin’ in a long time. 

“What’s up?” He threw on his cheerful mask, beating himself up for how strained it sounded. 

“Nothing! I was only–you have been in your room for some time now.” 

Of course, he’d forgotten how much time they’d all spent in the lounge back then–now? Whatever, he needed to play this right. Access the situation, make a mental list of every world-ending disaster he stopped together with the Titans before running home to Bruce and never letting the man leave his sight again. There was Jason to worry about too, no way was Dick going to sit back and let the Joker kill his brother all over again. 

But he was off-world with the Titans when it happened, would they be able to handle that mission without him? Did Dick even care if they couldn’t? Jason’s life, his future was on the line. As much as things had improved, and Jay really was part of the family again at the end… Dick saw the pit still haunted him. Bruce knew it too if the way he hovered around Jason on the bad days said anything. 

“Robin?” Kori. Right. 

“Sorry, working on some gear. Meet you guys for dinner.” He quickly dismissed her, holding his breath until her footsteps faded. 

How long has Jason been with Bruce now? It’s not as though the vigilante ever took the time to tell him about his new baby brother, so Dick couldn’t exactly rely on any kind of announcement from the man. Not that it was all Bruce’s fault, Dick knew full well just how much of an ass he was at this age. Bruce probably thought Dick didn’t even think of himself as a Wayne, why would he care about Bruce taking in another orphan? 

Ugh. His father was an idiot. A lovable, endlessly kind, endlessly stubborn idiot, and Dick will kill before he lets someone hurt him again.

Which means, Dick was going to have to apologize. Funny. Despite putting this part of their relationship behind them, Dick never actually told Bruce he was sorry before. Not for leaving, definitely not for cutting off all contact and accusing Bruce of ‘suffocating’ him. Maybe it was the first step to making things turn out better this time. Besides, Dick was a real douche to Jay in the beginning, and the kid did not deserve that. 

Before he can stop himself, he finds himself reaching for his civilian phone, buried underneath the mattress. What should he say? Should he wait until he could survey just where exactly he was in time? 

Was it better to visit in person? 

Before he can do anything, his phone screen lights up without his prompting. An unknown number flashing across the screen. Dick wracks his brain, did he get this call before? 

“Dick speaking.” Dick answers against his better judgment, speaking in a hushed tone just in case one of the Titans decides to check up on him again. There is silence on the other end of the line for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“I need to know if you know who I am.” A young voice finally speaks, sounding nervous. Something about it scratches at the back of Dick’s mind. It’s familiar, like he’s heard it a million times but can’t place it. “Dick, I need you to say something.” 

On second thought it’s not nervous, it’s desperate. The kind of desperation that pulls on all of Dick’s big brother instincts, and it dawns on him. 

“Jason? ” Dick swallows his panic. “What’s wrong? Did something happen? Where’s Bruce?” 

Jason was calling him. Jason never called him. Dick isn’t even supposed to know who Jason is.

“Calm down. Yes, it's me. Me–me. Glad I’m not the only one time decided to fuck today, because Bruce doesn’t remember shit.” 

Dick feels his breath catch in his throat, the final pieces falling into place. “H-how is he?”

“Alive, Dick. If you’re excluding the fact that he worries about you every fucking second of the day, he’s never been better. Seriously, I never realized how often the old man whispered your name under his breath. He sounds like a kicked puppy.” Jason continues to rant, and Dick allows himself to get lost in the familiarity of it. Even if the voice is too high, and the contents of the rant makes him want to strangle someone. (preferably himself)

“Okay, so we both remember. That’s–” A relief he wants to say. But his voice cuts out before he can because it’s not really a relief. Because this is a Jason who has suffered through the worst the world has to offer. Dick doesn’t want him to remember. “Do you know if Tim remembers? God, Damian, we have to get to him before Talia notices anything.”

“Dick, what you need is to chill. I don’t know if Tim remembers, I’ll check on it. But we have to keep it together, we go charging the League right now and it could get one or all of us killed.” 

Jason wants to change things too. Dick shouldn’t be surprised, even after joining forces with them again his rule-following habits hadn’t gotten any better.  

“You’re right. Sorry Little Wing, I’m supposed to be the mature one here.” Dick runs a shaking hand through his hair, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle. 

“Probably hormones, our bodies aren’t what we’re used to.”  

Dick’s lip twitches, the idea of going through teenage hormones all over again making him queasy. Unfortunately, the theory makes too much sense, Dick feels off balance just sitting down. 

“Guess I’ll need to hit the gym.” Getting into a fight right now would just put his team in danger. No matter how much knowledge he brought back with him, it’ll all be useless until he relearns how to throw a punch in this body. “Must be worse for you, you had that growth spurt after the pit.” 

“I’ll be fine, if I’m right, it’s only been a few weeks since B let me into the cave again. He can’t notice any huge drop in my abilities if I’ve barely started training.”

Dick holds the phone away from his ear to sigh in relief. Jason wasn’t Robin yet, that helped a lot to calm his nerves. Then, because he can’t let sleeping beasts lie, “How does it feel? The last time you wore the Robin suit…”

“I died? ” Jason laughs. “It’s fine–well actually it’s the furthest thing from fine. I don’t want anything to do with Robin anymore. But it’s not like I can ask B to be ‘Red Hood’ instead, he’d never approve of the name .” 

“What about something different then? If all goes to plan Tim and Damian will be with us sooner than before, so it’s not like the mantle will be vacant for long.” He almost suggests Little Wing, almost. Despite how he appears, he does actually want his brothers to like him. 

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Jason admits. “I only picked Red Hood to draw out the joker. By the time I didn’t want to be Red Hood anymore, the name had stuck.” 

“Well, tell me, Jase. Do you want to be a bat or a bird?” Dick grins, leaning close to the microphone. “If memory serves, Batboy is available.” 

“I’ll blow your brains out Dickhead.”

“Noted.”

They both laugh and then– the world doesn’t feel like it’s ending anymore. Doesn’t feel like his family's lives are weighing down on his shoulders. Like he’ll turn around and Bruce will be there, smiling that same smile he always did whenever one of them made Jason laugh. Whenever one of them made him feel like part of the family again. 

But he won’t be, because Dick isn’t even at the manor. He’s halfway across the world with no way to know if something goes wrong. For a split second, Dick feels jealousy curl in his chest. Jason at this age was attached to Bruce at the hip. Any clinginess his younger brother displayed would be returned tenfold by Bruce because that’s just how they were before. If Dick tried to hug Bruce right now he'd probably be pegged as an imposter. 

He squashes the feeling with more force than necessary. 

“I guess Bluejay is too close to my real name.” The sound of blankets shuffling together is picked up over the phone as Jason sighs slightly. “I like to dress in red anyway.”

“What about Nighthawk?” Dick suggests without thinking, immediately backtracking and fumbling over his words. “I–I mean it’s not quite as cool as Nightwing, but if you’re having trouble coming up with something…”

“No thank you, I’ve had enough living in someone's shadow.”

“Fair enough.” Robin, Red Hood, both had been someone else’s before Jason. Dick could understand why it was important for Jason to do this himself, even if the rejection hurt. 

“That being said… What do you think about Redhawk? I’d get to keep my color scheme at least.”  

Oh. That… Dick wasn’t expecting that. He hums into the speaker, already seeing the headlines. “It suits you.” 

“Yeah… I’ll bring it up with him, thanks.” 

Silence settles between them for a while after that, and Dick almost holds his breath for a better chance at overhearing Bruce somewhere in the background of the call. 

“You should call him, Dick.” 

“And tell him what? Hey, I’m not mad at you anymore, even though I’ve done nothing but scream at you for the past few years. Can I come back to the manor and hover over your every move?” 

Jason cuts off his indignant squabbling with a scoff. 

“Ask him to come train the Titans or something, I don’t care how–just make up with him.” Then, softer. “We both know you need to see him, and frankly, I’ll be able to do more without Bruce around. Even if I did have my normal body, he’d catch me sneaking around in a heartbeat.” 

Honestly, Bruce training the Titans could be good for multiple reasons. There were plenty of world level threats they still had in their future, and just because they got through it fine the first time around doesn’t mean they’ll be that lucky again. They’d be better off when Dick does eventually move back to Gotham too… “Do you think he’d believe I’m doing it for their safety? It could make it seem like my forgiveness doesn’t come out of nowhere if I act like I’m still mad for a while.” 

“You want to try your hand at lying around the world's most paranoid detective, be my guest. Can’t say it’s your worst idea though.”

Good, okay. This was, this was a plan. Dick could work with a plan. He thinks about pointing out that, if Bruce does answer Dick’s request, there is no way he’s leaving Jason at the manor, but decides against it. It would be better for Jason to have time to dig around, but Jason needed Bruce right now too. 

“Alright, stay in touch Little Wing. And hey, take care of him for me, will you?” 

“Always.”

-

Jason was fucked. Completely, totally, royally fucked. Dick’s voice faded further into the back of his mind the more he stared at the blank screen of his phone. He had already broken down once waking up in that old, familiar room half his normal height, but he was getting the feeling that he was due for another one soon. 

Bruce was alive. His Dad was alive. And all of the horrible shit in their timeline hadn’t happened to him yet. This Bruce gave smiles easily, this Bruce didn’t hold back tears whenever Jason initiated physical contact. Okay–he still kind of did. But it wasn’t the same.

He found himself in front of Bruce’s door without thinking, his brain on autopilot. Bruce was here. Alive, safe, and probably happier than Jason has seen him in years. How many times has Jason fantasized about this? About all the shit he could change if he was just given the chance. Finally in control of himself, finally okay enough to realize just how much he’d hurt his family, how much he’d hurt Bruce.  

Absently, he thinks Dick has it worse. Waking up halfway across the world, in a place that hadn’t been home to him in years... Jason knew it couldn’t be easy. 

A shift inside the room told Jason Bruce knows he’s hovering. Then again, it’s not as though Jason is being very subtle about it. Bruce always let Jason approach him first, never pushing, never pressuring. Back then it had been just what he needed. After the pit that had changed. After the pit Bruce never stopped reaching out. It was the only thing that kept Jason from going over the edge, kept him from becoming truly irredeemable. 

Two quick knocks echoed throughout the manor, the motion stinging Jason’s smaller, more delicate hands. Bruce took the que for what it was. 

“Jaylad.” Bruce smiles, that old, familiar nickname stabbing something deep inside him painfully. Even after they had mostly made up, the old man only called him ‘Jaylad’ when someone was dying. Mostly when Jason was dying.

How long has it been since Bruce lifted him off the streets? Two years? 3? If Dick and Bruce were still fighting, then he was anywhere between 12 and 16. But if he was close to becoming Robin, then 15 was a safe bet. By this point they should already be pretty close, Jason was a clingy kid. 

He tried to smile back, but it probably looked more like a grimace. Jason felt like he was staring at a ghost. Scratch that–he was staring at a ghost. And it kinda-maybe-sorta felt a little bit like karma to know how Bruce felt when he took off the helmet all those years ago. Some of the lines on Bruce’s face were gone, his hair a bit darker than Jason remembered it. 

Jason is left with the startling revelation that he's older than this Bruce. Which was, decidedly, all kinds of weird.

To him, Bruce had always been Dad. For the others it was more complicated. The love and the feelings were the same, but his siblings all had someone before Bruce. Not Jason. The man whose spunk made him never held the title. But after the pit, he didn’t think Bruce wanted to be his dad anymore. Jason had killed, slaughtered, and he was well enough now to admit that not all of them had deserved it. 

Bruce did, though, want him. It had taken years to convince himself of that, and by the time he did, his father was bleeding out under a yellow street lamp.

“Jay, you with me?” Bruce was kneeling in front him now, hands hovering over his shoulders. 

Jason’s willpower crumbled. He collapsed forward into his father’s arms, wrapping his too-short arms tightly around Bruce’s neck. It felt surreal, Jason was 31 and 245 pounds of muscle and bone, he shouldn’t feel so small. But he did, and Jason decides that being older then Bruce right now doesn’t matter. Bruce had always been Dad, Jason just didn’t realize that he always will be. 

“It’s okay, Jase, I’ve got you.” Soft words flow like a stream out of Bruce’s mouth, his voice rough. Most people would take that as a sign that a long time had passed, but Jason knew Bruce’s voice was just not used to being used so much all at once. 

“I had a nightmare.” He mumbled eventually, and Jason thinks that isn’t quite a lie. Despite the good moments in between, most of Jason’s life had been a nightmare. 

“Do you want to stay here?” And Jason almost denies him, almost pulls away before he can fall even further into this godforsaken family. Then again… his fate was sealed since the day he thwacked the Batman in the chest with a tire iron. 

“Yeah, yeah I’d like that.” 

Bruce takes it as an invitation to gather Jason more firmly into his arms, lifting him up and settling them down together on the bed. His hold was a bit firmer than it needed to be. Jason is mostly convinced it’s muscle memory from having to deal with the squirming nightmare (ha!) that was Dick when he was younger. 

They sit in silence for a while, Jason’s pathetic sniveling the only sound echoing around the room. He thinks about Dick, halfway across the world in a place he hadn’t thought of in years, and feels his tears flow a little heavier. 

“I have nightmares too, you know.” Bruce speaks lowly, curling around Jason tighter in the dark. “Sometimes it’s so bad I wake up still there. But it’s over, Jaylad. You realize it’s over, don’t you?” 

He thinks of all the people they lost, of all the people they had a second chance to save. 

“I’m starting to.” 

-

“Hey guys, what’d I miss?” ‘Robin’ greets his old team cheerfully. He’d have to make the switch to Nightwing soon, this just felt weird. 

“Oh Robin! Wonderful, we were beginning to think you would not be joining us.” Kori quickly pulls him towards the kitchen, the rest of the Titans greeting him warmly in their own ways. Wally and Garth weren’t around, but it’s possible they had already split off at this point in the timeline. He doesn’t see Roy either, but then, it took a while for Roy to start staying in the tower. Dick could admit he missed them–all of them–they hadn’t stayed in touch as much as he would have liked… especially after…

“Hey man, you alright?” Victor asks, he has an apron tied haphazardly around his inhuman proportions, cooking some kind of meat on the stove. 

“Yeah, totally.” He ignores their looks and seats himself on one of the stools to watch the chaos. Gar is pouting grimly at something Rachel told him, while Kori and Victor mil about the kitchen cooking. One with more (human) success than the other. Bruce will be good for them, Dick thinks smiling, they deserve a good mentor. 

“So guys… what do you think about training with Batman?” The entire room freezes, his friends going comically still. 

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” Gar asks gingerly. “Because it sounded like you asked if we’d be okay training with Batman.” 

“That's exactly what he asked.” 

“Who is this Batman?” 

“You’re kidding, right Star? …Star?”

“Batman is my mentor, he’s the one who trained me to be Robin.” Dick answered instead of addressing the other’s shock. “I haven’t asked yet, so you have time to say no but–I think it would be best for the team.” 

“Sorry but, that’s not exactly where the shock is coming from Robin.” Victor has put down the tongs, now facing fully towards him. “Last time I checked you and the Dark Knight weren’t on speaking terms.” 

“Yeah! The 70 times I asked about him you got all moody.” Gar shifts into a robin, making a show of narrowing his eyes and upturning his nose. (beak?)

“It’s true we have had… disagreements, in the past. But he’s a co-leader of the Justice League for a reason, and our training results have become stagnant. We’re not degrading, but we’re not improving either. We could use his expertise and guidance.” The team (minus Kori) groan in unison.

“Well I for one cannot wait to meet them!”

“Sure, why not. I’ve always wanted to meet Gotham’s hero.”

“Wait, really Raven?”

“Guess that means we’re all in.” Victor smiles, turning back to the stove. “Just don’t push yourself, Robin, if you’re not comfortable with the guy you don’t have to invite him.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing like that. It was never like that.” They accept the assurance easily, going back to their tasks without a second thought. Probably helped that it wasn’t a lie. Sure, they had fought a lot at this age, but Dick would have burned down the world for Bruce even back then. 

So, things with the Titans were settled. Now for the hardest part. 

He half doubted his own ability to get through the call without a mental breakdown. After everything, all Dick wants is to lock Bruce away in the cave where nothing can ever touch him again. Distantly, Dick realizes just how often Bruce must have felt the same way about them. 

Bruce’s civilian phone number is practically burned into Dick’s skull, and the motion of typing it in is oddly comforting. Dick listens to the dial tone once, twice before his carefully schooled facade crumbles. Tears burn at the corner of his eyes, his heart stuttering in his chest. 

This is it. That treacherous voice whispers. This is where you wake up and realize it’s all a lie.

“Dick?” Comes the hesitant voice of his guardian, and Dick freezes. “Chum, you there?” 

Maybe it’s the years of experience, but there is panic in the way Bruce says that god awful nickname. Dick’s brain short circuits, his eyes subconsciously darting about the room to count the number of empty chip bags strewn about in the space. Calm down, he tries to tell himself, nothing even happened.  

Bruce makes a noise that sounds something like pain from the other side of the phone, probably scrolling frantically through the news for any world ending disasters near Jump City. And for the first time since arriving it finally hits him. Bruce is alive. Dick has the chance to keep him that way. He knows more, he’s seen more. Above everything he knows Bruce better than ever. 

“I’m here.” Dick says, hopefully before his adoptive father managed to call in the Justice League for a search party. “I’m here.” 

“What do you need?” If this was the first time around, the wording would have pissed Dick off. He’d probably have quipped back something like ‘What, think I can’t take care of myself?’ and hung up the phone. Never mind if Dick really needed something. But this wasn’t the first time around, and Dick knew what those words really meant. Heard the unspoken tell me how to help you hidden underneath. 

“I want you to train the Titans.” Silence answers him for a beat and Dick realizes Bruce is disappointed. He had hoped Dick was reaching out to make up. Guilt tugs at him, but he shoves it down in order to save face. “They rely too much on their powers, without even using them to their full potential. If they continue like this they’re going to get killed.” 

“You want me to come to the tower?” Bruce stresses the words like he doesn’t think Dick actually thought the request through. Dick can’t really fault the disbelieving tone, he had made it pretty clear the Titans were off limits before. 

“It doesn’t have to be right now, I know you’d need to secure things in Gotham before anything.” And things with Jason. “Just–please Bruce. I can’t do it, I’ve already tried.”

Dick hears his father’s resolve shatter the moment the plea leaves his mouth.

“You’re underestimating your abilities, Dick. You’re a great teacher, but if you are truly comfortable with this, I will come in a few weeks.” There is finality in the words, shutting down his retorts before they could even form. Even fighting Bruce always had to say exactly what he needed to hear. It was probably part of what Dick couldn’t stand back then. 

“Message me when you’re on your way.” Dick wants to say more, he really does. He had lost Bruce. For 8 terrifying months, Dick thought he’d never see him again. And now he was here, on the other side of the call and Dick didn’t want to let him go. 

“I’ll see you then.”

Dick hangs up without a reply, ignoring the burning in his eyes. 

-

Jason uses the time Bruce spends patrolling to look into the Drakes. He wasn’t around when Tim was being adopted into the family, but he knew the kid’s circumstances weren’t amazing. Neglectful parents, zero adult supervision. Tim had practically raised himself, and it was really only recently that they had been able to flip some of his nasty habits. 

Bruce had been monumental in Tim’s life, just like he was in all of their lives, but it took years for Tim to come to Bruce for help. Years more for him to accept that help without thinking less of himself. Maybe if Dick and Jason got him into the family sooner, they could expedite that process.

Even if he and Dick could find it in them to leave it alone, the event that brought Tim into the family was Jason’s death. And he really, really didn't want to die again. For Bruce’s sake.

When the joker killed him, he’d proven all of Bruce’s insecurities right. Proven, in Bruce’s mind, that he was a curse, that he couldn’t protect the ones he truly cared about. That his children would have been better off without him. And, fuck. The number of times Jason heard that one made him sick.

He turns his attention back to the screen, Janet Drake’s ugly smiling face staring back at him. Right, he could worry about Bruce later, after Tim was back in the family where he belonged. 

It did cross his mind that his little brother might remember, especially now that it was confirmed that Jason hadn’t been the only one sent back. But, if that were the case, Tim should have tried to contact them by now. Or at least one of the JL’s magic users. It would make no sense for the boy to sit back and do nothing. 

Tim was the most straight-laced out of the Waynes, but that didn’t mean he’d pass up this chance. Jason would be hard-pressed to think any of them would pass up this chance. (Except maybe Bruce, so it was a good thing he didn’t remember.) There was the possibility that he was waiting to act until he had a proper plan in place though, so Jason made sure to hack the Drake Manor’s computers to monitor Tim’s activities. 

Speaking of computers, have they always been this slow? 

“Master Jason.” Oops, caught red handed. He quickly exits out of the batcomputer, whirling around to see Alfred by the entrance to the cave. Shit, did he see Jason on the computer? Would he tell Bruce about it? 

“Alfie! Heya, fancy seeing you down here. Ya need me for somethin’?” 

“Master Bruce asked me to check on you after you retired for the night. Imagine my surprise when I find an empty bed instead.” Alfred’s usually impeccable suit is rumpled in a few places, it was the only thing betraying the complete calm disappointment on his face. Jason winces.

“Sorry.” He says genuinely. “I’ve just got a ton on my mind, bein’ down here makes it feel like I’ll figure it out, like Bruce does.” 

It’s, frankly, disgusting to say things his younger self used to say with zero shame, and it’s, objectively, terrifying how easy it is to fall back into those habits. (Jason knows, deep down, it’s  because a part of him still feels that way.) Alfred smiles, but it’s a ghost of a thing. 

God, he’s such a jerk. He shuffles his way over to the stairs, head hanging. 

“That’s what I thought.” Then, after a beat. “I am glad you are unharmed, but please inform me if you are going to disappear from your quarters.” 

Jason nods solemnly. 

“Might I ask what thoughts have been troubling you?” Alfred eyes him suspiciously, and Jason imagines Bruce must have told him about the ‘nightmare’ he’d had when he first arrived. It was the only thing that explained the sudden request for Jason to be checked on. 

“It’s nothin’ important…” Jason trails off in fake reluctance, having already thought up an excuse. “It’s only–Robin is Dick’s hero name. Won’t he be angry at me for usin’ it?” 

Dick actually was angry the first time around. He’d gotten over it eventually, sometime after Jason had died and he and Bruce made up, but it was still a pretty big part of why their relationship was so strained in the beginning.

“I’m sure Master Richard would understand, but you know, you could always come up with an identity of your own.” Perfect, that was his in.

“You think so? Batman needs a Robin… but I’ll ask.” Damian, whenever they finally dragged the demon brat back into the family, would probably appreciate if Dick were the one he inherited the title from and not Jason or Tim. He briefly entertains the idea that tiny assassin Damian would be happy being kidnapped by his own dad. 

Jason sighs internally, the League was a whole other can of worms they couldn’t afford to think about right now. At least not until Dick was back in Gotham.

Speaking of leagues, Bruce would still be considered a ‘part-timer’ to the Justice League right now, wouldn’t he? Jason isn’t really sure how you could be a part-time founder –but Bruce had made it abundantly clear his assistance was reluctant at best. It was weird to think about. Clark and Bruce were closer than brothers for as long as Jason could remember but, right now, Clark didn’t even know Batman’s secret identity. Which meant none of the Justice League knew about Bruce Wayne, because Clark was the first. Were they really that estranged when Jason first started living at the manor? His only real memories of the League started after Bruce told Clark his name.

After Bruce started to open up to them. 

Perhaps they could encourage it more this time. Jason had been pretty into the whole ‘No meta’s in Gotham’ rule when he was younger. Batman was his hero, his mentor, he didn’t like to share. It took him forever to even want to share with Dick and he had idolized Dick back then. Forming a closer bond with the League would be good for him. Besides, Jason was old enough now to know Bruce wouldn’t love him any less. No matter how many people wormed their way into his father’s heart, the man always seemed to have room.

Bruce kept most of the League at arm's length. He liked to make the excuse that it was for their safety, and of course, the dangerous thing about Bruce’s excuses is that they’re always based in rational thought. Gotham Rogues are a special brand, and if they thought for one second that they could get to Batman through these other heroes they wouldn’t hesitate to do it. Eventually though, Diana and Clark wore Bruce down, their abilities and battle prowess made him feel safe. Safe enough to trust that they could handle themselves should Gotham’s worst go after them. But Jason knew Bruce would take a bullet for Barry–probably has, multiple times. Billy was practically part of the family after Bruce figured out how young he was, and Ollie was–well– Ollie. Bruce loved all of them, would have died for any of them, but he never let anyone besides Clark and Diana past the mask. 

He spent the rest of Bruce’s patrol looking at articles and social media posts mentioning the Drake name on his phone, trying hard to ignore how Tim was barely mentioned or talked about. It was like Tim didn’t even cross their minds. As if a whole ass child could really be so easily forgotten. Jason clenched his fist, he needed to do this. Needed to have as much information as possible in order to throw them under the bus later. Still, when Bruce’s silent footsteps stopped outside his door, (His father’s shadow under the door gave him away) Jason was thankful. 

“Jay? You’re up?” It wasn’t really a question, Bruce knew the answer, but it was an out. A promise that if Jason stayed quiet, Bruce would leave. 

He really couldn’t see himself ever wanting Bruce to leave again. 

“Yeah.” 

At that, his door creaks open, a very obviously post patrol Bruce staring back at him. His hair is still wet, as if he’d come here immediately after showering.

Damn, Jason’s nightmare stunt must’ve freaked him out more than anticipated.

“Alfred told me you were having trouble sleeping.” And Jason didn’t doubt for a second that Alfred did, but Bruce was probably just using it as an excuse to check in on him personally. 

“A little.” He admitted, trying to remember how kid Jason would have reacted. Remember that combination of shock and awe whenever Bruce showed he cared about some street rat like him. 

“Did you want to talk about it?” There it was again, that control. Jason had to bite his lip to stop himself from saying something snarky. This Bruce didn’t know Jason’s whole life had changed, didn’t know that Jason preferred a different style of getting him to open up. Even then, it made Jason warm to think about how hard Bruce had tried for him. The paranoid man he was, giving up control couldn't be easy. 

“Sure.” 

Bruce smiles, one of his real smiles, and finally takes a step into his room. Jason scoots himself over towards the edge of the bed so they can sit next to each other. 

“What happened? Did you have another nightmare?” The trained vigilante made no sound, not even the bed creaked as he took his seat. Must have been an easy night, Jason didn’t see many bruises. Good, he thinks absently, don’t get hurt where I can’t get to you. 

“Not really.” Jason leans in when Bruce puts a tentative arm around him. “I just–Robin is Dick’s hero name. I don’t want to take that from him.” 

Something flashes across Bruce’s face before his eyes soften. That fond look Jason hated after the pit settling easily in the lines on his father’s face. 

“You’re a good kid..” Bruce ruffles Jason's hair, those broad shoulders losing a bit of that post-patrol tension. “Better than me.”

He wants to refute that, because it wasn’t true in any universe, but Bruce is already on to the next thing. As if he simply stated a fact of life. 

“Why don’t you make your own identity then? Robin was– Robin came from Dick’s mother.” Horror seeps into the words, and Jason almost laughs. Of course Bruce forgot, he’s not sure it would help Dick’s bitterness much–considering he is pretty much over it–but Jason files that information away regardless. “Maybe it would be good for you to think of something on your own. To remind you why you’re fighting.” 

“Where did Batman come from?” Jason asks, mostly to keep Bruce talking, somewhat because he’s curious. He’s never actually heard the story before. Dick has, if he remembers correctly, but Jason died before he could ask. (And he really never got the opportunity after he came back) 

He doesn’t know what he was expecting Bruce’s reaction to be, but it was, decidedly, not for the Dark Knight to blush. 

“Ah, well. I didn’t actually choose the name myself.” Bruce admits, loosening his arm around Jason’s shoulders. “That’s just what Gotham started calling me.”

“Right, because you just woke up one day and decided your super cool hero costume was going to be bat themed.” Jason monotones, not bothering to hide the teasing in his voice. It was fun to watch his dad shift, the pink tinge reaching his ears. 

“Alright, you caught me. When… when I was a kid I fell down a well. Stupid–I know. I don’t even remember how it happened anymore. But back then I… I didn’t see how I would ever get out. And in the well there were so many bats. I must have disturbed their rest because they kept–screeching and swooping down to scratch at me. It took my parents hours to find me. I’m pretty sure Alfred even called the cops, convinced it was a kidnapping.” He trails off, smiling nostalgically despite the content of the story. “I’ve been terrified since. And when I thought of–of vengeance, of how I would make a difference in a city as dark as Gotham, striking fear into the hearts of criminals seemed like the only way.” 

“...and you picked bats because they scared you?” Jason asks, disliking the little self-deprecating smile Bruce gives in return. 

“Because they scare me.” Bruce corrects. “I never got over it. I’m pretty sure my parents got that well filled because I wouldn’t go near that side of the property.”

“There are literally thousands of live bats in the batcave.” 

Bruce shrugs. Shrugs. Will this man ever stop causing himself unnecessary pain? 

“My point is–you can choose your own hero name, Jason. I know you were excited to be Robin, but if this is something important to you then of course I will support it.” The vigilante shifts, his hand squeezing Jason’s shoulder slightly. 

He forgot how easy it had been, with this Bruce. How simple things had been before Jason died and Bruce’s world fell apart.

“Then, can I be Redhawk instead?” 

“Jaybird,” Bruce says seriously. “You can be whatever you want.” 

-

The next few days pass in relative peace, Dick alternating between counting the seconds and spacing out for hours. At least–at least spending time with the Titans is nice. Their special brand of chaos reminded him a lot of his siblings, and it helped ground him–remind him that he had a better future to fight for. It’s true his body felt different, weaker than he was used to, but most of the threats they’d faced since were minor. Like this one, the one ‘Robin’ was currently facing right now. He didn’t have powers as far as Dick could tell, so it was easy as chase, incapacitate, and capture. 

Besides, it was good practice. Bruce would surely sense something was off if Dick’s movements were that sloppy when he arrived. Except, ‘Robin’ misses when the culprit turns around, gauntlet raised in the air, and suddenly, a construction beam is about to take Kori out of the air. 

“Starfire watch out!” He calls, hooking one of his grapples around her waist and pulling her out of the way. With his free hand he throws a small explosive in the villain’s blind spot, using the moment he’s knocked down to lock the cuffs around his wrists.

Okay, maybe he did have powers. Dick inspects the robber’s wrists. His suit doesn’t look technical, which did point to meta, but he couldn’t be sure. Then again, Dick didn’t have any memory of this guy, so he at least doesn’t turn into some kind of supervillain.  

“Nice one Robin!” Victor pats his back aggressively when he runs over, taking over holding the squirming bank robber with his cyborg strength.

“Truly! You have gotten even better at the kicking and the punching.” Kori mimes the movements with her hands, grinning easily. Dick decidedly does not think about how his current abilities were a massive step down from where he used to be at age 34.

And what a discovery that was, Dick is only eighteen, 16 years behind how old his brain told him he was. Which meant Damian was 10 god, Dick is going to have a stroke. “Thanks, but if you think that’s good, you should wait until you see B in action.” 

He flashes them a genuine smile. Honestly, he couldn’t wait for them to meet Bruce. They never really had an official chance before, Dick moved back to work with Batman almost immediately after finding out about Jason. 

“That’s seriously creepy dude.” Gar mumbles. “You were literally pissed at him a week ago.” 

“I am pissed around him, not at him.” Dick defends. “All the training in the world cannot teach you how to work as a team.” 

Which–isn’t entirely fair. Batman is a great team player, Bruce even more so. It was more that Bruce couldn’t let Dick get hit, couldn’t take seeing him hurt so he made stupid demands and put himself in more danger. Dick at 18 was pissed that Batman didn’t trust him to watch his back, Dick at 34 knew Bruce had PTSD about loved ones getting shot. 

“Right, and you’re not brooding at the mention of his name now because?” Rachel drawls.

“I did a little self-reflecting.” A beep from his communicator saved him from further explanation. “You guys head back, I’ll handle things here.” 

Victor and Gar shrugged, all of the Titans scattering to the wind after that. 

“Jaybird?” He answered when he was sure they were out of earshot. 

“Tell Bruce not to bring me along. I need to look into the Drakes.”

“Now, Little Wing, you know that’s not how this works. I’m not even supposed to know you exist.” Dick chuckles at his brother’s responding groan. “How did your name change go over? B okay with it?” 

“Honestly Dick, he looked kinda relieved.” Jason sighs, sounding uncharacteristically tired. “Give me full access to the Titan’s mainframe when we get there. I’ll feel more comfortable when Tim and Damian are with us. ”

“Me too.” He says genuinely. They were worried about Cass and the others, but Tim wouldn’t ever confront Bruce without Jason’s death, and Damian is being physically and emotionally abused in the League. If they screwed this up they could lose both of them forever. “How is Bruce doing?” 

“Better after your call, still a mess.” After a beat Jason chuckles and adds, “but when is he not.”

Dick allows himself to breathe a sigh of relief. None of them could be considered emotionally stable, but Bruce takes the cake when it comes to self-loathing. Their fighting all the time only made it worse. 

“Alright, take care Redhawk.” Dick just knows Jason smirked at the use of his new name. 

“See ya soon, Dickhead.” Jason’s barely-there snort is the last thing Dick hears before his brother hangs up. 

“So…” Victor’s teasing voice turns his blood to ice. “Redhawk. They a friend of yours?” 

“Something like that.” Dick concedes, somewhat impressed the bigger, bulkier hero had managed to circle back into eavesdropping range without him noticing. “It’s not important, you’ll meet him soon.” 

“Right. This have anything to do with your sudden forgiveness of your old mentor?” 

“A little, he’s B’s new sidekick–oh but, I wouldn’t call him that to his face if I were you.” He really couldn’t blame the suspicion, and honestly, if the Titans knew it was out of character then Bruce certainly would. 

“Sure man, you’re the boss.” 

Dick learned a lot about what it meant to be a leader with the Titans, but the biggest thing he learned was Bruce's point of view. By some misguided sense of self-superiority, he thought he could be different than his mentor, better. But Dick fell into all the same traps Batman did. He obsessed over cases, he failed to trust his team, and he lied to them to keep them out of danger. All while believing he was breaking some sort of cycle. He couldn’t see it back then, but he really was a mini Bruce in all the worst ways and none of the best. 

Looking at Cyborg now, at Victor now, he can’t help but feel like the man would have been better suited. Robin may have had the most crime-fighting experience, but Bruce sheltered him a lot–both in and out of the field. Part of what Dick needed when he ran away was the chance to have teammates whose first priority wasn’t his safety, who weren’t going to drop everything to come to his aid if he needed it. Bruce may have taught Dick to be independent, Dick may have even learned it, but it was another thing entirely to be it. 

But 16 years is a long time, and Dick knows independence more intimately than Bruce probably ever wanted him to. So he’s happy knowing that the Titans will have a leader ready when Dick returns to Gotham early this time.

-

Bruce stands perfectly still as he waits for Jason to grab his things. It’s all he can do to not pace holes in Alfred's mahogany floors. 

Dick called out of nowhere to ask if Batman could train a bunch of teenage meta-humans. His Dick, the Dick that stormed out at 16 and vowed to never come back. The same kid that used to beg to stay up just one hour later, the same kid he used to be able to call his son. And the worst part? Dick didn’t know he had a baby brother yet. To say Bruce was nervous about going would be understatement of the year.

Bruce breaks and worries his bottom lip.

“Master Richard would not have asked this of you had he no faith in you, Master Bruce.” Alfred’s sage voice soothes some of Bruce’s anxiety. He hadn’t noticed the butler approaching. (And if that didn’t say something about Bruce’s current state, nothing would.)

“Yes but–what if I get there, and he remembers he can’t stand to look at me?” His words come out awkward, his usual quiet volume making them sound almost small. When Alfred gives a disapproving look to his reddened lip, Bruce fiddles helplessly with his gauntlets instead. “I can’t mess this up Alfred, Dick reached out to me. When he has every right to never talk to me again.” 

Bruce lets out a shuddering breath, for once in his life unable to control the rapid beat of his own heart. There had been no warning, no reason–even–for Dick to suddenly decide to give Bruce a chance. What if he failed whatever test this was and Dick decides to cut him out entirely? He’s going to be sick. Alfred places a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sure you’ll be quite alright, Master Bruce.” 

Yeah, okay. Agree to disagree and all that. 

“I’m ready B.” Jason murmurs from the base of the stairs, dragging his suitcase along behind him. That was another thing, actually. Jason had taken to calling him ‘B’, after the boy had come to him after a nightmare. Was it a sign of trust? Familiarity? Dick called him that too, before all the fighting. When they were still Gotham’s wonder duo and not estranged family members. 

Bruce felt all the tension return to his shoulders all at once. God, he misses Dick. The manor wasn’t the same without him, and it was downright suffocating before Jason.

“Are you sure this is okay with you? I know you were excited to meet Dick, but you’ve already been through such a big change, we don’t have to do this right now.” Bruce isn’t sure what he wants Jason’s answer to be. On one hand, he’d do anything to make it up to his eldest son, and on the other, he didn’t want to risk the flimsy trust he’d managed to establish with Jason. They had become much closer over the past few months and Bruce was worried uprooting him like this would be too much.

A mixed mess of emotions flash across the boy’s face, before it eventually settles into something more neutral. 

“It’s fine. Besides, I’d like to see what this so-called team of his is capable of.” Jason’s eyes glint, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

“Alright, but please tell me if things become too much. And remember, codenames only in front of others.” Bruce can’t help but smile when Jason nods seriously, leading them down to the cave where a zeta tube has been set up between the T-tower and the cave. (Bruce still thinks Dick is going to smash the thing on his end as soon as this is over.) If nothing else, Jason could sleep at home if he felt uncomfortable in his room at the Tower. 

With one last deep breath, Bruce braces himself (emotionally) and steps into the beam. 

Only Dick is present upon their arrival, the lack of windows indicating they were likely in one of the lower floors of the tower. Bruce's breath hitches upon the sight of him. Is he taller? He looks taller, even his hair is wilder than Bruce remembers it being. His Robin mask hides any real reaction he may have had, leaving Bruce with little to work off. 

“Who’s this?” Dick kicks off the wall he was leaning against, eyeing Jason with something Bruce can’t pinpoint. It makes him uneasy, when did he stop being able to read his eldest son? Jason is still in civilian clothes for the most part, a domino mask all that stood between the Titans and his identity. (The sudden shift in name caused his hero suit to be put on the back burner until Jason settled on a design he liked.) But Dick was a smart kid, he could probably guess Jason wasn’t just any vigilante. 

“I’m Redhawk.” Jason introduces, saving Bruce from his spiraling thoughts. “And you’re Robin.” 

Some of the tension eases from his shoulders when Dick doesn’t immediately scowl upon the introduction, or the boy's blatant hero worship. 

“Nice to meet you too, kid.” Dick actually smiles, ruffling the boy's hair affectionately. He does, however, send Bruce a glare that promises a less friendly talk later. Bruce winces. “The others are in the lounge, I assume you want to talk with them today so you can make a training plan for them tonight?” 

Bruce resists the urge to shift uncomfortably under Dick’s scrutiny, choosing to give a brisk nod instead of saying anything that could lead to any potential altercation. They follow Dick out of the control room, dropping their bags off before taking an elevator up to a much higher floor. 

“Guys!” Dick calls, and the cheer in his voice when addressing his team makes Bruce feel out of place. 

The Titans gather around like it’s Christmas morning, eyes twinkling as they take in the batsuit. Bruce sees a few of their gazes land on Jason for a split second. 

“I would like to speak with each of you before any actual training occurs.” Bruce starts before the staring gets too much. “I am not familiar with your powers, I will need you to tell me what you can do and what you're comfortable with. The rest we can find out together.” 

He was not inexperienced when it came to training metahumans, but it was always important that his students knew that he was inexperienced when it came to their specific traits. Just because he had worked successfully with other meta-powers in the past, did not mean those same tactics and techniques would translate universally. 

“Come on man slow down!” The green one, Beast Boy if he remembers correctly, is suddenly very close. Bruce briefly wonders how far it would derail his stoic persona if he took a step back. “I mean, that’s great and all but you’re Batman give us a little more time to gawk.” 

Dick’s hand is on the boy’s shoulder then, pulling him back slightly and Bruce can’t help but let his shoulders sag slightly in relief. Even if Dick was probably more concerned about Beast Boy than him.

“Yes! It is truly admirable that you have conquered and claimed the ways of bats as your own!” Adds the redhead, who Bruce instantly concludes did not grow up on earth. 

“Let’s just start with introductions first. Guys, this is Cyborg, Starfire, Beast Boy, and Raven. Team, this is Batman and Redhawk.” Dick points to the respective member of the Titans as he introduces them, each one of them waving or nodding their acknowledgment. Robin is the only one of them that wears a mask, Bruce notices, meaning they might have real names, but they did not have civilian identities. 

‘Nice to meet you’ sentiments are shared back and forth between the group for a moment, Jason doing most of the talking while Bruce did his best to nod along in an effort to not seem rude. He silently prays Dick doesn’t call him out on the silence later. 

“Alright, let’s get the talking over with so Batman can start planning your schedules.” The others groan but cease the endless volley of questions. “BB, you start, it would be better to do this one on one.” 

Bruce nods his approval, thankful the team hears it from their leader's mouth and not his own. (Also he is decidedly, NOT jealous that Dick has taken to shorting Beast Boy’s name in such a similar way to his own.) He places a reassuring hand on Jason’s shoulder, making eye contact to double check that the boy was okay with it. When he gets a nod in response, he makes his way over to the couch that Beast Boy had thrown himself on as the others clear out.

“Explain your ability.” As an afterthought he tacks on, “...please.”

“I can shape shift into any animal on earth: horse, cow, tiger. You name it, I can be it.” The boy gives him an excited demonstration, shifting wildly between various different animals. As far as Bruce can tell, the only difference between Beast Boy and the real thing visually is the color. 

“The color helps, your teammates will be able to tell you apart from animals more easily.” Bruce concludes. Though, with the way the boy rearranges himself on the couch, he had some differing thoughts on the matter. “Can you isolate the transformation to one part of your body?” 

“Uh… can I what?” 

“Have you ever tried to only transform your arms, or change into multiple animals at once?” His hands itch for something to write with. He does not doubt his memory, but standing completely still above the boy is making him (both of them) nervous. 

“Can’t say I have.” Beast Boy gulps, and Bruce decides the boy’s comfort is more important than his image and moves to sit down on the far side of the couch.

“I will not ask you to do or try anything you do not want to, I simply endeavor to gauge your ability and the possibilities you may have already explored.” Thankfully, Beast Boy does appear to calm down at that. His boyish frame sinks deeper into the cushions, and Bruce is left to realize just how small the kid really is. He can’t be any older than Jason. “How about senses, when you shape shift, do you gain that animal's abilities?” 

The conversation flows smoothly after that. Beast Boy’s power appears to have much room to evolve. Between learning how to better hone his animal instincts and testing the limits of his shifts, Beast Boy spoke of a few times when he has been able to shift into a creature that does not exist on earth. Though, that seemed to be a sore spot, a part of his power that he can’t quite control, so Bruce makes a mental note to not push that angle too harshly. 

Other than that, Beast Boy needed to become accustomed to fighting in human form. Should anything stunt his abilities or the terrain hinder his movement, knowing how to throw a punch could save his life. Bruce wouldn’t be teaching martial arts to every Titan, but with Beast Boy, it would be necessary. His powers are affected by his physical shape, so putting on a few pounds of healthy muscle could only help. The boy also made an offhand comment about being vegetarian, Bruce would have to make sure he was eating well. 

By the time they said their goodbyes, Bruce was feeling a lot better about this whole arrangement. He could help, his training could help keep these kids alive. Bonus if it makes Dick hate him slightly less. 

Starfire was the next Titan to enter, territory that he was hoping he would be the most familiar with. Clark had told him a lot about how his powers worked and how he controlled them, and from what he knew of the girl’s abilities they shared a few commonalities. As she spoke though, the hope slowly crumbled away. Powered by emotions, huh? Bruce isn’t so sure he’ll be of much help with that. 

He could provide direction though, how many buildings had Clark leveled just because he believed in his own ability to brute force the enemy instead of dodging and skill? Her energy blasts, or star bolts as the girl had called them, held more possibilities. The energy could be produced from both her hands and eyes, with no indication or reason why she couldn’t summon them from anywhere else. Perhaps she could even manipulate the energy to a certain degree after it was conjured? Adapting the destructive power into a defensive one could improve her versatility. 

Bruce was glad he at least had a few things to explore. Alien species usually had more defined limits than meta-human abilities. (Go figure, being an evolutionary species makes you more stable than vats of acid and lightning strikes.) They also had information on them floating around somewhere in the galaxy, Bruce would need to research Tamaraneans before he settled on anything with the girl.

Raven’s powers are also derived from emotion. Her impenetrable demeanor likely a tool to help her keep control. Something Bruce finds he can relate to, despite having no demonic powers of his own. The stronger the girl felt, the more powerful her abilities became. Because of her past, and how she grew up to fear herself, she’s convinced feeling nothing is the answer. Bruce isn’t so sure he’s qualified to tell her she’s wrong. Fear and anger are not stronger emotions, she is only feeling them stronger. Perhaps he could try to show her that. 

He has an inkling that physical activity isn’t her thing, but a healthy outlet for anger-one where she can just let loose-might help temper her rage. Bruce decides to ease her into it, slowly showing her that control and suppression are two different things. Besides, it’s good to know at least the basics of self-defense in case her powers are neutralized. She by far has the most knowledge of her own abilities out of the three superhuman members of the Titans, but because of what she understands she’s come to fear herself. 

Would knowing that her team has the means to stop her ease that worry? Clark had gifted Bruce kryptonite not long after the formation of the Justice League, but it was impossible to say if the alien did it for his own peace of mind or that of his paranoid partner. For now, he asks her to walk him through a normal day of ‘training’ for her, and that they would go from there. 

Lastly, Cyborg sauntered into the room, and Bruce braced himself for what was probably going to be his hardest conversation. 

“I would like you to be upfront with me.” Bruce starts, forcing himself to maintain some form of eye contact with the oldest Titan. “Mechanically, I’m aware you must upgrade yourself as the market evolves. I need you to tell me right now if you are against altering your technological parts past that, and to what capacity you would be willing to change if you are.” 

“You’re asking if switching around my parts is off limits.” The Titan concludes, and Bruce holds back from sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. He gives a small, minute nod, confirming Cyborg’s suspicions. 

“Machines are always changing, always upgrading. Beast Boy will always morph into an animal, even if that animal turns out not to be of Earth, but tomorrow your flash cannons could be removed, replaced by any number of weapons.” The mental toll of losing most of your human body cannot be easy to bear, pushing Cyborg on any front he is not comfortable with would lead to more harm than good. “I need you to set those boundaries right now, so that I may be aware of them moving forward.” 

“I don’t think I… I mean my tech is top-of-the-line. What I have is what works for me.” Defensive, but his body language hadn’t quite closed off. Bruce decides that any more discussion on this topic could be pushed until some trust is built between them. 

“Then that’s that. I will not bring it up again.” 

True to his word, Bruce leads the rest of the conversation without mentioning altering Cyborg’s tech again. He knew he could improve it, Bruce hadn’t built the Batmobile from scratch for nothing, but it would be a lot to ask of the young hero. To change oneself even more, to ‘lose’ a body all over again. 

-

“You okay?” Jason corners him as soon as the Titans start their meetings with Bruce. Dick cringes at the sound of his voice, his young voice. He hadn’t expected seeing Jason 15 again to hurt so much. There was no hazy green hue to his bright blue eyes, no silly white tuft of hair sticking out against sleek, black hair. This was Jason before the pit, this was Jason before he died. 

Seeing Bruce was bad enough, but he’d expected seeing Bruce to hurt. His darker hair–younger face. Bruce’s loss was fresh, Bruce’s loss was the reason Dick was even here, but they’d lost Jason once too. Something like that doesn’t go away so easily. Did the effects of the pit still linger? Did deaging back to his 15-year-old body free Jason of its bloodlust? 

“Dick, look at me.” Jason calls to him again, a hand reaching up–up–to squeeze Dick’s shoulder. Dick barely remembers being taller than him, they weren’t very close before.

“Don’t think that’ll help, Little Wing.” Dick chuckles wryly, plopping down on the side of his bed and hanging his head. “You won’t be you.” 

“We both know that’s not the only reason you’re upset.” And–wow, way to call a guy out, Jase. “He’s just nervous, Dick.” 

“I did that to him, Jaybird. He looks like that because I couldn’t get my act together.” Dick steadfastly ignores the way his voice cracks. Being a teenager again sucked. “He thought I hated him so much that I’d–I’d… I don’t know, disown him–or something.” 

“Yeah, he’s pretty much convinced you’ll never speak to him again if he fucks this up. Thinks it’s some kinda test.” His little brother sits down beside him, his face giving away no sympathy as his words shoot bullets straight through Dick’s heart. “You were an asshole, so what? You were just a kid.” 

“You don’t–”

“What? What exactly don’t I get, Dick?” Jason fires back. “What it’s like to completely fuck up my relationship with my adoptive father? I tried to kill Tim, Dickie, pistol-to-the-chest death. Same MO that took his parents away from him, and he still willingly kept me around.”

“You have a chance to do that over,” Dick argues. “I know it hurt, I know you regret what you did every single day. B did too. But you–I don’t get to–no–I’m sorry. Jay, I’m sorry. You do get it. It’s just–god. It’s like all those anger management classes did nothing.” 

He’s saying things he doesn’t mean all over again. At this rate, he’s only going to hurt Bruce more. 

“Dick.”

“Don’t, I’m–just–don’t. I’m okay.” 

“You are so far from okay, Dickie. This is a shitty time for you to get sent back to, ‘specially when all you want to do is tell him all the things you never got to say.” Jason elbows him lightly. “Besides, technically, you haven’t even done those anger management classes yet.”

All he can do is nod. 

“S-speaking of Tim…” He wipes aggressively at his eyes, cursing his penchant for crying when he’s angry. 

“I couldn’t find much. Nothin’ that would sway a court.” 

“Okay.” Dick sighs. “I set you up with our system last night, should have full access.” 

“Cool. I’m not sure what else I could dig up, but I did hack Tim’s computers. If he does anything our Tim would do I’ll know.” When Dick nods one more time Jason falls backward, staring up at the ceiling. “How are the Titans?” 

“The same as I remember.” Dick joins him, making a show of shoving Jason’s outspread arm out of the way. He’s trying to distract him, Dick knows, but he could use a little distraction. “Don’t think Roy stays at the tower yet, so you probably won’t see him.” 

“Damn, he forgot he owes me twenty.” Jason says, and it catches Dick so off-guard in the moment that he laughs.

“You’re both rich. You could literally ask B for a yacht and he’d say which one.” 

“Yea but that involves askin’.” 

Dick gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes, but he’s smiling. They both are. 

“I know you’re scared, Dickie. I’m scared too. But this? Making up with B? That’ll be the easiest part. Promise’.” Jason turns to face him, his expression more open than Dick’s seen it in a long time. Almost like–almost like Jason’s not tainted by the pit anymore. Like he’s in control of his own emotions, like that voice in the back of his head finally quieted. 

He opens his mouth to ask, but then Dick turns to face Jason too and–and Dick feels all of his rational thoughts flee his brain. Jason wasn’t just smiling–he was grinning, the corners of his eyes crinkled and a healthy pink glow on his cheeks. Maybe they would still need to talk about it, still need to run tests and dig deeper into Jason’s head, but for now? 

For now, Dick thinks he has his answer. 

“Thanks, Little Wing. I’d be lost without you.” Dick teases, but he thinks he might mean it. Just a little.

“Robin? You in there dude?” Gar’s voice calls from outside his door. 

“Seriously, that is going to take so much getting used to.” Jason mumbles, sitting up. “Please switch to Nightwing soon, everytime I hear Robin I think Damian’s hiding somewhere ‘round a corner.” 

He sounds almost put-out about it, as if Damian not being around the corner with some kind of murder plot is disappointing. Never thought he’d see the day Jason was actively missing their youngest brother. But then, Dick misses him too. 

“It’s open BB.” 

The boy in question opens the door slowly, looking sheet white despite his normal green complexion. 

“You didn’t tell me Batman was so scary, man.” The young superhero withers to the ground. 

“It go that bad?” Dick asks, genuinely curious.

“No! That’s the thing, but he was so– serious. Kinda nice, but mainly scary.” Beast Boy decides, gaining back some of his color. “He’s gonna make me learn how to punch. Punch, Robin. I can turn into a T-rex and he’s gonna teach me how to deck villains in the face.” 

Jason chuckles from beside him while Dick smiles.

“Yeah that sounds like B.” Kinda nice but mainly scary is exactly how Dick would have described Batman when he was 9 years old and first meeting him. “Think you’ll be okay training with him?” 

“Oh absolutely .” Gar has fully perked up now. “He’s so cool. Robin, your mentor, is literally a founder of the Justice League. The Justice League! I’m not gonna pass that up!” 

“He was sufficiently creepy for an idol of Gotham.” Rachel adds, emerging from one of her portals. She actually smiles a little. “He is going to meditate with me.” 

Huh, Dick hadn’t known she was a fan. Though it made sense in hindsight, that she would have looked up to him. The strength to keep being a hero even when you were something to fear. Yeah, those two will definitely get along. 

“Anyway, nice to meet you again, Redhawk. You gonna be training with us?” Gar turns to Jason, smiling widely. Dick had forgotten how happy the kid managed to be despite everything. He’d mellowed down a lot after becoming an official member of the Justice League, but mostly Dick just hadn’t seen him recently. Maybe he could do something about that, this time around. 

“Yep.” Jason pops the P loudly. “B already has my training planned though, so I don’t need a turn.” 

“Beast Boy! And Raven and Robin as well! I was looking for you all.” Kori hovers into his room, and Dick can’t remember if they’d ever all been in it at once like this. He was so secretive when he was leading them. Probably subconsciously imitating Bruce. 

“Guess that just means Cyborg’s left then right? Think they're almost done?” The Titans just shrug, and Dick throws a nervous glance at Jason. “Go, Robin, take your turn.” 

Jason, the cruel bastard he is, shoves Dick off the bed. He just barely stops himself from falling on his ass. 

“Ah–right. Of course. I should do that, shouldn’t I?” He’s rambling, grabbing his utility belt from his nightstand and giving a small nod to each Titan as he passes through them. 

His turn. Yeah, okay, fuck you too Jason. But–this could be good, right? A private moment for them to bridge the gap? Only no, because Bruce would be expecting him to ask about Jason. The fake glare Dick had sent him earlier made sure of that. 

Dick tries to remind himself exactly why he’s keeping up this stupid charade. Bruce needs this reconciliation to feel natural. Outright forgiveness he wouldn’t believe, the worst case scenario ending with him accusing Dick of being a clone or something. No matter how much Bruce might think he wants Dick to just act like nothing happened, the vigilante would never accept it if he did. Bruce knows he made mistakes, probably dwells on them more than even Dick’s younger self did. If any reconciliation is going to happen, Bruce needs to feel like he made up for them. 

Slow, he reminds himself, he needs to take this slow.

Cyborg steps out of the elevator when it reaches his floor, and smiles at Dick lopsidedly.

“Batman’s in the lounge still if you're looking for him. I gave him some paper to plan our routines.” 

“Thanks.” Dick nods sort of absentmindedly, moving past Victor and into the elevator. 

“Hey, wait. I think this was a good idea man. The dude seems pretty nice despite the whole, well.” Victor looks momentarily lost for words before he eventually just gestures vaguely. “Everything. But you’re sure you're good with him bein’ around?” 

“Definitely.” He pulls himself together enough to make it sound convincing. “B’s good, we’re good–or–we will be. I want to be.”

“Alright, sorry I keep asking.”

“It’s good, thanks Vic.” Dick thanks whatever god is watching that it’s Victor he forgets to use codenames with, jamming the elevator button with more force than necessary. Out of spite, Dick silently curses Jason’s name. He is not ready to do this.

Bruce doesn’t look up when Dick enters the room, but he’s not stupid enough to think the man hadn’t noticed him. His back is facing Dick, tension running through those broad shoulders to the point it looked painful. 

“Batman.” He greets, not unkindly. More neutral. Bruce wouldn’t be upset at neutral, would he?

“Robin.” His mentor does turn to face him, but only after Dick has already crossed the room, standing opposite to where the older man is seated. The notebook that Victor had retrieved for him forgotten on the table. “Your… team seems to have a fairly good grasp on their abilities. I do not believe the drills or exercises you were running before have proved ineffective.” 

Bruce is giving him an out, Dick realizes. A chance to change his mind. 

Dick remembers how he blew up at Jason, how words he would never have said to Jay ever in his 34 year old body tumbled out without his control, and he honestly considers it. But then, the horrible thought crosses Dicks mind that he doesn’t care. If Bruce walks out that door–or zeta beam–Dick is going to break. 

“They were fine, but I–” Dick fakes a pause, shifting his eyes over to Bruce purposely. “I can’t lose them, and you’re the strongest person I know. I would feel more comfortable having them in the field if you worked with them.” 

The vigilante honest to god twitches at that, and Dick can’t remember the last time he’s pulled so many visible reactions out of the man. 

“I wish you would give yourself more credit.” Bruce smiles, and make no mistake, that is Bruce talking, not Batman. “But of course I will train them. I’m only sorry I must invade your space to do so. I know you are not comfortable having me in the tower.”

Dick wants to scream. Yell. Anything to tell his father that Dick never wants him to leave his sight again, but he’s frozen. Bruce is so close and Dick curses the fact that he can’t simply take two steps and throw himself on top of the older superhero and never let go. Instead, he shifts quietly on his feet, stealing glances at the man whenever he thought Bruce wasn’t looking.

Damian has always looked like he could be a Bruce clone–sometimes more than Conner looked like a Clark clone–but like this, the similarities became almost uncanny. A fact that made it really hard to continue ignoring how young he’s supposed to be right now. Because if Dick is 18–then it would put Bruce at 28. Tim’s age. This Bruce wasn’t any older than their Tim. 

“So… Redhawk, huh?” He tries not to feel bad when Bruce flinches. 

“His name is Jason. He’s… staying at the manor. With me.” 

“How long?” 

Bruce seems surprised at the question, somehow sinking further into shadows that weren’t even there. Maybe Dick should have left that alone, it’s not like he’s actually mad–or even that he doesn’t know the answer. 

“Close to–close to three years.” And the effort it took Bruce to admit that shows Dick exactly how hard he’s trying not to fuck this up. “I’m sorry–”

“How did you meet?” Dick cuts off the apology before it could start. He thinks he’ll be sick if he hears it. 

It’s not that Bruce didn’t screw up at all during this part of their life. He did, pretty royally when he didn’t talk to Dick about making Jason Robin, but hindsight really is 20/20. Bruce was just a man, and Dick didn’t see how hard he had made it for Bruce to fix things from his end. The leaving, the accusations, Dick wouldn’t know how to deal with himself either. 

In the end, Bruce was just as fucked up as the rest of them, and he hadn’t had a Batman to come pick up the pieces. Alfred did his best, but he wasn’t prepared to raise a traumatized kid with crippling social anxiety–probably no one is prepared to raise a kid like that. But Dick? When the worst day of his life came, Bruce held out his hand. He was only 18 then, barely an adult, and he’d held out his hand anyway. 

It was hardly proper, and only Bruce’s exuberant wealth allowed the adoption to go through–but as far as Dick’s concerned, Bruce was the only one who could have taken him in. Because he was the only one who understood. Both the loss and the vigilantism. 

So no, Dick really didn’t think he was being too harsh on his younger self, if Bruce was able to take in a kid and raise them right–because make no mistake, that is what Bruce did–at 18; then Dick could have taken his head out of his ass long enough to see his dad as a person instead of an idol that let him down. 

Maybe he could still argue that the time away made him into a better leader, a better person. None of it changed how much he regrets leaving when Bruce probably needed him more than ever.  

Dick barely remembers getting shot, he never saw why it was such a big deal. Bruce got shot all the time. And Dick had been shot at before, even sustained worse injuries in the time he’d been patrolling with Bruce. But that bullet, that bullet triggered something in Bruce that transcended all rational thought. All thought that wasn’t a third body bleeding out in an alley. How Dick hadn’t seen that he’ll never know. One could only blame being ‘young and dumb’ for so long.  

“He tried to steal the tires off the batmobile.” Bruce’s soft voice almost startles him, that deep timber so familiar it makes him want to cry. He snaps out of it enough to remember to laugh.

“Seriously? And you, seeing this, decided to adopt him?” Dick smirks when Bruce sputters slightly. The man would probably appreciate that Dick read between the lines, that he wouldn’t have to say it himself. 

“It–it was not only that.” Bruce finally settles on, stealing a glance in Dicks direction with the admission of guilt. “He was–he needed someone. And he wouldn’t trust the police or the foster system but he trusted–he trusts Batman.”

“Oh B, you’re a bleeding heart.” He allows a genuine smile to slip onto his face, hoping to accomplish two things. The first being to rid some of the rigid tension that somehow keeps building in Bruce’s shoulders, and the second–the second was to hopefully show Bruce that Dick wasn’t mad about Jason. That he wasn’t jealous, and he didn’t think Jason was a replacement. When he glances up, Bruce looks a bit stunned. 

Dick is honestly very impressed Bruce holds back from asking if Dick is sure he’s not mad. 

“He was very much looking forward to meeting you.” His smile must have had the desired effect, because Bruce picks up his pen, resuming the notes in that perfect handwriting of his.

“I got to talk to him a bit while you were working with the team, seems like a good kid.” 

“He is.” Bruce confirms easily, looking overwhelmingly fond. 

“You could have told me, you know. I would have–liked to know. He is my little brother.” And Dick really doesn’t get why he feels the need to ruin everything he touches, because the tension he worked so hard to ease snaps right back into place. 

“You’re right.” Guilt clouds Bruce’s eyes.  

No, he’s not. Dick would have never answered his calls, never let Bruce get two words in edgewise before asking where his apology was. Ironic, in the end, that Bruce has apologized so many times since then, and Dick hasn’t returned it once. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you–that this is how you learned about him. But take that out on me, don’t blame Jason.” His father looked a touch desperate, his normally stoic expression cracking around the edges. 

“I won’t.” Not this time around, at least. Dick cringes every time he remembers his and Jason’s actual first meeting. Seriously, Dick really couldn’t pick a side back then. Wanting none of Bruce’s attention and wanting all of it. He doesn’t know how Jason could stand him. 

“Did you… want to train with me as well?” Feeling brave, Bruce makes eye contact with the question, probably hoping to study Dick’s reaction. He allows surprise to seep into his expression. 

“My team would call me unfair if I didn’t.” Which–is absolutely true. Gar and Kori would never tolerate him sitting out, but Dick mainly wants as much time with Bruce as he can get. 

“I see. Then, I will do my best.” There is a nervous lit to his father’s voice, but Dick pretends he doesn’t hear it. Bruce smiles tightly, scribbling more frantically in his notes.

Chapter Text

Tim thinks he really should have woken up by now. His dreams didn’t usually last this long, even the vivid ones felt like an out of body experience. Like he was on the outside looking in. The brain is never fully cognizant, even when it realizes it’s dreaming–so really, there is no reason why he can count the seconds as they pass. He risks a glance from under his blankets and, sure enough, the old, hollow walls of the Drake manor still greet him. 

Tim hasn’t moved since he got here, which was probably hours by now–maybe days dream time. He’s pretty sure the sun has set a few times. The hunger and dehydration are feeling a touch too realistic for him. And, seriously, he hasn’t had this nightmare in years. Not since Bruce officially adopted him, not since he had enough siblings to fill a mansion twice this size with noise 24/7. 

His therapist would probably blame Bruce’s death. Blame the loss of the figure tying him to that life for the return of these old, sullen nightmares. But his therapist wasn’t here, no one ever was in dreams like these. So, to be safe, Tim just blames everything. 

He pulls the blankets back over his head, wishing with every bone in his body that he would just wake up, but it’s not like much would really be different when he did. He’d only be trading an empty manor for a full one that felt like it.

His family tried–tries–but they’re in no shape to pick each other up at the moment. Losing Bruce to the time stream was bad enough, what with Dick taking over as Batman, making Damian Robin, and pushing Jason away. They don't talk about what happened often, all of them collectively deciding that Bruce didn't need to hear about it, but the mistakes they made then were nothing compared to now. 

Bruce’s death hit all of them, especially Dick, and it just seemed like no one who came around felt like talking for long. 

Red Hood and Nightwing still patrol the city at night, quelling riots and stomping villains who used to be too afraid to step outside, but it's never enough. He hasn’t even seen Robin (or Damian) since it happened, while Signal and Black Bat do what they can to control the drug cartels as they grow bolder. As for Red Robin… well, Tim has hardly left the cave.

There were two memorials up now–Dick and Alfred insistent that Bruce’s suit be displayed right next to Jason’s. But it somehow only made the cave seem emptier. Tim curled inward on himself, steadfastly ignoring his smaller body. Regressing to his younger self was commonplace in these nightmares. He just had to ignore-ignore-ignore until he woke up.

If he woke up. 

Could he die from thirst in the dream? Would it wake him up if he did? He felt like Bruce would call it unhealthy that Tim was considering trying it. Not that Bruce could tell him anything anymore. 

Steeling himself, Tim kicks the blankets off, groaning at the familiar cold. His legs nearly buckle under him as he tries to stand, and– Wow. He had to give props to his own brain, that is exactly what Tim remembers dehydration feeling like. Namely, awful . 

Tim doesn’t know if he should be happy or embarrassed that he’s almost completely forgotten the way to the Drake manor’s kitchen. Because on the one hand, he was nearly thirty, and getting lost in what used to be his house is pretty fucking stupid. While on the other… Tim had been with the Waynes so long now that the manor he once knew inside and out is more foreign than Gotham's sewers. In any case, Tim really needed a glass of water, maybe some toast. 

His stomach growls painfully and Tim concedes. 

Definitely some toast. 

When he reaches the kitchen, and because he is a proper adult unlike Jason and Dick, he pulls a glass from the cupboard and fills it up with ice. He’s honestly surprised Alfred hasn’t disowned them yet from the amount of times those heathens drank water straight from the sink. Oh god, he sounded a lot like Damian just then. Maybe he was dehydrated in the real world too. With how hectic everything has been recently, it wouldn’t be surprising.

That also meant that the glass he was currently holding would do absolutely nothing to help how awful he felt. Tim downed it anyway, going in for a second glass when his throat still felt desert dry. He sets on making the toast immediately after, thankful for whatever kind of placebo effect allowed his brain to clear ever so slightly after the water. 

His brain wouldn't keep him asleep forever, Tim just needed to ride this out a little longer. Then-then he can go back to dealing with his waking nightmare. Go back to thinking every shift behind him in the cave is Bruce trying to sneak out of bed rest. Back to taking care of a city that just lost the one remaining good thing about it. 

It might not be much to look forward to, but at least it’s not this. At least awake, he knows for sure his life as a Wayne happened. Knows for certain that–that someone out there loved him enough to save him from this prison of a house.

Here Tim can’t help but wonder which one was really the dream. 

-

Most of Bruce’s notes for the Titans consisted of drills and routines he thought fit their current fighting styles, with a focus on perfecting what they have before adding anything new to their arsenal. He was honestly worried at first that they wouldn’t find it any different than Dick’s training, that he wouldn’t actually bring anything new to the table. Dick was brilliant, no matter how he felt about his own abilities. Bruce is certain he was doing amazing with the Titans.

Would he regret contacting Bruce if he found the training subpar? 

Thankfully, with the way things were going, Bruce wouldn’t have to navigate that scenario. Bruce isn’t sure he could navigate that scenario–so–small mercies.

“And I thought Robin was a tough teacher.” Beast Boy ends his lap of the training course by dramatically falling over. His speed was something to be admired considering the amount of physical exertion his movement took compared to the others. 

“Your performance is commendable, Beast Boy.” And it was, especially for someone so young. Bruce had been concerned Beast Boy would struggle in the physical portion of their training. His irregular diet combined with how many calories his powers consume made it nearly impossible for Beast Boy to be eating enough. From what Bruce could tell of his meals they were nutritionally sound, but the amount would need to be increased-and not by an insignificant amount either. 

The green hero mumbles something akin to an affirmative, so Bruce relents and decides to give him a bit of a break. Never one to waste time, the older hero turns in the direction of another one of his new students. 

Starfire’s face is scrunched up in concentration when Bruce reaches her, green energy clinging to her fists. It warbles unsteadily, but she has managed to extend the energy to her elbows.

“Easy,” Bruce whispers to avoid startling her. “Would you like to test it?” 

The words tumble out playfully, (by Batman standards) it was the tone he used on Dick when he was younger. It has the desired effect, excitement lighting up in the Tamaranean’s eyes. He retrieves a dulled Batarang (see Dick about the name) from his utility belt, crossing the training field to put more distance between them. 

“There is no shame in dodging if you feel you need to.” Bruce waits for her shaky nod before aiming the weapon at her chest. Not a single ounce of fear touches the warrior's gaze as she brings her arms up to block the weapon. Admirable, considering there was no knowing if the projectile would bounce off the energy harmlessly or cause it to detonate. 

Luckily, it seems Bruce’s theories were correct. Her newfound forcefield deflects the dull blade seamlessly–not even a spark lighting at the contact.

“Incredible!” Starfire’s eyes are sparkling. “I had no idea Tamaranean powers were capable of this.” 

He feels a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but he quickly squashes it down and leaves her to it. The last Titan besides Dick he has to check on is Cyborg–Raven is not present at the current moment, Bruce having decided fairly quickly that he would like their sessions to be more private. She revealed in their conversation that the other Titans knew very little about her powers and, no matter his thoughts on that matter, he would respect her wishes for privacy. At least until he could convince her of the danger such an arrangement created. 

The oldest Titan looks frustrated when Bruce gets close enough to detect the lines the human portion of his face, immediately drawing Bruce’s full attention. 

“Is something the matter?” Bruce tries for a neutral tone, eyeing the tense way the younger hero was holding himself. 

Batman put Cyborg on target practice for today, doing everything in his power to avoid any activity that could lead to more discussions on the ‘improvement’ of his inhuman parts. Bruce had nothing against the tech Cyborg was running. If he was being honest, much of it was extremely impressive–not to mention powerful. His inventions as Batman were mostly utility-based, fully functioning machines were in his repertoire–but they were not his specialty. 

What Bruce could improve was functionality, efficiency. He could advise Cyborg on what was best to install, what gadgets he should keep on him and what was unnecessary, but overall Cyborg’s tech was perfectly capable. Which is why the frustration on his face now–at such a simple task–caused Bruce’s brows to knit together. (Not visible under the cowl, of course.)

When Cyborg tried to play it off with a simple ‘It’s nothing’ Bruce's confusion only grew. 

“You have impeccable reflexes.” He commends. “Not all of that comes from the machines.” 

“Yeah.” For a moment Bruce thinks he’s gotten nowhere, but then Cyborg’s shoulders are facing him. “I was an athlete before… all this. Means I’m use'ta having to react fast.” 

“You miss it.” It’s not a question, Cyborg must miss a lot of things. Bruce hadn’t dug into the Titans the same way he’d dug into the Justice League out of respect for Dick. He knew Wally and Donna, (who were both now Young Justice members) but that was mainly from his connections to Barry and Diana–not from any digging Bruce had personally done. He knew Garth as well, but that was similarly due to a connection through the League. Arthur’s parental pride didn’t allow him to shut up about the kid. 

That’s not to say he didn’t want to. God knows if anything, them being teammates of Dick made Bruce want to run background checks on them more. But Dick had already cut off most contact, and Bruce didn’t want risk anything that could push the boy away further. What would happen if Dick decided not to call for Batman’s help when all else was lost? Bruce couldn’t risk Dick's life for his own curiosity. 

Only, he was too much of a coward to call Dick and tell him about his new brother, so any goodwill he might have gained there meant nothing. Bruce grimaces at his own short-sightedness.

“Yeah well, I’m not the only one who misses who they were before.” Cyborg answers, after a while. His eyes are cast downwards, something about the words self-deprecating. 

“That does not mean you are not allowed to.” Bruce forces himself not to shift, remaining steady and stoic. “Would you tell Beast Boy he is not allowed to miss the days before his powers?” 

“Of course not.”

“Then extend that courtesy here, You save people, Cyborg, remember that sometimes that includes saving yourself.” With a curt nod, Bruce leaves Cyborg to his thoughts. He’s trained enough heroes to know that some conclusions need to come from inside. 

When Bruce arrives at the Titan leader’s sectioned area, he finds that Dick and Jason have merged their drills together. Dozens of target dummies lay beaten and battered across the grass, the two boys attacking in turns as more rise up from the ground. Bruce feels his heart swell involuntarily. Even if he can't make things up with Dick, maybe he will at least have Jason to turn to from here on. (At least have Jason and Alfred to still consider family.) 

“B!” Jason calls when he catches sight of him. His youngest finishes kicking in a dummy’s chest cavity before reaching into the secure pocket of his combat pants to pause the machines. 

“Robin, Redhawk. How is training?” Bruce allows himself to lose a bit of the bat-growl between the three of them, catching Jason’s face in his hands and rubbing thoughtfully at a patch of yellowing skin on his cheek. 

“Fine.” His youngest swats at the smothering (but gentle) hand. “Got clipped by one of the dummies, no big deal.” 

Dick looks a little roughed up from the training too. Bruce wants nothing more than to offer him the same gesture, but he lost that privilege ages ago. Dick is an adult now, as much as it pains him to admit, he deserves to dictate how fast-if at all-their relationship improves without Bruce's smothering.

“How are the others doing?” Dick asks, gravitating towards them slightly, probably to keep the volume down. 

“They are quite talented. I’m sure Raven will show the same promise when I work with her later.” 

“I’m glad.” The younger hero nods sagely, twirling his staff in his hands thoughtfully. “You know, I’ve been thinking about changing up my style.”

“Really?” Bruce asks, genuinely surprised by the admission. Dick only hums. 

“I think I could handle two of these better.” He holds the weapon pointedly. “Maybe with a bit of firepower on the ends.” 

Escrima sticks? Bruce actually has some designs drawn out back at the cave. Did Dick know about them? Or had he really seen in himself the habits that Bruce saw all those years ago–when they still patrolled Gotham together? He wouldn't put it past Dick, he was exceptionally smart for his age, but the boy he remembers preferred having no weapon at all. 

“With the ease you handle a weapon in either hand, I’m certain you would excel.” Bruce tries not to react to the small smile Dick offers in return. 

“No fair, I don’t get to train with anything blunt or sharp.” There is something else Jason starts to say, but he quickly shuts himself up, looking slightly sick. 

“In time. For now, you should return to your drills. We can discuss weaponry later.” Both of his sons groan in answer, but they take back their stances and the onslaught resumes. 

Dick’s movements are different from what he remembers. Still graceful in a way befitting of his acrobat origins but distinctly different. Bruce can’t put his finger on exactly what changed, but it eats at the back of his mind as he watches his eldest fight. Perhaps he’s only seeing an adaptation to having more allies fight by his side, the difference between a leader and a follower. Or maybe–maybe his son really is taller and more broad than he remembers. 

The thought makes his heart sink-to realize just how long they’d been apart. To realize how much of Dick’s life he had missed because of his own mistakes. 

Jason was significantly less showy in his footwork–lacking the flips and flourishes Dick was so fond of intertwining with his style, but he had an edge about him. One that Bruce hadn’t seen in the beginning. It was sharper when he fought alongside his brother, his brawling more measured, his jabs landing with more weight behind them. The biggest issue Bruce can see is that the boy overestimates his reach. Bruce is exceedingly proud of both of them, but Jason’s improvement was nothing short of extraordinary. Dick has always been an athlete, professionally trained and in peak physical condition since he was just a boy. But Jason? Jason was a malnourished kid living on the streets before Bruce took him in. Watching him keep up with Dick, even if barely, was an incredible feat. 

When the set is over, he brings them both a cool towel, leading them through their stretches to make sure neither boy passed them up. 

“You were both very impressive out there.” He says it conversationally, knowing in his heart that Dick probably scoffed internally at the statement. He’s actually surprised when all his eldest does is grunt in answer. Usually, Dick would take the opportunity to ask (again) why he had been benched if Bruce had all this faith in him. Jason, predictably, has a more positive response. His youngest smiles at him gleefully, a post-workout exhaustion in his eyes.

He checks in with the others one last time, ensuring they’re taking the appropriate steps after an intense session. (Bruce– specifically– forces Beast Boy to cool down properly. The boy seemed to collapse after certain strenuous activities, which was as worrying as it was bad for his body.) 

And then he’s entering the Tower to look for Raven. 

Bruce had a lot of specific concerns when it came to the Titans: Cyborg’s mental state, Beast Boy’s poor physical health, and even Starfire’s self-confidence, but little worried him more than Raven’s fear of her powers. That fear, combined with the fact that her powers could draw from fear made her unstable no matter the amount of self-control she’s cultivated. 

She asked that they meet in her room yesterday, so that’s where Bruce goes. 

Raven opens the door looking less than comfortable. Intrusive thoughts have probably plagued her since Bruce first discussed training with her. It was probably easier in the beginning, when she had no emotional connection to him, to let him in on something she kept from the others. He isn’t sure that her feelings specifically have changed, but the hesitation must have been derived from something. Perhaps having Jason with him has humanized him in her mind. 

“You are having second thoughts about how much you want to show me.” The younger hero doesn’t meet his eyes, her cape swallowing most of her form whole. Bruce eases past her, taking in the gothic decoration inside. She would be a big fan of the manor if she ever got the chance to visit, maybe of Gotham in general. “I understand the danger. I know you believe your team cannot handle it, I’m here to tell you I can.”

“Robin said that too.” Raven chuckles softly. “He’s so much like you, and I don’t even think he realizes it.” 

Bruce tries not to grimace, Dick would not like hearing that. 

“I don’t want to get you caught up in my problems. Robin would never forgive me if something happened to you.” She leads him further into the room where two mats are laid out on the floor. The words aren’t the ones he expected to hear. 

Had Dick done something to make her believe that? Or was she simply assuming care where there wasn’t any? Bruce so desperately wants to ask, but this meeting isn’t about him.  

“I assure you I can handle myself. Within the League there are multiple heroes with powers capable of wiping out worlds, my job as one of its senior members is to guide them.” Bruce allows some of his stoic expression to slip, hoping his next words might not sound as heartless. (He also omits the ‘part-time’ in his title, Bruce didn’t have the time to care about being petty right now.) “I also create contingency plans to neutralize them if necessary.”

“You mean you find ways to take them out if they turn evil.” Raven takes a meditative position on the mat closest to the door, Bruce follows suit. 

“Neutralize– not kill.” He presses. “And not every reason a hero turns against the League is for evil. Mind control and misunderstandings are abundant, and have been the reason we have brought out multiple of these plans in the past.” 

The girl nods almost imperceptibly, taking in the information. 

“Will you create one for me?” 

“...would you like me to?” 

“The problem–the problem is that it’s not me that you would need to neutralize.” Raven bites her lip subtly, resting her hands on her crossed legs. “My father created me to be a portal. When the time comes, he will use me to come here–and when he does no one will be able to stop him.” 

That explains a lot of the fear. Which meant a new path forward was opening up. Remove Raven’s father from the equation–free her from this burden–and the core reason she cannot trust her own abilities is removed at the roots. It is, admittedly, easier said than done–but a potentially world-ending disaster was just another day at this point. 

“So you see… it will take more than locking me up to protect everyone. When the time comes, you need to be willing to kill me.” Raven continues, eyes cast downwards. Bruce feels sick at the thought. 

“You know Robin would never let that happen.” 

She nods. “It’s why I never told him.”

“Raven. I’m not going to let that happen either.” Bruce meets her eyes, hoping to convey just how serious he was really being. “I’ll call the Justice League in if I have to–but I’m not letting you die.”

Raven doesn’t say anything more on the matter. Bruce counts it as a win. 

-

Jason is having fun. 

Oh, he was absolutely still crying himself to sleep at night, but watching the Titans train with Bruce is the funniest shit he’s seen in years. Especially when they sparred. It never got old seeing his friends completely shut down with one swift movement from the Bat himself. Garfield is his current victim, the poor boy sprawled out helplessly on the floor after a particularly showy display of Batman’s natural grace in battle. 

Bruce’s towering form still lingered over him now. 

“Are you alright, Beast Boy?” His mentor asks, holding out a hand to his new protégé casually. As if Bruce hadn't just flipped the smaller hero over his shoulder like it was nothing. 

“Dude. I think you killed me.”

“You are not dead.” Bruce huffs his not-laugh, and Jason curses at how his chest tightens at the sound. Gar has no idea the feat he just accomplished. “Get up. We'll stop when you land a hit.” 

The young hero groans dramatically but does as he’s told. It was kind of sweet to see them interact like this. Jason knows Gar lost his old team, having a mentor again must feel nostalgic. He watches Bruce swipe Gar's legs out from under him, chuckling lightly at the dismayed yelp Gar lets out as his body goes crashing to the ground. But halfway through the descent, Jason's world slows down.

As quickly as he can, Jason rips his eyes away from the scene–but it’s like he’s still there, still seeing it. Only–it isn’t Beast Boy Bruce is catching before he splats to the ground. And it isn’t the Tower’s gym they’re standing in. Jason feels his heart catch in his throat, his vision beginning to spin from the lack of oxygen flowing to his brain. 

Not real, he reminds himself, it's not real. But Jason finds a part of him doesn't see the difference.

This sort of thing wasn’t new to him per-sé. The pit had fucked up his head pretty bad, and then the LoA had taken it upon themselves to only put the pieces they wanted back together. He’d gotten used to it over the years–the memories flooding back. But it was different this time, clearer, somehow. Jason could remember the sensation of Bruce’s strong arms breaking his fall, remember the way his father’s lips curled into a soft smile when Jason scowled at him. 

It was different like Jason was there, reliving the moment in so much detail that it couldn’t be fake. He feels sick, eyes blinking rapidly in hopes the image would take pity on him and just go away.

Every time he thought there was nothing left to remember. Every time he thought he was close to getting over it. Something would come along and rip the feeling of being ‘okay’ right out from under him. And all he could wonder was what else he forgot–what else dying stole from him.

Memory-Bruce laughs, a sound Jason could rarely pull from him anymore. 

“This is important, Jaylad.” Memory Bruce says. “If you're going to be on the field with me I need to know you can handle yourself.” 

“I know.” Memory Jason looks annoyed, but there is no trace of the feeling in his voice. “I'll take you down this time.”

He won't, of course, but Bruce only smiles. Would things have been different if Jason could have remembered how Bruce looked at him? If, while Talia was feeding him lies, Jason could remember how Bruce held him? It seems so unfair. To have so much of his childhood with Bruce missing. 

“Redhawk.” Oh, that’s Bruce calling him. Now. Here. In the present–or past present. A past present where Jason could make up for a lot of those missing memories. He looks up to meet his father's eyes. “Do you need to sit out of today’s training?” 

“What? You backin’ out on me B?” He tries to tease, the words coming out shakier than he would have liked. 

“Of course not.” 

Jason forces down the anxiety enough to smirk, patting Gar’s shoulder sympathetically as he passes. He takes a defensive stance, Bruce’s starting blows coming easy and predictable. 

“You’re telegraphing all of your movements.” Jason accuses, not bothering to make it a question. At least he knew his keen eye hadn’t regressed, one less thing he’d have to relearn. 

“I am. That’s impressive, Red.” Bruce compliments, speeding up his movements but not removing the tells. Jason is somewhat thankful, unsure if he could find it in himself to match Bruce in a real spar anytime soon. The nickname does not go unnoticed, but Jason finds he doesn’t mind it. If Bruce hadn't come up with it, Dick. certainly would-sooner or later.  

He gets knocked on his ass pretty quickly, finding the familiar gentle takedown weirdly comforting. It was easy to forget how much control Bruce had over his strength. 

It was easy to forget a lot of things about the man, if you were Jason. 

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright Red?” 

“Peachy. Again?” 

They go a few more rounds before Jason can’t hold back his frustration any longer. He rolls over until he’s laying on his side, cursing at the ground. How is he supposed to protect anyone if he can’t even land a hit? How is he supposed to protect Bruce? What’s the point of coming back with all his future self's abilities–if every single one of them is unusable in this body?

Jason’s only going to drag them down again. Only get himself killed again. And then, Bruce is going to suffer all over again, all while Jason can’t pull himself together enough to land a single blow on someone worth fighting. 

He feels his body go from heavy to weightless, but he has no idea if he’s even moved an inch. His vision isn’t clear enough to tell up from down right now. 

“Jaybird.” Dick? That’s definitely Dick’s grating voice in his ears right now. And since when did he feel so warm? The Titans always kept the indoor gym freezing to make up for all the sweating. Wasn’t he–

“Jay.” A deep voice rumbles, Jason feels it deep in his bones. Oh, Jason blushes crimson, eyes snapping up to make out Bruce’s worried face above him.

His worst fears are answered, Bruce has the most feared crime lord of Gotham in a bridal carry. He’s never missed being 6’3 more than this exact moment. At least then Bruce would have had to resort to a fireman's carry. It doesn’t last long though, Bruce is lowering him down not two moments after Jason’s eyes met his. 

“We lost you there for a second, Little Wing.” His brother tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, seemingly forgoing all pretenses of unfamiliarity. Whatever, Jason would let him deal with all of Bruce’s questions. 

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks, sitting on the other side of him. He reaches a hand out to temperature check Jason’s forehead, not bothering to remove the hand when he was done. 

“Like shit.”

“Language.” 

Jason chuckles despite himself, sitting up to dislodge their hovering hands. “Mm’ fine. Probably just tired.” 

He realizes his mistake a beat too late, cringing when Bruce purses his lips. 

“Dick, could you give us a moment?” Ouch, Jason feels like he should speak up. Tell Bruce he doesn’t care if Dick stays. But they’ve already acted so out of character since arriving, any more would be pushing it. Dick nods numbly, and Jason distantly realizes that they’ve just kicked Dick out of his own room. 

Because that’s where Bruce had taken him, apparently. Probably looking for advice from Dick, the clueless man he was. Jason allows himself a private smile. 

“You’re still having nightmares.” It’s not really a question, and Jason decides any denial he could come up with would be dismissed no matter how true it was, 

“S’not so bad.” Jason says awkwardly. Really, he’s not even having nightmares. Hasn’t dreamt much of anything since the pit. Mostly just memories, and honestly? Not even the bad ones anymore. 

Poor Dick, he probably wasn’t taking being kicked out well. 

“You can tell me if you’re tired Jaylad. We have plenty of time to complete your training, your health is what matters to me.” 

“Okay, sorry B.” And then, because he really was worried about his older brother. “You should go talk to Dick, he looked hurt when you asked him to leave.”

Bruce nods, his lips tight. By that reaction, Jason thinks Bruce probably already noticed. “Will you be alright?”

“Yea. Think I just need to lay here for a bit.” He lies, hoping it would ease Bruce’s mind a bit. “Just go apologize.” 

And Bruce goes, as if the permission was all he was waiting for. 

-

Dick pulls his knees to his chest like a petulant child, a perfect view of Jump City laid out before him. 

This used to be his favorite view, back when he thought he wanted to make something of himself outside of Gotham. When he was convinced he wanted nothing to do with the man who moonlighted as a bat as soon as the sun set. It shouldn’t hurt, Bruce probably wouldn’t have even fought him if he said no. So Dick doesn’t know why it felt like someone had ripped his heart out.

Maybe because it was Jason. Because Dick had every right to be there to look after his little brother–but Bruce wouldn’t know that. Because, right now, they were supposed to be strangers. Of course Bruce would want privacy to talk about– whatever it was they needed to talk about. Dick had known Jason for less than three days, it made perfect sense for Bruce to assume he would be more comfortable with Dick out of the room. 

The roof was quiet besides the faint sound of wind blowing over the tower, making Dick’s thoughts sound even louder in his head. 

His brother’s skin had been pale, and he was breathing a little too harshly for a few rounds of sparring, even with his old body. He probably had a mini panic attack, triggered by something while they were fighting and retreated into his own head. Dick feels his heart drop into his stomach, could it be pit related? They still needed to talk about that, actually. Dick feels a bit like a fool for brushing it off earlier. 

He was supposed to be Batman’s son. How could he have left such a gaping loose end open to a fuse like that? Was Jason’s episode today Dick’s fault for leaving the subject alone?

“I get the feeling you’re angry with me.” 

Dick jumps, eyes darting to the kevlar-clad man now standing beside him. Unfair, Dick was 16 years older and Bruce could still somehow sneak up on him. When the words finally register through the shock Dick’s heart sinks slightly. 

His father takes a seat beside him, hands resting awkwardly in his lap. He looks a lot more like Bruce like this than Batman. Has since he’s arrived, actually. Dick thinks of Bruce’s quiet panic when Gar got too close, his uncontrolled reactions to Dick’s more hurtful comments, and wonders just how he’d never noticed them before. But then, the real 18-year-old Dick hadn’t really been looking, had he?

“You say that like I’ve stopped being angry with you.” His father shifts, the joke falling decidedly flat. Bruce shrinks further in on himself, avoiding Dick’s gaze. 

“I know.” Bruce starts, and Dick wishes time would rewind all over again so he’d never have been the one to make Bruce look so defeated. “And I know I have not been the best father to you, even if that’s not how you think of me.”

No– no. 

“Bruce–”

“Please. This is long overdue.” A soft snap draws Dick's attention, the sound so familiar Dick could recognize it anywhere. With the cowl’s security latch disengaged, Bruce gently pushes the polyurethane material back. 

Oh. Out of habit, Dick scans the area around them for threats. None of the Titans followed them up, but that didn’t mean that no one was watching. Dick feels the intense urge to drag them both back inside, away from the prying eyes of the world. Bruce clears his throat, pulling Dick back to the man in front of him. 

“I owe you an apology.” No you don’t. “My actions after your sustained injury were unfair to you.” No they weren’t. “I realize now that all I accomplished was pushing you away, when I should have kept you closer than ever.” 

God, Bruce. That’s all you were ever trying to do.

Dick’s heart pounds loudly in his ears, tears burning his skin where they’re trapped underneath the domino. Bruce leans toward him, a hand reaching out so slowly Dick could have been up and off the roof by the time it reaches his face. His father tugs at the edge of his mask, asking permission. Dick nods, and the roof no longer holds two of the world's greatest superheroes, not even two of the world’s most feared vigilantes. Just Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne. Just a father and a son. 

“I’m sorry, Dick.” And god, how Dick believed him. The earnest determination in his father’s eyes would have made it impossible not to, even for Dick’s younger self. “I had no right to try and take Robin away from you.”

Bruce looks at him, and Dick realizes he’s not going to continue until the younger hero gives some sort of reaction. He musters up the strength to shrug, afraid nodding– agreeing –would make Bruce flinch again, and Dick really wanted Bruce to stop flinching around him.  

“When you were–” A shaky exhale cut his father off, an arm curling around his middle in a self-comforting kind of gesture. The silence drags out uncomfortably, Bruce drawing out of his space and staring off into the night. It's like he's trying to psych himself up, getting ready to force the words out. “When Robin was shot I-I couldn't stop seeing... It doesn’t–it doesn’t change that I hurt you, or that you misconstrued my worry for disappointment. I just couldn’t stomach the thought of seeing you–of losing you. Not like-not like that." 

“I’m okay.” Dick says, denying Bruce's attempts to scoot further away by taking his father’s free hand into his own. “Not dead yet.” 

“But you could have been.” Bruce counters. “You could have been and it would have been my fault. I should never have taken you on that mission, it was too unpredictable. We were too unprepared. I should have known.”

“Bruce, I begged to go on that mission.”

“It doesn’t excuse that I let you.” 

And that was really the problem, wasn’t it? Bruce took all the responsibility-all the blame-because Dick was a kid when it happened. Nevermind that he was a willing kid, nevermind that if Bruce hadn’t taken Robin on, Dick would have figured out a way to do it himself–with much less training. Bruce protected Dick in the only ways Dick would let him, saved him from himself and gave him a purpose again. But all Bruce could focus on was the danger, the mistakes.

Dick isn’t as naive as he once was, he knows Bruce can't be perfect, but Dick never needed him to be. He just needed him to be there, and despite everything, Bruce always was. Him training the Titans now is proof of that. 

“You did your best.” He tries, bumping their shoulders together. It gets Bruce’s eyes to flicker toward him. “You kept me out of as much as you could, steered me in the safest direction I allowed you to. Not many people could have done that much.” 

“That doesn’t mean it was good enough. You deserved–you deserve better. I promise I’ll do better. So please don’t–” His father makes a strangled sound, cutting himself off. 

He doesn’t continue. Dick doesn’t need him to. 

“Okay.” Dick says, because that’s as good as he’s gonna get for now. It would take a lot more than one night to break through Bruce’s preconceived perception of himself. “How is Jason?”

That get’s Bruce’s full attention, suspicion creeping into his gaze. Dick guesses he probably should have seen that coming after freaking out earlier. 

“I am concerned, but he was insistent that he would be better after resting.” It sounds like Bruce doesn’t quite believe that, something close to a pout on his lips. “He has been acting slightly off for a few weeks now, and I cannot pinpoint the cause.” 

“Maybe it’s a series of things, or simply something you hadn’t noticed?” Yeah, like something could ever slip past Batman. Still, Dick was trying to cover their asses right now, not be realistic. “There is always a chance that nothing caused it, that it simply is.” 

“I’m not–sure.” Bruce sounds pained, like it hurts to admit he doesn’t know the answer. Maybe it does, Jason is Bruce’s son, after all. He probably feels like it’s his fault for not being able to read Jason’s mind. Seriously, the sky could start falling tomorrow and Bruce would find a way to pin it on himself. “Perhaps you are right, and there is nothing to find. I only wish I knew how to help.”

“What makes you think you aren’t?” 

“He seems– upset when he looks at me. I do not believe I have done anything to slight him, but I suppose I am not the best when it comes to noticing such things.” He gives Dick a tight smile, then seems to regret it, retreating inward on himself. 

Dick bites his lip. There is nothing he can really do to help with that. Jason probably won’t stop looking at Bruce like he’ll slip away ever again, the same way future Bruce couldn’t look at Jason. That’s just what happens when you watch someone die. 

Won’t be long before Bruce notices Dick looking at him the same way. 

“I’m sure what you’re doing is helping plenty, just give him time.” 

They sit in silence for a while after that, the tension slowly draining from the air. It was nice, neither of them had let go of the other's hand. Bruce probably to avoid upsetting Dick, and Dick because the low trum of his father’s heartbeat was the only thing currently keeping him sane. 

Maybe Jason was right. Maybe this was the easy part.

Dick lets his head fall onto Bruce’s shoulder, content to stay there until the world forces him to move. 

-

Bruce was frozen, the weight pressing into his side was quite literally paralyzing him. He is, completely and wholly, out of his element. Sure, Dick was cuddly as a kid-but mostly Bruce could shrug off Dick being cuddly with him as a fluke. Kids liked physical touch, needed physical touch if the dozen parenting books he owned meant anything, but what is he supposed to do with... with this?

Dick is out cold on his shoulder. Dick is out cold on Bruce’s shoulder. 

Bruce ignores the painful clench of his heart and keeps his eyes on the horizon. He should get them back inside, November–even when it’s not Gotham November, is no time to sleep outside, but every twitch of Bruce’s hand makes Dick whimper slightly in his sleep. So, the (not so) fearless Dark Knight just sits there, motionless beside the rise and fall of his chest. 

Jump City is beautiful this time of night, which is not something a Gothamite says lightly. They tend to have a warped idea of beauty after living in the dark so long. But the skyline was lower than Gotham’s, allowing a perfect view of the stars over the city. Zero smog too, Bruce would bet Jump City’s clouds were made out of actual water. 

He can see why Dick loves it here so much, a bright city for a bright hero. 

The Titans too. Bruce had known they were good people, he was not above admitting his somewhat obsessive stalking of them on the news, but it was different meeting them. Seeing how close of a team they already were. Cyborg in particular gave Bruce the impression he wouldn’t be afraid to pick a fight with the Batman if Robin asked him to. 

Their training is going smoothly as well. After a few tense sessions, most of their apprehension faded into grudging respect for his craft. Raven was beginning to accept more of her emotions, and Beast Boy was throwing a passable punch by their third lesson. Starfire hadn’t had much room for improvement compared to the rest of them, but she followed advice surprisingly well when she understood it. Learning to communicate with her was the barrier to her progress. 

Dick mumbles something in his sleep, snuggling further into Bruce’s side. It can’t be comfortable with all the Batsuit’s armor, but Dick looks about as content as someone can get. 

It reminds Bruce so much of when he was younger that it aches. Because, no matter what the boy wonder said, Dick is still a kid trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. A kid who loved so much and expected so little. Bruce used to think they were the same. Used to see so much of himself in those angry, cerulean eyes. Now, Bruce thinks they couldn’t be more different. 

Robin has always been better than Batman, that was the point of him. But, somewhere along the way, Dick Grayson conquered what Bruce Wayne couldn’t. He surrounded himself with people, with friends. He understood when he needed help, and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. Dick took the pain and made it light, whereas all Bruce could do was try and stop others from drowning with him. 

The Dark Knight huffs silently, steeling himself and scooping his son up into his arms. As predicted, the movement causes the boy to protest softly in his sleep. Bruce smiles, maneuvering Dick so he could pull down his cowl and replace the domino mask on the younger hero’s face. 

“You’re going to catch a cold if we stay out here any longer.” He explains, wondering what cataclysmic event happened to get both of his stubborn boys in his arms like this. Within 24 hours at that. 

He makes a beeline for Dick’s room, shamelessly using his Batman stealth to avoid the piercing gaze of Dick’s team. Bruce can’t imagine they’d take well to the sight of their leader passed out in his arms. 

“B?” Jason looks at them incredulously when the door opens. “Uh, is he good?” 

Bruce shushes his youngest lightly, stalking over to the bed with Dick still in his arms. “He’s asleep. Like you should be.” 

“Sorry.” Jason gathers himself to one side of the bed, looking slightly sheepish. Bruce decides not to mention it, carefully lowering Dick down to the bed. 

When Dick is tucked in sufficiently enough, Bruce tries to pull away. Training with the Titans meant Gotham was left without a Batman, he had dozens of case files to look over and send to Barbara with his notes. There was the news to look at too, one condition of his stay here was that an Arkham breakout would put the training on hold with no exceptions. (Barbara had promised not to go after any rogues while he was gone, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t break that promise the first chance she got.) 

His plans, however, were ruined when a leather-clad hand caught his arm.

“No.” Dick’s eyes were open now, open and glued to where he held Bruce’s wrist. “Don’t go.” 

And Bruce stays. 

He removes what he can of the Batsuit’s uncomfortable armor, (Dick actually throws the cowl across the room) slips into the too small bed, and stays. Distantly, Bruce thinks that no one else had such power over him. Could tie him down so effortlessly, could pull and push him around like he weighed nothing. This side of him… well, it was reserved for his boys only.

His eldest quickly curls into him, Jason crawling over them and settling into his opposite side. 

“Don’t go.” Dick repeats, desperation touching the words. Bruce furrows his brows, a hand coming up to run through the boy’s hair. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Dick.” He plants a kiss on the top of his eldest son’s head, turning to do the same to Jason before the boy could pull away. “Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.” 

Jason lets out something like a laugh at that. Dick only holds him tighter. 

“Not gonna let anyone try.” Somehow, Bruce thinks that sounds like a threat, but he can’t quite tell who the recipient is supposed to be. 

-

Tim wanders aimlessly through the empty manor, his eyes only focusing half of the time. How long has he been stuck here? Days? Weeks? He was starting to think magic was involved somehow. Or maybe he was just in a coma. 

It was light outside again, allowing him to navigate the strange yet familiar halls more easily. 

After the first trip Tim took to the kitchen, the young hero concluded that keeping up semi-regular eating habits would make his time here less miserable. Experiencing the weird dream dehydration all over again did not sound fun. He allows a hand to drag across the wall as he walks, uncaring of how his parents would have admonished him for the action. 

They never came home in real life, Tim can’t imagine why it would be different here. 

The thought of his parents brought him back to Bruce, his heart desperately yearning to sprint toward the manor that should be next door. Maybe being there would be better? It might still be an empty manor, but it was more home than this place ever was. He shakes the thought away too quickly, the dizziness making his head hurt. 

No, he doesn’t want to know how his brain would warp it. How the rooms would become colder without his family in them, how lifeless the place would feel without his brothers in it. Without Alfred, Steph, Babs– hell, even Damian’s endless collection of animals wandering around the halls at ungodly hours. The manor was an empty shell, even in the real world, but seeing it here? Without the last remaining pieces of the Wayne family in it? 

Tim doesn’t think he can take it. 

Lost in thought, his feet carry him to the door of his old dark room. Probably the only room in the whole house he actually enjoyed being in once upon a time. It was no Batcave, but it was still definitely better than the rest of this godforsaken manor. He hasn’t been since the dream started, well–he hasn’t been much of anywhere. The dreams usually didn’t let him out of his room. But he was here now, uncertain if the door would open to a dark void or not. 

Thing is–Tim was bored.

He is not an idle person. Even at his absolute worst, his hands are always tapping away at his tablet or he’s working on the batcomputer in the cave. But Tim had neither of those things in the Drake mansion, and now that the terror has faded into simmering anxiety he couldn’t take it anymore. 

Taking pictures used to be his catharsis. Even before Batman had become his muse, Tim filled the room in front of him with thousands of photos of anything and everything. He liked people watching, catching random Gothamites in specific moments when the darkness of the city didn’t seem to hold them as tightly. 

It was what first drew him to Bruce, that look Batman left on their faces. 

Gotham didn’t trust a lot of things, but by the time Tim took to the streets to take photos, they trusted the Batman. The Dark Knight promised salvation for a people so unused to having any, and they embraced him fully in return. Thousands of items of Batman memorabilia lined Gotham’s stores, the symbol becoming an area of comfort for the people just trying to get by in a city that fought against them every step of the way. 

People looked happy wearing it, but nothing could compare to when they saw the real thing. 

Tim remembers the first time he saw Batman save a life fondly. He’d been doing his normal route, taking miscellaneous pictures of Gotham’s people simply enjoying the small things, when he heard the screams. The few moments after that were a blur of smoke and ash. Some two-bit thug set the building he was robbing on fire after a lady called the cops, and people were trampling over each other to get out. 

He got knocked around pretty hard in the crowd, his small frame swallowed in the sea of panic, when the kevlar-clad figure crashed through one of the windows of the upper floor. The Batman landed gracefully, cradling something carefully to his chest. When the smoke cleared, Tim saw the child held tightly in his arms. They were covered in soot and breathing heavily, but when Tim caught sight of their face–they were smiling. The mother rushed Batman with all the grace of a woman mad with worry, but the child’s joy didn’t falter. Instead, they laughed.  

“I’m okay mama!” The child clung to her. “Batman saved me!”

So–Tim became a bit of a stalker after that. Could anyone really blame him? Batman had gained the trust of a people whose city churned out supervillains faster than the Flash could run. If anything was going to show him Gotham’s bright side, it was going to be the Bat. 

He’d follow the hero for hours, taking picture after picture until one day he realized the subject of his photos weren't the victims anymore. Until eventually, Tim followed him for so long that his secret identity wasn’t so secret anymore.

Batman being Bruce Wayne never mattered to Tim. Maybe it was because he was too young to understand just why such a connection was impossible for anyone else to draw, or maybe it was because he always knew what kind of a man Bruce really was. Tim was an observant child, and it didn't take a genius to realize that the champagne never quite reached Bruce's lips during all those charity galas. (Jack Drake always liked to make derogatory comments about how much money Bruce put into ‘useless’ things. Tim thought it made him even more of a hero.)

Then Jason died, and the Gothamites Batman saved didn’t look so starstruck anymore. They looked scared. And really, Batman was scary after losing Jason. Never to the point that he’d hurt someone permanently –but he’d definitely stopped pulling punches. Stopped looking for that nonviolent way out. 

He’d push himself until he was dead on his feet, and then, he’d tried to push himself until he was just dead. No matter what anyone said, it wasn’t Gotham Tim was trying to save when he became Robin–it was Bruce. Because Bruce wouldn’t save himself anymore, couldn’t be trusted to dodge when someone shot at him. He was hurting, and Tim couldn’t stand watching it tear him apart. 

Bruce Wayne got into his first real motorcycle crash a week after Jason was officially buried, for once the event not being used to cover up an incident as Batman. Tim couldn’t be sure before, but after living with the man for years, after getting to truly know him–Tim can’t imagine it was anything but intentional. 

Batman was always a little lost. Broken and desperate not to let another soul suffer the same way he did, but it was never clearer then after the death of the second Robin. 

Because Bruce lost a part of himself that day in Ethiopia. And Tim doesn’t know that he ever got it back. 

There are photos strung up when he finds the courage to open the door. A few of them were just what he’d described, photos of people. Photos of Gotham that made her look almost beautiful. But the majority–Tim forces himself to swallow–the majority of them were of Batman, of Bruce. His heart stutters in his chest at the sight, at how perfectly clear that signature bat scowl is captured in the images.

How weird, that he’d almost forgotten what it looked like. Wasn’t that supposed to come years after the death? When the time without the person overtook the time you had with them? So then, how has Tim already forgotten so much? Why has Bruce’s laugh, his smile already faded away?

One photo in particular caught Tim’s eye. He still had it-well–he still had all of them. Tim was a bit of a hoarder when it came to his old photos. But he had this one displayed, the picture laminated and tacked to the side of his corkboard he wasn’t using for cases. 

Bruce was gliding down from a building with his cape, set to land on the dark pavement below him. It was a beautiful picture–his favorite for a long time. He takes the photo down with barely steady hands, careful not to get prints on the image, and quickly seals it in between two protective sheets of plastic. No good to lose it if he’s going to be stuck here forever. 

And with the dam officially broken, Tim can’t help it. He tends to each and every photo still strung up in the room, carefully filing them away in his old, familiar organizing system. It gives him something to do, something to keep his mind off of waking up. As he’s taking down and laminating the last of the photos, Tim spots something out of the corner of his eye. 

The old red camera is full of scratches, Tim having dropped and dragged it through all of Gotham. Tim wonders what happened to it, what box he had left it in and forgotten about it. 

He’d stopped taking pictures, somewhere in between becoming Robin and becoming Bruce’s son. It was hard to find the time swinging from building to building, hard to find the time when he was part of the fights he’d once watched from afar. He never stopped looking–at the sights, the view. Close up it was a lot more horrifying than beautiful, but it was still beautiful. 

Bruce convinced him to pick up photography again after returning from the time stream, encouraging him to make time for his hobbies–himself. It was something Bruce always did, but it seemed more–frantic after he came back. More desperate. Tim relented because he felt like Bruce needed him too. Only, it wasn’t his old red camera that he’d used to continue. Tim doesn’t know why it bothers him, he hadn’t even remembered the old thing until this stupid dream. 

It’s not like it mattered anyway, there was nothing he felt like taking photos of anymore. 

-

“Dick–Dickie wake up.” Something is gripping his shoulder, shaking him awake none too gently. “I swear to god you sleep like the fucking dead. I would know.” 

“I’m up Jay jeez.” A yawn warbles the syllables, his younger brother scoffing at the lie. “What’s going on?” 

“B got a call from Alfie, wanted’ta warn you he wouldn’t be here.” The oldest (adopted) Wayne sibling opens his eyes at that, glaring at the Bruceless bed with disdain. Jason throws a pillow at him, Dick making an oomph sound at the impact. 

He ignores the pain in his chest at the loss, but he can’t deny how relieved he is not to have to face Bruce so soon. Last night was good–great even. Dick finally feels like they’re at a good spot. But it's fragile, whatever they’ve managed to build back between them, and Bruce would definitely treat it as such. 

“Any signs from Tim?” Dick asks eventually, trying to find the motivation to get up and shower. Or do anything, really. The Tower didn’t have beds like the manor but they were still comfortable enough to waste a day in. 

“Nothing, looks like he hasn’t even turned on the computers since I hacked them.” Jason answers, holding up his phone screen to Dick as if it proves his point. 

“Couldn’t that be suspicious too? Like–also a sign that he’s our Tim?” 

“Maybe, but there’s no way to prove that.” Jason pulls his phone screen back, typing something absently. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think we can risk showin’ up at the Drake manor until we’ve got somethin’ more concrete than that.” 

“It just feels so wrong to leave him there, knowing how much he hated it.” Because it does–and above that, it hurts. Tim is their little brother, no matter how old he is. Knowing that he’s right next door suffering and they aren’t doing anything about it feels like betrayal. 

“We’re not leaving him there, Dickhead.” The younger vigilante looks appalled by the idea. Then, as if reading his mind, “And we’re not doin' nothin'. I know it feels like it–but this isn’t like Damian, Tim has parents. Parents that–despite doing shit to care for their kid–won’t give him up as easily as Talia did.”

“Talia didn’t give up anything.” Dick reminds, his stare going icy. That woman had every intention of taking Damian back and probably Bruce with him. Leaving Damian at the manor had just been another scheme, another way to get into Bruce’s head. It backfired pretty quickly when Damian started to like living with them better than living with the LoA. 

Dick shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away as best he can. They can’t afford to think about Damian right now. Like Jason said–the LoA was a whole other can of worms. 

“By the way…” Jason trails off, looking up at Dick from where he’d moved across the room. (His younger brother was fidgeting with all of Dick’s old ‘Robin’ tech, likely feeling nostalgic for a time when he’d used it himself.) “Are you okay?”

“Okay?”

“From your talk–with B–last night.” He elaborates. “When he brought you in you were already conked out. Somethin’ happen?” 

Oh. Jason was worried about him. Dick smiles, migrating across the room to do the thing he should have done the moment he got Jason by himself in the first place. His younger brother tenses as soon as Dick’s arms are around him, but the older hero doesn’t let up. 

“Mm’ fine. It was good. Really good.” Dick murmurs, tightening his embrace. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

Jason grumbles, but Dick knows his brother's arms are reaching up to return the embrace. 

“We just talked for a bit, all the emotions just–tired me out, promise.” He lets go reluctantly, punching Jason’s shoulder lightly when the boy scowls. 

“Yeah, whatever. Glad you got your act together.” The pout looked so cute on Jason’s still chubby cheeks, but Dick resists commenting on it. His luck was probably running out anyway. 

“How about you?” 

“The fuck’re you talking about?” 

“My turn for a wellness check,” Dick says as if it’s obvious. “If I recall correctly, I was not the only one Bruce carried like a princess yesterday. Cassie would be so jealous.” 

“One word about that to anyone and I’ll have you wishin’ you were sent back without me.” His brother’s threat falls on deaf ears, Dick bravely steamrolling into his next sentence. 

“C’mon, Little Wing, talk to me. I know you didn’t pass out from sparring.” Silence envelops the room for a bit after that, Jason’s hands twitching every-so-often as he fights the urge to fidget. But Dick is patient, waiting politely for Jason to give in and speak. 

“It wasn’t nothin.” Jason denies, the sudden thickness of his Gotham accent giving away the lie. He must realize it, because he sighs dramatically. “Just a–flashback? I guess? Don’t know how to describe it. Just happens sometimes.” 

“Flashback?” Dick’s throat goes dry, the worry practically written all over his face. 

“Not like– bad flashback.” His brother amends. “It was a… a good memory. One I’d forgotten.” 

“Does that happen a lot?” 

“More. Especially in the last few years. Dad thought it was the–the pit wearin’ off, y’know? Memories decidin’ to come back now that its grip was loosenin’.” Jason takes a deep breath, continuing. “It was different this time though–realer–somehow. Can’t put it any other way.”

“Did it cross your mind that it might be because you’re not tainted by the pit anymore?” Dick has enough self-preservation to know going in for another hug right now was a bad idea–but it’s a close thing. 

“No-I don’t know–maybe. Does it really matter? Won’t change that they happen. S’not like they’re bad memories.” 

“Doesn’t make them easy memories, Jaybird.” 

Jason snorts. “Now you just sound like Bruce.” 

“I spent a good portion of last night listening to him.” Dick shrugs. “Probably par for the course.”

“My condolences.” 

It’s Dick’s turn to laugh, the heaviness from the past few days easing up slightly. 

“I’ll tell you.” Jason adds after a beat. “If it happens again.” 

“Good, then let’s get back to Tim–” Dick’s words are cut off by the sound of metal screeching against metal.

Bruce hovers in the now very open door frame, and Dick can’t help but take in how intense he looks. The armor he removed last night was back in place, his posture all Batman as he takes up more space than he occupies-but- His jaw is even paler than normal. As if all the blood had drained out of his face.  

“My apologies, but my presence is required in the Batcave.” There is an odd note to the words, one that has Dick instantly on edge. 

“B?” Jason asks hesitantly. “Is everything okay?” 

Bruce ignores him.   

“Dick, do you think Jason can stay at the tower for a bit?” The edge to Bruce’s tone cracks, and Dick realizes he’s panicking. Well, as close to panicking as Batman can get. Dick doesn't think anyone else would have picked up on it, but he's had years to learn how-and are Bruce's hands shaking? It's almost imperceptible, the bulk of the gauntlets hiding most of the movement, but Dick can't unsee it now.

Alfred, Dick’s brain wonders, what did you say to him?

“No way, I’m coming with you!” Jason protests, taking a step closer to Bruce. But their father falters, falling back a step and Dick is one second away from panicking himself.

“Me too,” Dick says, but he reaches out to grab Jason’s shoulder–stopping the boy’s approach. “I’m coming too. Whatever it is, let me lend a hand.”  

“No.” 

“No?” Jason and Dick echo, Bruce didn't even pretend to consider it. Dick’s hands move to rest on his hips disapprovingly, hoping to elicit some form of guilt compliance by acting like Bruce is about to start another fight-but this isn't Bruce right now. 

“The cave has been compromised, you are both to stay in the tower until further notice.” Bruce gives Jason the look. The one that means he isn't taking arguments and stands a bit firmer than before. “Someone from the League of Assassins broke in last night.”

Chapter Text

Death is a part of life, death is inevitable. Damian Thomas Wayne has seen death in every way, cruel, peaceful… the pull of nature, or the sting of a knife. It wasn’t supposed to phase him. He was trained to not have it phase him, raised on the back of a mission that scoffed at the concept. And, for a while, Damian was able to convince himself the training worked. That the pit weighing in his gut had nothing to do with the people he failed to save. That the beat his heart skipped when his brothers (or father) did something particularly stupid was just a coincidence.

Being surrounded by some of the kindest, most stubborn people on their planet changed that. And a 'lack' of empathy turned into an abundance of it. From soothing shaken victims, volunteering at animal (and human) shelters, to cheering up downtrodden brothers in his own, unorthodox way… Damian discovered that life was a lot more worth living with people you tolerated (loved) in it. And every day his father reminded him it was a strength, that Damian was stronger for it. 

For a time that was true, Damian improved far beyond what Talia or Ra’s could have imagined. By Batman’s guidance, Damian lived up to Robin’s legacy. He became a symbol of strength and perseverance, he faced down the end of the world without batting an eye, because where Robin always had Batman watching his back, Damian had his father. Until one day he didn’t–wouldn’t ever again. Because his father was gone, and Batman with him, for 8 months, 12 days, 6 hours, and 18 minutes.

Most of the Bats could track time in their head, the ability invaluable for a human vigilante. In Damian’s case, it was perhaps more of an occupational hazard than a learned skill. To his knowledge, it started not long after Tim’s official adoption. 

“How long has it been since we turned off Naylor Avenue?”

“5 minutes and 34 seconds.”

“When was the last time Jason got a chance to pick the movie?” 

“19 days 2 hours and 10 minutes.” 

“Can anyone remind me the last time it was Tim’s turn to attend a Gala with me?”

“2 months, 8 days, and 21 minutes.” 

A test of the boy’s gift with numbers turned into a game. One that could be used for you or against you at a moment's notice. There was no chance of anyone ‘forgetting’ when it was your turn to do something, and the longer it went on… the better at it Damian got. Until eventually the clocks in the back of his mind ticked automatically.

Without his control.

One clock Damian could never quite shake was the time since he’d last seen his father. It was childish, but as Damian grew, and the time he spent around Bruce lessened, he couldn’t help it. He’d never willingly admitted it to anyone, Dick being a special exception in that his oldest brother had forced it out of him, but it was always there in the back of his mind. Ticking. 

When he’d gone to college, the count couldn’t go past a month before Damian’s nerves would skyrocket and he’d be on the phone with Alfred planning a visit. 

And when Bruce died, Damian lost the ability to keep track of anything else. 

But now?

13 days, 20 hours, and 46 minutes. 

Damian has been living with the League of Assassins, in his younger body, for 13 days, 20 hours, and 46 minutes. 

While he’s never been one to scoff at his father’s tendency to be over-prepared, often willingly complying with Batman’s highly specific drills, Damian concedes that, in his late teens, he’d stopped viewing them as necessary. In all his years as Robin, Damian can name only 4 of Bruce’s more… extreme contingency plans that proved useful. 

Though, considering his current situation, Damian supposes he needs to up that count to 5.

All this to say–Damian knows the protocols, knows how to preserve the time stream and avoid causing some kind of cataclysmic incursion by his presence. If he had access to a phone, or believed for a second he could get a signal out on one of the League’s computers without being detected, Damian would have already sent out the emergency code Batman created for time travel-related scenarios. 

As it stood, the League’s system was too advanced for him to even attempt to gain access without any of his gear. Which, of course, means advancing to the contingency plan of the contingency plan: Escaping the League of Assassins as quickly and as quietly as possible.

Unlike his brothers, and even Bruce himself, Damian’s past put him with people competent enough to catch on to small changes in his body language. With people dangerous enough that being discovered would be close to a death sentence with all the tests they’d run on him. (And answers they’d try to torture out of him.)

So while ‘run away fast’ wasn’t his father’s most eloquent contingency plan, it was his best-case scenario without access to a private computer.

Damian examines himself for what feels like the hundredth time since waking in this smaller, weaker body, feeling wrong on a fundamental level. Over the years it became clear that Damian inherited his father's height genes, only remaining shorter than Jason who lorded his height over everyone as soon as he overtook Bruce by an inch. Now, his neck cranes from constantly looking up when people address him, and walking anywhere feels as though it takes twice the time. 

He is, of course, not inexperienced with the details of time travel, aware that this kind of age regressing is not surprising considering the situation, but it is his first time being on the receiving end. Usually, it was the Justice League that dealt with the kind of villains ready to fuck up the timeline. (Even towards the end, his father always tried to keep them out of Justice League missions.)

“Damian,” Talia calls his name from behind him, breaking him out of his thoughts. And seriously, seeing his mother again was perhaps the weirdest part about all of this. She wasn’t… dead in their future, no. But she might as well be.

After Batman took down the LoA, Damian thought the fight was over. Had hoped, naively, that Talia would let her outdated beliefs go and move on from her father’s control. Because Gotham was getting better. In the years leading up to the dismantlement of the LoA, Damian would even say Gotham was better. (With the way things crumbled after Bruce’s death, part of Damian wonders if she was right, if Batman’s peace was always going to be temporary.)

Arkham, a place that used to be regarded as worse than the streets, had been completely overhauled through his father’s efforts both as Bruce and as Batman. Villains being detained now stayed detained more often than not, and good people, trustworthy people, were in charge of rehabilitating the inmates. In the most fundamental way, Batman proved her ways weren’t the only solution, and she still chose to fight him. Still chose to raise her blades. 

Damian hasn’t heard her speak since she regained consciousness. 

“He doesn’t love you.” She’d said. “Why would he?”

She was declared catatonic by the doctor not 2 hours later. 

Bruce blamed himself for months, probably still did when he died. He would claim he’d hit her too hard, or should have gotten her medical care faster, but Damian thinks she just finally gave up. Just didn’t know what to do with herself now that the purpose her father gave her is no more. He visited her, when he could. She seemed happier like that, ignoring the world and doing puzzles with the other patients. Like that it was easy to forget how much she’d hurt them, like that it was easy to forget she never loved him.

“Damian.” She calls again, voice far more stern than before, and Damian remembers where– when he is. 

“Yes, mother?” Damian turns to her, a picture of trained obedience. 

“Your skills have improved considerably over the course of the last few weeks. I’m very proud of you.” Once upon a time, it was all he’d ever wanted to hear. All he worked tirelessly every day to hear for 12 years of his life. But he’s old enough now to notice the hollowness in her voice, the fakeness in her smile. Talia al Ghul looked at Damian as if she was seeing through him, and now he knew she always was. 

“I will not disappoint you mother.” He lies through grit teeth, knowing that his training would take over and he’d react appropriately through his body language. His chest would puff up slightly, his shoulders straighten, and he’d bow at a perfect 30-degree angle. 

When the woman smiles at him sweetly (too sweetly) and continues down the corridor, Damian finds himself swallowing his disgust. 

His time since waking up with the league has mostly been spent gathering data. His only actual tasks in the league were to train hard and follow orders, giving him plenty of time to dig for information. So far all he’s come up with is the year and the date, the rest of it a jumbled mess of current events and (Justice) League news. The LoA was notoriously cultish in nature, it wasn’t easy to find a member stupid enough to gossip–especially while on duty. Most Ghouls came directly out of the LoA’s spiritual training facilities, where all personal thoughts and feelings were beaten out of them. 

Fortunately, even members of the League of Assassins were human, and some of the Ghouls could be trusted to run their mouths if they thought no one was listening. Damian made sure he kept track of when and where they were scheduled for watch. 

With his sparse knowledge of the going ons outside the League, he was able to deduce two things. 1.) Currently, only Jason and Dick should be at the manor, none of his other siblings or basically siblings present. And 2.) Batman was only partially associated with the Justice League. It set him further back in the timeline than he originally predicted, and knowing that somewhere out there, the joker was planning on beating his older brother to death with a crowbar before blowing him up made Damian’s skin crawl. 

He did his best to remain rational, hoping to get out of the LoA’s clutches before worrying about the rest. As much as he wants to go straight to Bruce, tampering with when he arrives at the manor could derail important events and alter their timeline irrevocably. Events like Tim becoming Robin. 

On paper, the best thing he can do for his family is wait somewhere off grid. Avoid changing the future as much as possible so that it will remain the future enough that he can protect Bruce and the others from the threats that do take them away–permanently. But derailing Ethiopia already derails Tim, and Jason and Damian might have their differences but no way is Damian letting him die. 

But If Tim thought Batman didn’t need him, then there would be no reason for him to insert himself into their lives. Damian may have hated him once, but a lot has changed in 16 years. Tim is his brother, fuck if he’s going to let Janet and Jake Drake keep him. (Damian is not above kidnapping him if it comes down to that.)

As he follows Talia two guards match their pace behind them. Unusual, but not to a point of alarm. Sometimes, if they were visiting Ra’s extra hands would be called upon but, for the most part, Talia did not tolerate having an entourage of goons following her around. Actually, now that Damian was paying attention, he recognized these two. They were both Ghouls he’d tagged as ‘likely to gossip’. It was mostly American gossip too, the kind that Damian prioritizes. He figures one of them must be from there, they speak mostly in English when they talk casually. 

“Did you hear that Talia’s brat took down Amok yesterday?” One of the guards whispers conspiratorially. Bold, doing it so close to the daughter of their boss. But–yes he did do that. Damian would feel bad about it, but the pathetic excuse for a man had given him hell for 12 years of his life–he deserved that beating. 

“Yeah. I heard Ra’s is planning big things for him.” The second guard laughed, as if unbothered that two of the highest-ranking LoA members were walking in front of him. “I’d be impressed if I really believed it.”

“It’s gotta be that cult of personality shit, right? No way a ten-year-old could take down Amok.” 

Damian is–quite honestly–amazed that someone stupid enough to get involved with the League of Assassins is smart enough to know what that means. 

He is busy listening to them when Talia veers left, pushing open the doors to the indoor training room. Normally, their sessions took place in front of the giant monastery built into the League’s base of operations, the ornate stone platform providing enough stable flat terrain to train the hundreds of Ghouls that join their ranks every year. In Damian’s case, he’d had a lot of… extra lessons in this room. (And no, Richard, not the fun kind. Talia does not teach people how to do the salmon ladder.)

By his calculations, he hasn’t done anything to deserve one of Talia’s– punishments, but it's entirely possible a slight occurred before Damian woke up in this body. One that she is just now getting around to correcting. 

The guards stand at either side of the door when they enter, watching with feigned disinterest. 

Talia’s arm blurs, but the blow Damian braces himself for doesn’t come. Instead, their audience screams. Damian pretends to eye them curiously (and with a hint of annoyance) as he clocks the two throwing knives now embedded deep in their thighs. They moan from where they’ve crumpled to the floor, hands desperately clutching around the blade to try and slow the bleeding. Damian forces himself to breathe, looking once at the guards before turning back to the woman before him with confusion–not the horror he feels–in his eyes. 

“You’ve been spying on them, Damian. I can see why, I’ve always taught you to keep an ear out for big mouths. ” She gives them a pointed look, one that promises pain. “But I just can’t imagine why my sweet boy would suddenly take an interest in such useless chatter.” 

“You refused to tell me more of Father’s exploits.” Damian would be proud of how unbothered it sounded if he still cared about what this woman thought of him. “These imbeciles spoke of the inferior League you said he was a part of.” 

Talia seems to consider this, holding the edge of a blade to her chin absently–almost leisurely–uncaring of the two bleeding men beside them. 

“Damian, there are still things you must understand before you learn more about your father.” Kneeling in front of him, Talia reaches out to lift Damian’s face. His skin crawls where her hand makes contact, but he’s grateful she took the explanation. “My beloved is an incredible man, with strength and intelligence unmatched by anyone I have ever met, but he is–troubled. I worry his current state would upset you. I know your love for him, I want you to see him at his best.” 

Bull. Shit. 

Damian barely tempers the rage burning in his gut. Talia just wanted to make sure her teaching was so ingrained in him that his father couldn’t sway him away from her. Too bad, Damian sneers in the safety of his thoughts, Bruce managed it anyway. 

“I understand.” He drops his gaze, submission she had beaten into him. There were other ways he could have dragged out the conversation more without drawing suspicion–but two men were in danger of bleeding out because of his sloppy surveillance. The quicker she thinks Damian will cease the offending behavior, the better. 

He had no delusions the men would be treated kindly –they broke code, and worse, they got caught. The punishment for such an offense is fierce–but it is not death. If he can just get Talia to forget about them someone will come along and help. 

“Oh, Dami.” Talia sighs the nickname in the same hollow, dreamy manner she used on Bruce whenever they had the displeasure of running into her in the future. “Come, you’ve been so good lately. I can spare you a few stories. Perhaps of how I met your father instead of his current… exploits with those costume-wearing buffoons.”

The address is, unfortunately, something Clark would probably wear proudly. Damian only wonders how she would feel knowing that one day in the future her own son becomes one of them. Not that Talia gives much thought to their blood relation after he stops being useful.

She gives her universal signal of ‘follow me’ and steps over the bleeding guards sprawled out at the base of the door. They groan lightly, delirious from pain, and Damian can’t help but feel bad for them. He made a joke of it earlier, but it’s possible they didn’t have much of a choice in joining the League. Perhaps the injury would get them put on archives–it’s not easier, but it’s as safe a position in the League as you can get if you keep your mouth shut. 

Hopefully, they stay there until Batman can put the League out of commission again. 

“I first met your father while he was wearing the cowl.” Talia starts. She leads them to a secure room, one normally used for meetings. Everyone in the League knew that Ra’s wanted to get his hands on the Batman, but only he and Talia knew Bruce was the man behind the mask. “He saved my life–easily dispatching a foe I struggled to match for hours, and asked me nothing in return.”

“You struggle to defeat a foe? Were they after the League?” Damian grimaces internally, playing the role of a clueless child (even one raised like he was) is not his strong suit.

Talia hums, continuing the story in a dreamy sort of way that Damian can’t trust is accurate. Bruce didn’t speak of her often–for obvious reasons–but the few details he did speak of didn’t match up with the elaborate tale his ‘mother’ was currently regaling him with. He had thought their relationship didn’t advance past the supposed one-night stand that resulted in him, but the way Talia is speaking of their time together makes it sound like weeks not one night.

“He’s such a gentleman you know? Shy in an attractive sort of way.” She hums, eyes far away as if recalling something in particular. Damian resists the urge to comment, resists the uncomfortable feeling that always comes with being reminded how much Talia knew. As awful as it is to say, they got lucky when she woke up barely speaking. Luckier when she stopped entirely. “The ‘bachelor’ persona he projects to the public is more of an act than even Ra’s knows.”

He lets none of the emotion show on his face, instead nodding seriously. His mother suddenly sighs dramatically, looking put out. 

“It’s why having to drug him was necessary.” She finally adds, and Damian’s whole world stops spinning. “If I had let the dance go on for any longer he might have slipped away. Now he is tied permanently to us, through you, Damian.” 

“Drug him?” His voice doesn't falter, his shoulders don’t shutter. On the outside, Damian is impassive. Inside his head, Damian spirals. 

Don’t say it. Correct yourself–elaborate. You did not drug him. Not my dad.

“Oh, yes. It was unfortunate but necessary. Ra’s was unhappy with how slowly things were progressing so I took matters into my own hands. His reaction was truly regrettable.” She shakes her head disappointedly, casually. 

And part of Damian breaks.

“You forced him to have me?” As much as he hates to admit it, the thought of–of something like that happening to his father seems impossible. Laughable even. But he knows better than that–Bruce taught him better than that. Damian knows how physically powerful you are doesn’t mean anything, but that would mean–the night Talia got pregnant with him was from…

Damian can taste the bile rising in the back of his throat. 

Being Bruce’s biological son had always been a point of pride for him. Even if he knew better now–even if it was a point of contention between him and his brothers once, Damian always kept that. And, eventually, being “Damian Wayne, the blood son” was just something they teased him about, an inside joke. It was funny, nice even, because Damian didn’t have history tying him to Bruce in the way his brothers did. His brothers were his brothers because Bruce chose them, and why would Bruce choose Damian? 

“He doesn’t love you. ” She’d said. “Why would he?”

Thinking about being blood-related to Bruce now, it just doesn’t seem worth it. And the thought occurs to him that any relationship with Bruce would be better. Because then he wouldn’t be the product of one of the worst nights in his father’s life. Because at least then he wouldn’t be a reminder of everything Bruce obviously tried so hard to forget. 

Was that why their stories don't match up? Had Bruce buried their relationship under his shallow persona’s ‘one night stands’ in an attempt to distance himself from the memory? Damian feels sick, his chest too tight to even breathe properly. Because Bruce still loved him. Despite what his mother thinks, and everything Damian represents, his father still welcomed Damian into his home, his family. Still cared enough to save Damian from the life, the lies he grew up with. 

Yes, of course he would tell any kid that it’s what they deserved—but he—he would never expect it of the victims. To raise a child of the person who hurt them—Damian would never ask them that. 

But he did. When Damian showed up on Bruce’s doorstep he did. Talia did. It was all a part of her master plan to control Bruce. To use Damian to force his father’s hand. 

“He wanted me, but his experiences and childhood made it impossible for him to act on his desires.” Talia frowns meaningfully when Damian doesn’t react. “I simply freed him from that inactivity. As I have told you before Damian, Bruce belongs with me. It is the only way he can live up to his full potential.”

“Of course, mother .” Damian barely gets the words out through clenched teeth, his jaw aching. He can feel nails digging into his palms where his fists are balled tightly at his sides, and wonders, how much would it change the timeline if he shut her up right here. If he made sure she could never get near his family ever again. Near the father that raised him, near the man who changed his life and gave him a family that loves. 

It used to be, when Damian thought of Talia, it was of her and Bruce. Of them putting aside their differences and getting together… romantically. Where, instead of cold and distant ‘mother’ and ‘father’--they could be his mom and dad. (Bruce is so much more than a ‘father’ to him now, but back then he’d still be a stranger in all the ways that counted.)

But he’d stopped wasting time on wanting. Finally moving on from the pathetic and childish desire sometime after she brainwashed Bruce and forced him to hold a gun to Damian’s head–to Dick’s head. Sometime after she’d tried to get him to pull the trigger–to the point where the only way out his father saw was to pull it on himself. Damian remembers Dick’s scream more than he remembers his thoughts, the cry so completely– wholly desperate it still haunts him when he closes his eyes. 

Damian prayed he’d never have to hear it again.

(He did.)

After that, Damian’s head was filled with thoughts of how dare she use him, how dare she manipulate him? But he was hiding behind the anger, hiding because it scared him how much the betrayal, the replacement hurt. And the nightmares didn’t help either. The kind where Dick wasn’t fast enough, the kind where Bruce died because Damian trusted her. 

He was hiding from both the urge to hate her and the startling revelation that he couldn’t. 

She raised him, taught him, trained him. And she may not have loved him, but he loved her. He trusted her, looked up to her. It was hard to hate her. Deep in the recesses of his brain, Damian had memories where he’d been happy with her. Bruce told him again and again that it was okay–but how could it possibly be okay? After–not just after everything she’s done but–but this?

The only lessons Damian is proud to have learned came from Bruce anyway. The lessons that taught him to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, and that caring and being cared for didn’t make him weak. So why does it matter that Talia’s the one who first trained him to fight? That hearing her praise his form, compliment his improvement used to be the only thing he lived for? She’d hurt his dad. Any one of his siblings wouldn’t hesitate to despise her–probably did already.

Disregarding how he felt, how could she not see that her actions had deeply affected a man she claimed to love? Was her worldview so twisted that she truly believed she was helping him? Perhaps it was, Damian once held a mindset not so dissimilar to hers. The difference was that when Bruce held out his hand, Damian took it. When Bruce showed him why his ways were wrong, Damian listened.

Talia doubled down, pushed harder against his father’s hand. 

Why couldn’t she have taken his hand?

Damian breathes heavily, trying to quell the shuddering in his chest. He can’t even see his own hands in front of his face, his vision as blurry as his cheeks are wet. 

Did the others know? Did Dick know and never tell him? How could they– keep this from him? No–no it wasn’t their story to tell, Damian knows that. He turns to leave the room, his legs like lead under him. Talia might grab his arm, might ask if he's okay, but Damian rips himself away from her if she does–bolting out of the office without looking back. 

Damian doesn’t make it back to his room, barely dragging himself into the nearest supply closet, and sinks to the ground with a sob. He needs to get out of here, needs to–get away from her. Needs to find a way to crush that stupid childish hope once and for all because she doesn’t deserve it. 

He can’t stop replaying the conversation in his head, the horror sinking in one horrible word at a time. Talia raped Bruce– that’s why he exists. Because someone thought they had a right to his father’s body and couldn’t stand waiting for it anymore. To make things worse–it sounded like Bruce actually did love her. And she took advantage of it. used his trust to get close enough to drug him. 

But the anger can’t seem to overtake the crushing sadness that blankets him. That makes him feel so heavy he can’t even lift a finger, that puts every nerve in his body to sleep until he just feels nothing. And Damian can’t help but think of every time Batman ran into Talia since being taken in by him. Can’t help but curse the part of him that didn’t understand why Bruce looked so strange around her, the part that didn’t see the anxious breath of relief his father let out every time she left. 

Damian, as a child, just wanted Bruce to give in to her. He’d be raised to believe that Bruce belonged with her. That, while Bruce was brilliant and unmatched in strength and talent, he needed Talia to help him reach his full potential. Distantly, Damian realizes he’s hyperventilating, becomes just aware enough of his own body to realize how badly he’s shaking. 

He’s seen Batman help enough victims–helped enough himself– to know he needs to breathe, needs to think about anything other than what is causing the panic, but Damian just can’t seem to make Talia’s words go away. Her quiet recount of the night like it was just business. 

Through it all, Damian manages to laugh.

“His reaction was truly regrettable. ” He mocks shakily, the laugh turning into something ugly. 

He can’t be here. Not for one second longer. 

-

Damian drums his fingers against the teacup absentmindedly, the tuneless rhythm echoing softly against the cold walls of the cave. In the privacy of his mind, Damian attributes the tick to nerves.

It’s not like he was worried his father would kick him out or anything. Bruce is notoriously weak to children, and, of course, Damian has the added advantage of being alone and in desperate need of a home. It was, as Dick would put it, a ‘double whammy’ for their superhero (vigilante) dad. So yes, he expects Bruce to take him in. When he was first brought into the family, Damian sometimes wondered if his father would adopt any child that let him. Even some that didn’t. But, no matter how many times he convinces himself of this, the nerves won't go away.

He’d grabbed what he could before fleeing the League–rations, cash from the LoA’s plentiful resources, before waiting until shift change to sneak out. Getting to America as he is wasn’t easy–the airports start questioning a child flying by themselves pretty quickly the farther north he gets–but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. And it may have taken longer than he would have liked, but it worked. 

Not accounting for all the time wasted throwing the League off his trail, much of the journey required tedious forgeries and the use of his meager acting skills. All of which slowed him down considerably. Fortunately, the only thing that should lead Talia here now is her own knowledge of how much Damian looked up to Bruce and wanted to meet him.

Which, given they shouldn’t be able to tell Damian crossed the seas to the Americas, should hopefully take her some time to conclude. 

Damian doesn’t want her near Bruce right now. Damian doesn’t want her near Bruce ever. He’s given her a lot of lenience over the years. Forgiven… or maybe more accurately ignored a lot of heinous crimes in the past–but this would not be one of them. 

Not ever.

“I’ve given Master Bruce a call.” Alfred takes a seat across from him, his signature unshakable demeanor offering some comfort to the racing thoughts in Damian’s head. The butler picks up the teapot and refills both of their cups. “If he remembers his manners, he will be with us shortly.” 

He finds it in himself to nod, mentally berating himself for forgetting to eavesdrop on the conversation. “Thank you, sir.” 

“Just Alfred is fine, Young Master.” The butler quickly dismisses, smiling at him gently. “And what shall I call you?” 

“Damian.” He takes a sip of his tea after introducing himself, staring down into the cup meaningfully.

It’s now been 16 days, 12 hours, and 30 minutes since Damian was sent back in time, and Alfred’s signature Earl Grey tea has never tasted better.

-

Bruce bites his lip as he steps through the Zeta beam, anxiety sitting heavy in his chest. No one should be able to breach the cave. Especially not–especially not the League. He’d made sure of it, poring over the security for hours after she left the country. He takes a deep breath as the cave begins to materialize around him, and tries to remind himself that Alfred knows Talia. Not what happened, but enough about her to know she can’t be trusted.

If it was her, Alfred wouldn’t have sounded so unbothered when he’d made the call. Petulant, sure, Alfred had every right to be annoyed at Bruce at this point, but never… unconcerned. But even as unflappable as his father figure is, Bruce can safely say he wasn’t expecting Alfred to be serving tea to their uninvited guest.

“Ah, Master Bruce, I’m so glad you could join us.” The butler sets his cup down gently, turning to his ward with a disapproving expression. 

“Alfred–” He starts, attempting to ask for any kind of explanation the man can give for the scene in front of him when the boy–yes, the boy because he can’t be older than 12–stands up. 

And Bruce realizes he knows those eyes. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have made the connection if he hadn’t been told this child was from the LoA, but it doesn’t matter. Because the more Bruce looks, the more it isn’t just the calculating green eyes he recognizes. He’d seen her since that night–hasn’t wanted to but he has. She wasn’t–he would have noticed if she was. It shouldn’t be possible that this boy looks so much like them. 

But as his thoughts race the boy’s stride brings them closer– closer until there is barely any space left between them.

The boy mumbles something incomprehensible under his breath, and then, his smaller arms are reaching out to wrap around Bruce’s torso. His first reaction is to be sick. heart hammering his chest as a sense of– wrong, wrong. Please don’t touch me, please not again –assaults every one of his senses. But then the next few quiet words reach his ears, and Bruce buries the panic as quickly as it surfaced. “I’m sorry.” 

He’s kneeling before he realizes it, returning the embrace shakily. 

“Easy, it’s okay. Nothing to be sorry for.” Bruce ignores the way his skin crawls, focusing on the loose circles he’s drawing absently on the boy's back. He’s not sure which one of them he’s trying to comfort with the action. “Are you okay? Can you tell me your name?” 

The words freeze the boy in place, and then, his shoulders droop slightly. 

“Damian…” The boy– Damian –verbally hesitates, sniffling almost inaudibly and trying to withdraw from the embrace. Bruce doesn’t quite let him, drawing him back in gently. 

“Wayne, right?” Bruce tries to smile, careful his grip isn’t too tight or oppressive. It wouldn’t do any good to make the boy feel trapped. After a beat, Damian finally nods, and Bruce finds he doesn’t mind the confirmation as much as he thought he would. He would need to do tests, double and triple check with his own equipment before the rational side of his brain concedes, but until then the child in front of him is Damian Wayne. And despite everything, Bruce thinks it suits him. “Is that why you’re here?”

Damian nods.

“Talia told me about you.” And it seems, no amount of knowing could have prepared Bruce for hearing that name again. He shivers minutely, hoping it’s not as noticeable as it feels. 

Damian drops his gaze, staring intensely at his feet. He looks small like this, small despite the muscle Bruce knows is hiding under the bulk of his jacket. It would be impossible to accurately guess his age like this, the League is known for enhancing their soldiers–Damian probably looks a few years older than he is. But if he’s telling the truth, if Damian is really Bruce’s biological child then he couldn’t be older than ten.

“I ran away from the League,” His (alleged) son pauses, one of his hands clutching onto the Batsuits armor. “I didn’t know where else to go.” 

Oh.

Just like that, Bruce’s heart shatters. He gathers the boy back into his arms, holding him tightly. Raised in an environment like the LoA Bruce wouldn’t have been surprised if Damian had shown up on his doorstep trying to murder someone not–not running away. 

The League is full of good actors, Bruce still had to hold on to the possibility that this was a plot to infiltrate his defenses. Still, no matter the truth behind Damian’s presence, he was not at fault for any of it. Damian is just a kid, raised by assassins or not. His biological son or not.

“Of course you can stay here,” Bruce places a comforting hand on the back of Damian's head. “We’d be glad to have you.” 

Damian doesn’t respond, but there is the barest nod where the boy is pressed against the batsuit. He makes eye contact with Alfred from over the boy’s head, eyes pleading. 

“Very well, Master Bruce.” The man sighs tiredly. “I will have a room made up for him. I assume the one next to Master Jason’s is adequate?” 

Bruce bites his lip, glancing back down at the boy in his arm. Until he can do his own digging, it would be safer for Dick and Jason to remain as far away from Damian as possible, but isolating Damian is equally as bad as an option. Spy or not, Damian doesn’t deserve to feel like a prisoner here, and Jason is currently in the tower anyway. Putting Damian next to Jason shouldn’t be an issue if he isn’t in the manor. He gives Alfred a nod of approval, before turning all of his attention back to the child in his arms. 

“We’re gonna get you settled in, okay? Can you walk?” He smiles when Damian sniffs quietly. His hands are rubbing aggressively at his cheeks, smearing the tears messily. Bruce pushes back the cowl and cups Damian’s cheek in his hand. “It’s alright, Damian.” 

Damian smiles back weakly, “I know.” 

By the time they’ve made it up the stairs (Damian refused to be carried but, at the same time, he refused to let Bruce go.) Alfred has already replaced the sheets on the bed, now focused on fluffing the pillows dutifully. Bruce sees the boy hesitate before entering, his eyes darting to the side nervously before he schools his features. It puts Bruce on edge, but he doesn’t mention it.

There was no reason the League should have an interest in Wayne Manor, the Batcave? Most definitely. But not the manor. Damian is probably just nervous, he’s in a completely new environment with a father he has only heard of… he’s allowed to be jumpy.

“Is the room to your liking Master Damian?” Alfred crosses the room toward them, looking at the child with something Bruce can’t pinpoint. Almost like he’s examining him. It’s not as though Bruce could blame him, he didn’t know about that night (Bruce made sure no one did), and with Bruce’s history (or lack thereof) with romantic partners? As far as Alfred’s concerned, Damian shouldn’t be possible. 

None of the people he so salaciously flirted with as Brucie Wayne ever ended up in his bed, nor him theirs. Rumors spread easily, and Bruce had never denied any claims, spoken privately or otherwise. Even without him fanning the flame, there would always be plenty of firsthand accounts of the playboy’s ‘escapades’. Especially when sleeping with ‘Brucie Wayne’ got you so much attention.

“It’s perfect, thank you.” 

“I’ve taken the liberty of stocking your wardrobe with some of Master Dick’s old clothing. We will, of course, procure more suitable clothes for you another time, but they should suffice for now. The bag you brought with you was filthy,” Alfred shudders as he hands the boy a neatly folded, fluffy white towel, and Bruce imagines the bag must have been quite filthy. “but the rest of your things are on the bed. If you need anything I will be in the kitchen preparing an early lunch. Do wash up before it’s done.”

The butler's eyes shift purposely over to Bruce, still in the suit sands cowl. “The both of you.” 

With a curt bow, Alfred leaves, and the vigilante is left standing awkwardly as the boy looks over his now neatly organized things. Bruce is torn between applauding Alfred for his caution and cringing at the man’s invasion of privacy. They had learned the hard way with Jason, kids who don’t have much don’t take kindly to you messing with the few things they do have. 

“I won’t ask you to trust me.” Damian turns to him. “And I will comply with whatever tests you deem necessary, but I am your son, and Talia did not send me.” 

“I believe you.” He can’t, not yet, but Damian looked as though he wouldn’t be accepting any other answer. “We’ll work things out. You’re welcome here, Damian.”

And that, at least, is not a lie.

He closes the door behind him when he leaves, hoping to give Damian some privacy while he settles in, and fights the urge to sink to the floor right there. There’s too much to do, too much at risk for him to feel sorry for himself. If Damian truly ran away from– her then… she is bound to come after him. The cave's security is in dire need of an upgrade too, if the LoA’s training was enough to get Damian through it without being flagged. Damian, who is at the very least a son of Talia if not him. 

Bruce runs a shaking hand through his hair, unclasping the batsuit's armor chest piece in the hopes it becomes a little easier to breathe. 

“Alfred,” His legs feel heavy underneath him as he descends the stairs. “Alfred, did you save the teacup Damian was drinking out of earlier? I need to run a DNA analysis.”

“I was sure I told you to clean up before coming to lunch.” His butler eyes the disheveled batsuit disapprovingly, though, these days Bruce can’t decide if that’s how Alfred always looks. 

“I’ll change in the cave, but I need that cup.” Bruce thinks he should be grateful Alfred is too polite to roll his eyes. “Please.” 

“It is already sealed in an evidence bag for your scrutiny, Master Bruce. Although I suspect you know the results already.” Alfred raises an eyebrow at him, as if to ask, and Bruce suddenly feels sick again. 

“Thank you.” He forces out the words quietly, ignoring the silent question and retreating into the cave. 

At least when he’s working, he doesn’t have to think about her hands on him. When he’s working, he doesn’t have to think about Damian growing up in a place like the League of Assassins. All because what? Bruce was too afraid of the answer to ask? Because he was content knowing that 7 months after it happened, she didn’t look pregnant? 

Bruce starts the DNA analysis through the haze, Alfred’s words echoing in the emptiness of his brain. He might know, but knowing and confirming are two different things, and Bruce won’t be able to fully believe it until the results are right in front of him. 

In truth, he’s barely touched the security by the time Alfred chases him out of the cave. Well, 'chased' is a rather uncivil term, Alfred merely checked in on him and passive-aggressively dusted the keyboards while he was working. (Bruce guesses pestering him must be more important than the food Alfred is supposed to be making.)

He relents and sulks to his room to shower, lingering by Damian’s room as he does. 

-

Dick’s leg bounces anxiously, the movement causing his whole body to shake lightly as he stares at the TV in front of him blankly. He thinks Kori might have tried to talk to him a few minutes ago, but Dick can’t remember what she asked. 

Bruce has been gone for 24 minutes now, no contact. Jason has long since stormed off to the gym, content to punch his feelings out, while Dick did everything in his power to crush the nerves building in his stomach. All signs point to the intruder being Damian, all signs, but Dick can’t shake the awful feeling that he just sent his dad to his death again. 

“You good Robin?” This time, it’s Victor calling him. Dick feels no more inclined to answer. 

It hasn’t even been a month, Dick can’t lose Bruce again after just a month. What if it’s an Arkham breakout? If Bruce just used the LoA to keep Jason out of a fight with Bane or Ivy? Bruce was always doing that, lying to keep them out of harm's way. Doing it now wouldn’t be a stretch of the imagination no matter how weird the lie. 

As much as he wants to trust that Bruce at least lives to 44, Batman almost dies every day. And maybe that was an exaggeration, but it doesn’t change the fact that one small, minuscule change from the future Dick knows, could mean losing Bruce even earlier than before. But that also means that Dick can’t intervene until his skills are up to par. 

Batman was always protecting him, always taking hits meant for Robin, for Nightwing. It’s what got them into this mess in the first place. And maybe Dick has saved Bruce too, but it never felt like enough. Bruce was just too good at carrying all the burdens by himself, too good at shutting people out and taking everything on by himself. All while hiding behind a dark and cold exterior, so no one would ever know how much he really cares.

Well, if there's anything he’s brought back with him in abundance from their future, it’s strategies on how to out-stubborn the Bat. Dick isn’t going to let Bruce drive himself into the ground this time around, even if it means bribing him here and there. Few things swayed the Bat more than a movie night with the whole family, and Dick was the only one who could (and would, c’mon Alfie, you know he secretly likes it.) guilt Jason into it hard enough.

But the fond memories of too much popcorn and spilled M&Ms did nothing for the anxiety churning in Dick’s stomach. If anything, memories of Tim chugging a whole 2-liter bottle of diet coke while Jason put chili powder on Dick’s birthday flavored popcorn (and then proceed to eat the whole bag) only made it worse. Because one slip up and they’d never happen again. 

Well, that and Dick really hates chili powder on his birthday flavored popcorn. Gross. 

“Dick.” It’s his name that finally pulls him out of it. Not Robin, not the childhood lullaby turned symbol, but his name. And Jason’s voice. “Breathe for me, Dickie. Gotta long way to go before I let you kick the bucket on me.” 

His eyes snap up to meet Jason’s, weakly hoping Bruce might have contacted Jason while Dick was having his anxiety attack. 

“Bruce?” Dick asks, because Jason wouldn’t call him ‘Dick’ if anyone who shouldn’t hear was around. Because he trusted Jason to look out for them while Dick couldn’t. 

He hadn’t once. When Red Hood was still a violent crime lord before he was Dick’s brother.

Jason eventually shakes his head, sinking down into the stool next to Dick. “Nothing yet.” 

Right. Of course. That’s fine, it’s barely been 36 minutes since he left, right? Dick checks the lounge clock out of the corner of his eyes, his nerves soothed exactly 0% by his accurate prediction.

“There’s nothing on the news.” Is Jason’s next sentence. “Nothing about Arkham, nothing about a ruckus at Wayne Manor. He’s fine, Dick.” 

“I’ve heard that before.” 

Jason rolls his eyes, and Dick feels a spark of frustration light within him.

“I don’t get it.” He starts, sitting up straight and throwing his brother an accusing stare. “How are you not worried? How are you fine with this? Dad died, and every… every second he’s out of my sight it feels like I’m going to lose him all over again.”

“Who said I’m fine with this?” Jason snarls halfheartedly, kicking Dick with his shorter, stubbier legs. “I’m worried shitless, Dick. I just know it won’t do anything. Sides, you do know it’s Damian, right?” 

What Jason doesn’t say is that Bruce is Batman, that Bruce is perfectly capable of defending himself and Dick is being completely irrational. (Only he’s not, not really. Not after all the close calls Batman has had over the years.) He lets all the fight drain out of his body, apologizing with his eyes.

“We don’t know that,” Dick says eventually, leaning forward to rest on his elbows. “We don’t know anything.” 

Jason sighs from beside him, and then there's a hand squeezing his shoulder. 

“You’re right.” His brother concedes. It doesn’t make Dick feel any better. “So let’s go find out.”

“What?” 

“You’re worried, and I… admit having him out of reach doesn’t feel great,” Jason does that thing where he does anything but make eye contact, and Dick feels bad for doubting how much this was affecting him. “So let’s go. Not like we can’t literally teleport back.”

“What if we just make it worse? The–the last time I–” 

“I know.” The younger hero hops off the stool before turning and pinning Dick in place with a stare. “But if you let that stop you, I can name at least a dozen fights in Batman’s future that are going to kill him before that one.”

And Jason’s… right. Of course he’s right. Dick’s been relying on his level head since they got here. His little brother. He feels a pang of shame that must show on his face, because Jason is rolling his eyes.

“I’ve got your back because you’ve got mine, Dickhead.” Jason holds out his hand. “I might look fifteen, but I’m old enough to put you back on track every once in a while.”

Dick takes it. 

“If B is out of the cave when we get there, let's grill Alfie first. Better to have an Idea of what’s going on.” Jason rambles as he pulls him towards the elevator, and Dick smiles. “We need to tell the Titans we’ll be out for a bit too, you kinda freaked them out earlier.” 

“Thanks, Jaybird.” 

“Yeah, just, don’t get used to it.”

-

A common rule of leadership is that you’re always at fault, always the one in the wrong. Your team looks to you for guidance, and at the same time, you are responsible for their actions whether you ordered them or not. Too many leaders in Gotham shirk that responsibility, too many politicians allow their team to take the fall of their failure. So, Bruce decided a long time ago that it was a rule he’d never forget. 

Many of the heroes he works with in the Justice League are young, and if they’re hurt on his watch that’s on him. Not Clark, not Diana, him. Because he’s supposed to plan for everything. Supposed to cover not his own actions, but the actions of his team. He’s supposed to cover when Clark breaks formation to get a cat out of the battlefield, he’s supposed to cover when Barry forgets his signal and rushes the enemy before they’re ready. Because anything less means their deaths.

And if his kids are hurt on his watch, that's worse. It’s why, sometimes, he needs to be Batman with them. Needs to be a leader and not a father. (The one time he’d let himself be a father, it drove Dick away.) It’s why, when he sees two of the most important people in his life already seated at the dining room table, he pushes down the panic, the joy at seeing Dick in the manor again, and squares his shoulders. 

“I told you to stay in the Tower.” Even prepared for it, his heart stutters when his boys sink awkwardly into their chairs. “It’s not safe here, not until I know what the League is up to.” 

“Alfie told us about the kid, B. We just wanna meet ‘em.” Jason swings one of his legs back and forth absently and, really, his toes barely touch the ground. Like hell Bruce is letting the League have easy access to him. 

“Yeah, can’t sit idly by and let you gain another kid under my nose now can I?” Dick crosses his arms idly, and Bruce resists deflating like a balloon under his eldest son’s scrutiny. How is he supposed to kick Dick out? When all Bruce has wanted since the day Dick moved out was to see him seated at that table again?

Perhaps the world truly does conspire against him. 

“Young Master Bruce, perhaps you should enjoy this rare chance for a family gathering and chastise the boys later.” Alfred appears by his side, signaling subtly with his hands towards the stairs. Sure enough, Damian’s footsteps reach Bruce’s ears. 

“Alright.” Bruce sighs, defeated. “Just–be on your best behavior, for Damian’s sake.”

Both boys nod enthusiastically, and Bruce smiles tiredly despite himself. If it took a long-lost son showing up on his doorstep to get Dick home, Bruce was fine with that. What he isn’t fine with is Damian feeling unwelcome in this house because Bruce already has two sons, willingly or not. Them meeting like this, without Bruce even warning Damian of their existence, was not the best case scenario. 

“Hey.” Damian greets awkwardly from the stairs. 

“Damian, please come take a seat.” Bruce pulls out the seat opposite Dick and Jason, stepping out of the chair's space when the boy comes over. “These two are–”

His… wards? But, Jason is officially adopted. Would he feel like Bruce doesn’t consider him a son if he uses the wrong term? 

“What B is trying to avoid telling you, is that he kidnapped us from the streets and a circus.” Jason snickers at his expense. 

“Jason.” 

“That’s not a denial, old man.” 

Bruce doesn’t dignify that with a response, sitting awkwardly at the head of the table as Dick perks up.

“It’s Damian, right? As you may have noticed, that’s Jason. Don’t take anything he says too seriously, at the very least, I came willingly.” 

“Dick.”

This was going to be a bigger headache than he anticipated. As light-hearted as the jabs were, Bruce really didn’t need Damian thinking he kidnapped kids. Though, in Jason’s case, he admits he walked a fine line. 

“Right, that’s me. Forgot to mention.” 

“Your name is Dick?” Damian hides a smile behind his hand, and Bruce decides that maybe this isn’t going quite as badly as it could. 

Dick sputters out the usual defense, his parents weren’t American and so on, while Jason flat-out loses it beside him. Somewhere in the middle of it, Alfred serves the food and both of the older boys pile their plates high, all while fighting over the validity of ‘Dick’ as a name. (Bruce personally has become so desensitized to the name that he hardly notices it until one of Gotham’s elite is looking at him like they ate something sour.) Damian, however, makes no move to serve himself from any of the dishes Alfred has eloquently laid out before them. 

“Is everything alright Damian? You may speak your mind if something is bothering you.” His question catches Dick and Jason's attention, who stop arguing long enough to look at each other and then the food. 

“It’s nothing, everything looks delicious.” Just as Damian moves to fill his plate Dick pipes up.

“You sure? Alfred won’t mind making you something else.”

Bruce privately wished his eldest wouldn’t have pushed it. Dick has always been a problem solver, but he usually had a little more tact, at least more than Clark, when going about it. As much as they might want to, they don’t know Damian yet. Meals could be a bad memory-or even something he had to work for. The League was cutthroat, cruel. Its members were subordinates before they were people, and Damian was surely treated as a warrior before he was treated as her son. But instead of closing off Damian sighs and puts down the serving spoon. 

“I’m vegetarian.” 

Dick’s whole demeanor lightens at the admission, Bruce even sees Jason lose some tension in his shoulders. By contrast, where he’s refilling Jason’s glass, Alfred frowns. 

“My sincerest apologies, Young Master Damian. I should have inquired as to your dietary restrictions rather than assuming.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Damian mumbles. “No big deal.” 

Beside him, Dick’s smile grows impossibly wider. Bruce decides to analyze that another time. 

“Damian is right, Alfred. It’s been a long day for all of us, and now we know better for the future.” 

“Nonsense. I will make you something right away, Master Damian.” The proud butler bows his head, returning to his domain (the kitchen) presumably to do just that. 

Damian shifts and puts a roll on his plate. 

Dick sparks up a conversation not too long into the silence and, though Damian doesn’t respond all that much–almost as if he’s not sure how to act, he entertains Dick’s fictional scenarios with a nod or a shake of his head. ( It’s would you rather, dummy. You gotta pick the option you’d take if you had to .) Jason similarly seems full of energy in his own way, smiling more than a few times as Dick’s options get more and more ridiculous. To the vigilante’s dismay, he even starts encouraging them.

“Okay, okay. What about… would you rather fight a hundred normal-sized bats or a single horse-sized one?”

Jason snorts, “Isn’t that just Batman?” 

And Bruce decides to tune them out. 

Alfred brings out a vegetarian version of the afternoon’s dish in what feels like record time, and Damian eventually relaxes enough to start calling Dick out on the stupidity of his questions. Bruce admits he might be feeling a little lighter too. Of course, part of it has to do with Dick being in the manor again, being home again, but another part is how well everyone seems to be getting along already. It feels illegal for it to be going so well, even if Bruce knows the boys being friendly with each other won’t make the adjustment any easier. 

Not just for Damian, who probably never has known anything but the way the LoA runs things, but for Jason and Dick too. Maybe Jason more, since his youngest (ex-youngest? Middle child? Did Bruce have a middle child now?) still lived in the manor. Even if they had been a normal family, if all of his sons were blood-related, there would always be an adjustment with the addition of a new family member. Bruce honestly isn’t sure if he’s gained Jason’s trust enough to have him believe any assurances that Damian won’t change his place here. Especially with how strange his behavior has been recently. 

“B!” Dick’s whine is what eventually pulls him back to the conversation. (Did Dick just call him B?) “We need a tiebreaker.”

“Yes, of course. What were the options again?”

“Would you rather be cellmates with the Calendar Man or the Riddler?”

When he shudders visibly, the whole table laughs. His reaction even gets a chuckle out of Alfred and Bruce wishes so badly the man would just sit down and join them. 

“Neither.” 

“I do believe the aim of the game is to choose regardless of how unpleasant, Master Bruce.” 

“Alfie’s right, that’s cheating B.” He wasn’t imagining things, Dick really did call him B before–and he just did it again. 

“Coward.” Damian adds coldly, causing Jason to nearly spit out his drink laughing. 

“Alright. Calendar Man.” Bruce has heard enough of Edward’s voice to last him a lifetime, and while he refuses to bring it up to the boys, Eddy was bound to be ten times more annoying if he knew Batman was his roommate than some random kid. (Although, perhaps there was a case to be made for Dick as Robin)

“So not the right answer.” Jason shakes his head, still chuckling to himself. “At least I know the Riddler won’t try to shank me on my birthday.” 

“Language, Jason.”

“What? B, shank isn’t a bad word.”

“You’re just upset because it means you lost, Little Wing.” Dick flicks a napkin at his brother, which Jason dodges in disgust. 

“Wait.” Bruce tilts his head slightly. “Why did you need me to break a tie if there are three of you now?” 

“Mr. Pennyworth concurred with your choice of cellmate.” 

“Just Alfred is fine, as I’ve told you before, Master Damian.” 

The vigilante smiles as Damian nods sort of absently at the admonishment. The boy still didn’t seem fully… present, but he did at least look to be enjoying himself. Alfred places a hand on his shoulder when he leaves to refill the water pitcher, and Bruce decides to just enjoy the chaos for now. 

Chapter Text

To Bruce's utter horror, Dick and Jason dodge his suggestions to leave after lunch. 

Lightning fast, they corral Damian upstairs, and the only reason Bruce is able to hold back from following them is Jason’s shouted promise they’d call if they needed him. That and the worry that Dick will take his hovering the wrong way. Somehow, no matter how he put it into words, his oldest always did. 

Part of that is on him, he knows. His mind works differently than Dick’s, and often their clashes result from Bruce failing to account for that difference. Dick loves openly, loud and unapologetic with his affection. Bruce loves quietly, through fretting and acts of service–hardly ever through words. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to matter how often Bruce reminds himself of that, because he still manages to mess up when it comes down to it. 

So, here he is. Drying dishes as Alfred dutifully scrubs. 

“Do try not to shatter my good China, Master Bruce.” The butler scolds, sparing a glance at his ward. Bruce blinks owlishly at the creaking plate in his hands, huffing an apology softly. 

It’s just–it’s not safe for them to be alone with Damian. They have no idea what his temperament is, no idea what his environment has been like with the league. Jason and Dick could do something to trigger him accidentally, and Bruce has no doubt that Damian is a force to be reckoned with if provoked. But even disregarding misunderstanding, disregarding how physically dangerous the boy probably is, Bruce doesn’t want them to overwhelm him by trying to be close so soon. 

He knows those boys… or he… tries to know them. He knows Dick can sometimes miss social cues, forget to read the room even if he has the full ability to do so. And Jason is… excitable. Endlessly talkative about his current obsessions, endlessly passionate in defending them. To the point where even Bruce, stubborn as he is, finds himself conceding points he previously held firm. (Pride and Prejudice is Jane Austen’s best work, even if Bruce will always name Emma as his favorite.) 

They can both come across… strong. Bruce is proud of them for it, but pride doesn’t discount the danger of putting two strong heads together. Particularly when they’re trying to bond with a child assassin. 

“Master Bruce. Unless you have gained heat vision from your latest escapade–which to my knowledge you have not–the dish is not going to dry under your gaze alone.”

“Sorry. Guess I’m not really helping.” Bruce tries to go back to his task, Alfred plucks the glass out of his hands.

“No, I think that’s quite enough of that.” Alfred scolds. “You have far too much troubling you to be doing dishes with me, Young Master.” 

“It’s fine Alfred, I can do this much.” He tries to chuckle, tries to hide behind his patented ‘Brucie’ charm.

The attempt dies miserably under Alfred’s stare.

“Honestly, Master Bruce. When have either of your personas ever worked on me?” Gently, Alfred nudges him out of the kitchen. “Go on now, you can be entirely too distracting when you brood.” 

“Alright, alright. Sorry, Alfred.” Better he gets to work anyway. If the boys were content to stay the night, then the least Bruce can do is make sure it’s under the best protection he can offer. 

“Oh and, Master Bruce?” Alfred calls, drawing Bruce’s attention back to him. “You trained those boys yourself. I’m certain they’re more than capable of handling anything that child throws at them.”

Seemingly satisfied, the butler disappears back into the kitchen, leaving Bruce standing stupidly in his own house. He throws a nervous glance in the direction of the east wing–the family wing–the wing that was currently more full than it’d been in ages, and wonders if that would ever be enough. 

Bruce did train them, hard–probably too hard, at times. He didn’t sugarcoat his critiques, nor did he settle for ‘good enough’. (Even one second can be the difference between life and death, Robin. You need to do better.) Every skill they learn, every experience they gain, it’s all for the sake of them making it through the war they insist on joining. The war Bruce only ever wanted to protect them from. 

With Dick, the boy had already sold his soul to the cause before they’d officially met. With Dick, it was easy to convince himself all he could do short of locking the child up was train him. With Jason…

Somewhere in Jason’s stay, Bruce thinks he must have made a mistake. Must have done– something to make Jason think it was a good idea to don one of Dick’s old costumes in a misguided attempt to save Batman’s life. Because the boy was determined not to make it a one-time thing, and suddenly empty threats and punishments did nothing to keep Jason’s feet on the ground. Jason wanted Robin to fly with Batman again, and he would follow him out, again and again, to make it happen. 

Or Redhawk, as he insisted on being called now. Bruce isn’t sure where the name change came from, but he’s glad for it. Especially if it means he doesn’t accidentally step on any more of Dick’s toes. Either way, it meant another child would be roaming Gotham's streets soon, and Bruce could either let it kill him or teach him how to survive. 

But this time, he couldn’t delude himself into thinking the fault was anywhere but with him. 

He lingers by the stairs longer than he’s proud of, the impulse to check on them so strong he almost loses to it. But, if there is one thing Bruce has experience ignoring, it’s impulses. His every move premeditated, his every sentence carefully curated to elicit the exact reaction he needs in the moment. Bruce thinks it a wonder it took so long for Dick to hate him. For a child so honest, it must have been awful. Living with someone knowing both sides of them are the lie.

Batman can’t be selfish, the moment Bruce uses him selfishly, he becomes a problem instead of a solution. Brucie Wayne is the same, one bribe and he’s everything Batman fights against. Neither one of them is allowed to be a person. They need to be more if Gotham is going to get better. 

Bruce peels himself away from the base of the stairs, far too used to the ache in his chest to let it bother him.

Soft scratches and the sound of rustling wings greet him when he finally descends into the cave, a combination that used to unnerve him. Now when the bats don’t greet him, he worries. (They still make him shudder when they fly a little too close, though.) He pushes the thoughts from his mind, checking one last time if the security system really failed so wholly to capture Damian's infiltration.

It did.

The confirmation only steels his resolve to fix it now. If Damian could get through, then it’s a safe assumption all of the League can. That the LoA could have broken through his systems at any time. That Talia could have– By the time Bruce has all the monitors lit up, he’s effectively worked himself into a panic. 

He tries to shut down the thoughts, pulling up the computer logs. A skilled hacker would be able to hide their activity fairly well, but only if Bruce wasn’t looking for it. Now he was, but what he finds isn’t what he was expecting. 

Not a single hidden session comes up through his searching, the only one out of place conspicuously at a time Bruce distinctly remembers being on patrol. The level of skill didn’t add up. Surely, if they could get through Batman’s security system, they could do a decent job erasing the log, right? 

As he starts to read the activity, Bruce’s still simmering panic shifts fully to bewilderment. The user hadn’t touched a single one of Bruce’s Batman files. Not of his enemies or his allies. 

Weirder, all of the information accessed was connected, in some way, shape, or form, to his neighbors, Jack and Janet Drake. But what could the league possibly want with the Drakes–that they need to go through Bruce to get? Bruce would need to ask Alfred if he’d felt the need to do any personal research on the computer. Jason had access too–even if Bruce isn’t sure when he would have had the chance to meet or even hear about the drakes, Bruce needs to cover his bases. Needs to know for certain if the League is behind this session.

Bruce doesn’t interact with the Drakes often. As far as he knows, the family doesn’t stand out all that much among Gotham’s ‘Elite’. Not the most corrupt, and definitely not the least. A reputation that could be a perfect cover for something sinister. They’re always traveling for Jack’s work–only stopping by Gotham for weeks at a time. Another perfect cover if something really is going on with them. He remembers meeting their son at one of the annual Wayne Foundation charity galas before–Timothy? Bruce is sure he preferred going by Tim. Bright kid, asked the kind of questions you’d expect from investors. Bruce’s heart twists at the idea of the League hurting him. 

As soon as the kid enters his thoughts, a different pattern clicks. 

Shit. 

The user lingered longer when Tim was mentioned in the articles. 

Now that Bruce is paying attention to it, the Drakes seem to take great pains to keep Tim out of their photos. Hell, Bruce almost missed the pattern because the amount of articles mentioning their kid is in the single digits. As a famous father of two boys (now three, and boy is Bruce not excited for the media storm that is going to cause), Bruce knows personally how difficult a feat that is. But this kind of forethought could indicate the Drakes know something.

Did the League expect Batman to know about it? Were they so cautious about this boy that they needed to make sure Bruce wasn’t onto them before they made their move? 

Bruce bites his lip to stop the train of thought. He’s jumping to conclusions. This could still have nothing to do with the League. Acting before he knows all the facts could risk them taking out the target recklessly to cover their tracks. He quickly compiles everything he currently knows into a file and devotes all his energy to coding the new system. 

Securing the cave is all that matters right now, even if his hands itch for his gauntlets, even if there’s a child being targeted by the League. It was just another impulse Batman couldn’t afford to have, and a mistake the League could be hoping he makes. If Bruce recalls correctly, the Drakes aren’t in town anyway, and there is only so much information he can gather from surveying an empty house. Still, he adds it to the top of his mental to-do list, right behind ‘gain sole custody of Damian Wayne’. 

He spares the system running that particular DNA analysis a glance, the doubt dying with every passing hour. 

At least Arkham is quiet, Bruce wouldn’t trust Barbara with Gotham by herself if even one of his more dangerous rogues was out there with her. She’d promised to keep her coms open tonight, and Bruce is thankful at least one of his child vigilantes doesn’t mind the hovering. (Too much. Bruce is sure he’s on thin ice.)

Bruce wonders if it’s childish to resent his ability to multitask, because the anxious thoughts don’t go away as he pours himself into the work. Not when it’s mindless work, running checks, and waiting for files to load. They do minutely assist in breaking up that monotony, though. As much as Bruce made sure Batman appeared inhuman, Bruce Wayne most definitely wasn't. He could only take so much coding before his eyes strain to the point of pain and his fingers ache from the cold of the cave. 

Usually, Bruce updates the security in sections. Taking care to separate the work into chucks he can fit in between WE meetings and Batman business. 

Actually, the last time he’d done this (this being a complete overhaul of the system within 24 hours) was when he’d overheard Barry mention Bruce Wayne to Arthur in the watchtower, terrified they’d begun to take interest in his civilian life. (Turns out, Barry is just the type to keep up with celebrity gossip, which is equally as relieving as it is a different kind of terrifying.) 

Alfred appears at his side well into the work with a cup of tea in his hands and a frown on his lips. Bruce tries not to feel horrible when he declines the butler's invitation for dinner. If the boys wanted to be alone, and no blood has been drawn by now, Bruce is the most useful in the cave. It’s what the Batman part of his brain rationalizes, at least. 

The smaller part, the Bruce Wayne part, admits he’s being a coward, always waiting for that second shoe to drop. Waiting for the boys to decide to start a fight, waiting for Dick to start a fight with him. Maybe dinner would go more smoothly without him there? 

When it comes to Dick, Bruce figures most things do. 

-

Dick already has Damian in a bone-crushing hug by the time Jason shuts the door behind them, the younger of the two Waynes limp in the embrace. Jason finds it sweet despite himself, shuffling closer to his brothers as he takes advantage of the moment of calm to regain control of his breathing. 

The relief of Damian being here is short-lived when it opens up so many questions. Questions Jason was doing a really good job of ignoring. Dick was doing enough overthinking for the both of them, Jason figured his energy was more helpful elsewhere. Too bad he hadn’t factored Damian showing up on their doorstep into that plan.

Thing is– something brought them here. And, at this point, that something wasn’t looking entirely random.

Dick remembering with him, Jason could reasonably explain. They patrolled together a lot– Crime had upped nearly 60% since Batman’s death, and it was only getting worse. Patrolling alone in that chaos quickly became a liability. When it was just Dick, it wasn’t statistically improbable that they’d been hit with something while together. But Damian? Jason hasn’t seen him since the funeral. None of them have.

He tries not to be bitter about it. They were all grieving, and it’s not like Jason was winning any awards for being emotionally supportive. He was angry–hell, he still is. But at least he’d been there. There when Dick had panic attacks on patrol, there when Tim couldn’t rip his eyes away from that stupid fucking memorial. Maybe he was harsh, maybe he shouted and screamed at everyone who asked if he was okay to fuck off, but Damian he–

He just left. 

Like Bruce was the only reason he was ever there. 

It’s a hard thought. One he knows better than to have. Your assigning feelings, Dick would say, let him tell what he really thinks. But Jason has more in common with Bruce than any of his other siblings, because he’ll never be brave enough to ask.

“Alright, break it up. I don’t know how long the old man is gonna be able to resist spying on us, so we’d better take advantage of the privacy while we can.”

“Right.” Dick’s face hardens, his posture all Nightwing as he shifts back slightly to meet Damian’s eyes. “How long before we can expect the League to show up at our doorstep?” 

“You’re here?” The words come out kind of awed, the man (now boy) stealing a glance at Jason before his eyes are back on Dick

“You didn’t notice?” Dick asks, still kneeling level with him. 

Damian shakes his head. “I figured when father didn’t recognize me that I’d been the only one sent back.”

It dawns on Jason then, that Damian never met him before the pit, never knew Dick when he was in his emo years–probably hasn’t heard that much about either. Both were sore subjects, even if for different reasons. Damian couldn’t have realized, he’d never known what they were like before Jason died. 

“We’re here,” Jason confirms, swallowing his pride and ruffling his little brother’s hair. No need to dwell on what hasn’t happened yet. 

When Damian was a little spaced out at lunch, Jason just assumed he was overwhelmed from seeing Bruce again. God knows Jason was when he first arrived. But there seemed to be more to it than that. Damian held himself like a child coming out of shock, his eyes perpetually downcast–his body closed off. Did something happen with the League?

The League. 

Fuck, they’re idiots. 

“How long have you been in the past like this?” He asks, his heart rate spiking when Damian doesn’t immediately answer. 

“Nearly 17 days.” Damian finally says, and Jason curses under his breath.

“Same as us then.” Exactly the same as them, and if Jason was in his right mind, he’d be suspicious of that. As it stands, all he can think of is how awful it must have been for Damian to see Talia again after everything that happened. 

It would be hard for Jason to see Talia, and Talia wasn’t even his mom. (Just the woman who told him his father didn’t love him. That they have in common.)

Of course it took longer than a few days for Damian to make his way here, he’s a bat just like the rest of them. He wouldn’t be so reckless as to act without gathering all the information he could, and if Talia was there… Jason would bet money that was part of what has him so down. All the bats knew Damian still visited her.

None of them resent him for it–Jason especially. He knows exactly what it’s like to chase love from a biological parent, and as long as it wasn’t putting Damian in the same danger it put him in, Jason wasn’t touching it with a ten-foot pole. 

“The League shouldn’t be able to track me across the Atlantic. I made sure of it.” Damian answers eventually, a bit of a growl to the words. 

“Good.” Dick sighs, standing up only to slump onto Damian’s bed. Jason thinks he looks exhausted. “I don’t think we’re ready to face the League yet.” 

Damian scoffs but doesn’t argue, that fact alone more telling than anything. 

The League has been operating for centuries–hell, it was probably stronger now than any time they went up against it in the future. With Ra’s degradation due to prolonged exposure to Lazarus pits, the League became more and more unstable over the years. Ra’s iron grip on its assets slipped with his sanity. But even without the League’s own downward spiral, Bruce dealt a lot of heavy blows to their organization as Batman. Missions he preferred to keep the rest of them out of.  

Starting over like this, they didn’t have that head start. They’d be fighting the League at their strongest, while they were arguably at their weakest. Whatever advantage they have in surprise is crushed by their sheer physical disadvantage, and Jason can tell his brothers know it by the looks on their faces. 

“I guess with the League on a back burner, it’s safe to keep focusing on Tim, right?” Jason changes the subject, hoping to pull them out of it. Seriously, they could all be as bad as Bruce in situations like this. Makes it easier to understand why the Justice League has so many crazy theories about secret love children and clones. 

Well, with Conner, Jason can admit it isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility. Bruce probably would adopt them instantly, it was already a close thing with Conner. (And Wally for that matter. And Roy, and Jon– y’know? Jason thinks Bruce should really see someone about that.)

“You haven’t contacted him?” Damian asks, incredulous. 

“It’s not that simple, Baby Bat. Tim’s parents have legal custody, custody we can’t do anything about without enough dirt.” 

“I didn’t ask if you had made your move in extracting him from his existing family, I asked why you hadn't even thought to speak to him.” The tiny version of their brother scowls, the expression bringing back all kinds of memories. Their brother, of course, still scowled like that. (It was probably a daily occurrence) But its effect dwindles when displayed on his 10-year-old face. “Have you forgotten what brought him into this family in the first place? With knowledge of the future or not, he at least knows the identities of Batman and Robin.” 

“And how d'ya s’pose we explain that to the old man?” Jason adds, barely keeping the annoyance from his voice. Of course they haven’t forgotten, of course they want to show up on Tim’s doorstep and drag him over. But Bruce was absolutely already on to them, and Jason was not looking forward to that conversation. “A random kid knows his and Goldie's identity, and instead of giving him a wide berth we–what? Invite him for dinner?”

“Jay's right, contacting Tim would be ideal, but without school, or even patrol, there’s no safe way to do it that doesn’t tip Bruce off.” 

“Tip Bruce off?” Damian’s glare sharpens, and Jason has a sinking feeling he knows where this is going. “You plan on hiding this from him forever, don’t you?”

Dick’s answering silence makes Damian scoff. 

“I understand keeping it from him at first. Dad can be… difficult when it comes to these things.” That’s one way of putting it. “But he has a right to know, and we could use his help in ascertaining the details of our arrival here.” 

Dick rubs at his neck sheepishly, avoiding Damian’s gaze. Probably because he isn’t wrong. As much of a blessing as their being here appears, not accounting for the potential danger of it is unbecoming of a bat. Jason knows that. But wrestling with Bruce’s paranoia and subsequent need to make himself suffer is more than they need on their plate right now. 

Besides, Jason doesn’t think Dick ever thought they could keep it from Bruce forever. He’ll eventually figure it out, he always does, but until then keeping him in the dark just seems–easier. Maybe it’s not fair. Maybe Damian’s right and Bruce has a right to know everything that happened. But is it so wrong to want to shield him from all of that? From a future where he’s lost so much? (You’ve all lost a lot, Bruce would say, you deserve to be shielded from it more than I do. Ah well, Jason is good at ignoring Bruce. Especially the one in his head.)

In the end, they aren’t using time travel for the greater good. Aren’t manipulating it to prevent some unbeatable apocalypse. Sure, Gotham suffered a lot from Batman’s death, but they were–handling it. Okay, so they were learning to handle it. But if they needed help, Clark would’ve been there in an instant. Any member of the Justice League would have been.

Bruce would look at that future and call it a win. It’s just that no one that knew him would agree. 

“Why don’t we cross that bridge when we get to it, okay?” Dick breathes, the sound shudders. “Bruce is smart. He already knows something is off with Jason, it won’t take long before he starts actively investigating it. So let’s just focus on getting everyone back, alright?” 

“With me? Dickie, you were the one crying at my bedside after 3 days of knowing me. If Dad’s investigating one of us first, it’s gonna be you.” 

The ex-acrobat opens his mouth to protest, his eyebrows knit together indignantly, when Damian speaks again. This time, the expression he bears is more effective on his ten-year-old face. Jason steadfastly refuses to be as weak to it as his dad is. 

“How is Dad?” The question dims the levity Jason’s jab managed to light, the syllables tentative. Jason doesn’t blame him, they were probably all still shaken by what happened. 

Dick pats the spot next to him on the bed, and Damian takes the invitation without any fuss.

“He’s fine, Dames.” The first Robin pulls the boy into his side, smiling reassuringly. Jason notes, mildly amused, how quickly it results in the tension draining from their youngest brother’s shoulders. It was hard to feel anxious when Dick gave you that smile–Jason should know. The horrid thing had gotten him into many shenanigans when he was younger. (And when he was older) 

Despite the clear difference in his posture, there’s a small frown on Damian’s face when Dick releases him. 

“He doesn’t seem fine.” The young hero huffs, crossing his tiny arms (god he sounds like Dick, the kid is just– really small right now, okay?) and looks away from them. 

Thinking back on it, Bruce really didn’t. Jason’s seen Bruce nervous–which is saying something, because most of the hero community doesn’t think Batman can get nervous. It’s just that, somehow, nervous doesn’t feel like the right word to describe Bruce’s behavior recently. In fact, manic fits the man a lot better. 

He meets Dick’s eyes, and the oldest Wayne has a frown on his lips that tells Jason he noticed too. 

Bruce was doing better towards the end of lunch, after Dick had coaxed him into the conversation and Alfred’s subtle encouragement. (Seriously, bless that man.) But they’d have to be blind not to notice how easily their Dad had spaced out. How he would sometimes hide behind his ‘Brucie’ posture or tense up when Damian looked at him.  

Calling that ‘fine’ doesn’t feel right no matter how much they want to comfort Damian. Regardless of how Jason looks at it, something big is bothering Bruce. Something on top of the countless other worries he always carries. 

“Okay, so he’s having a rough go of it recently.” Dick concedes. “I would be too if I had a kid pop up out of the woodwork.” 

That gets a reaction out of Damian. One Jason isn’t so sure he likes. 

Damian shifts slightly on the bed, his toes hovering over a foot off the ground. He looks–he looks like he’s just been told his pet rabbit got hit by a car. And suddenly, it’s really hard not to see him as the 10-year-old kid he currently presents as. With Dick it’s easy, the oldest adopted Wayne hasn’t changed all that much since he was 18. Damian shot up like a weed. 

But it meant something was really eating at him. Because Damian at 26 never looked like that. 

“Somethin’ else on your mind?” Jason asks, not out of any older brother duty, of course. It’s just–there probably wouldn’t be another chance for them to talk this openly so soon–and brooding is a dominant Wayne gene. 

“No.” Right, his bad. He forgot fruitlessly denying things is also a dominant Wayne gene. (So dominant, it infects everyone adopted into the family too.) 

“Sure, let's move on then.” Far be it from Jason to press, he’s not exactly one for feelings talks. He’ll just get Dick to push later, the first Robin was far superior at that sort of thing. 

-

After a few more minutes of hashing things out, (Comparing their days leading up to waking up in the past, making sure they weren’t experiencing any negative side effects by being here. The usual.) Dick decided it was best if they split off in an attempt to curb suspicion. While it was nice to be able to confirm they all came from the same future, Bruce is not a dumb man. Clueless certainly, in specific scenarios, but, decidedly, not dumb.

While Damian remained– unenthusiastic about their decision, he thankfully seemed to understand springing the future on Bruce right now would only cause them more problems.

This all, of course, means Dick is forced to face his childhood room. He isn’t surprised to see it set up like he never left, Bruce was sentimental like that. When Dick can bring himself to think about it, his dad was sentimental in a lot of really self-destructive ways. Dick doesn’t think Bruce let Alfred into Jason’s room after he died. 

It paid off when Jason came back, and seeing his room exactly as he left it meant the world to him. It didn’t when Bruce stood for an hour with his hand on the doorknob, frozen in his grief. Dick can’t help but wonder what Bruce would’ve done if Jason never came back, because those two years scare Dick just thinking about them. 

His T-communicator beeps from his pocket, probably one of the Titans calling to ask what the hell was going on. Dick smiles despite the nerves still writhing around in his stomach, he should really let them know Gotham isn’t burning to the ground. Correction, Gotham isn’t burning to the ground any more than usual.

“Hey,” He answers, not quite as cheerfully as he would have liked–but still ‘past Robin’ enough that they shouldn’t notice it. 

“Is everything alright over there, Rob?” Straight to the point, Dick always did love Victor for that. “Haven’t heard from you since you took off, and you looked nervous when you left.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you guys.” Dick chuckles lightly, running his fingers over his old, dustless shelves absently. At least this time around, he can make sure both of their rooms stay lived in. “Something… happened at home. I don’t know if I’ll be back for a while.” 

“Sorry to hear that, man. Anything I can do to help?” Victor asks earnestly, and Dick hears Gar shout from the background of the call. The half-human sighs at the noise, resigned. “Beast Boy wants you to know he’s got your back too.” 

“Actually,” His smile turns sly, even if Victor can’t see it. “Batman has all your training planned out, but he wouldn’t want you guys to run drills without someone there to look over you guys. Do you think you could take over? Make sure everyone’s safe as they continue training?” 

Victor pauses on the other end of the phone, and Dick feels a little proud. During the 3 days Bruce worked with him, Victor seemed to become less and less sure of himself. He wasn’t sure what was causing it then, but now Dick thinks he understands. Victor had always struggled following Robin’s orders. He saw the flaws the young vigilante couldn’t see in himself, and never quite believed in the experience Dick had on him. Translation: he thought Robin was a pompous, arrogant kid. 

It was both true and not. 

Meeting Batman; Gotham’s Dark Knight, Co-founder of the Justice League–meant he could finally see how he stacked up against a hero as renowned as the ‘world's greatest detective’, (There were still a few objections to that one in the Wayne family household. Bruce always wins their challenges for it, though.) and he hadn’t liked his own conclusion. Dick understands what that’s like, metas and aliens alike stood next to his dad and felt inferior. It was what the Batman persona was built for. 

People need to look at Batman and see more than a man, Bruce had told him once. It was after the time stream, after Dick had handed back the Cowl, he is an idea, Dick–one I never wanted you to carry. 

What Victor needs now is a way to feel useful. Something to snap him out of the doubt meeting Batman sparked in him. Hopefully being a sort-of leader to the Titans while Dick is in Gotham will help with that. If nothing else, it’s a good trial run for when Dick returns for good. 

“Robin, I need you to be extremely honest with me.” The young hero sounds grave, his cadence more robotic than Dick has heard it in a long time. For a second, Dick thinks there’s a lapse in his judgment. “Are you possessed?”

Dick's shocked laugh escapes him without his permission, the underlying nerves falling away at the absurdity of the question. Jason would never believe Victor asked him that before Bruce did. (In Bruce’s defense, Dick was trying a lot harder to hide his personality change in front of him than Victor.)

“Blackmailed? Mind Controlled?” The teenager continues, his voice getting louder at every guess. “Seriously, is this a cry for help?”

“I’m–I’m not being mind controlled.” Dick barely gets the words out in between the struggle to breathe and the uncontrollable giggles every time he thinks about telling the story to his brothers later. To the point he nearly considers if he should screen himself for Joker toxin. 

“Then what is up with you, man?” Victor huffs into the mike. “I need you to work with me here. I’ve got, like, zero idea what’s going on right now.”

The honesty in Victor’s confusion stops Dick’s immediate dismissal of the topic. The older (younger, technically) hero was obviously concerned for him, and the last thing Dick wants is to worry him needlessly. He’s been so caught up with keeping an eye on Bruce that he hasn't stopped to think about how his shift might affect the Titans.

Dick imagines telling him the truth, the whole truth. That he has a chance to save his dad, a chance he’s so terrified to lose that it’s paralyzing. But it would just make Victor worry more, if he even decides to believe him, so Dick ultimately tables the idea. Besides, it would be better not to make that decision without Jason and Damian’s input.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He apologizes sincerely, shifting on his feet and picking up a picture frame from his end table. It was of him and Bruce, probably taken 6 months after Dick came to stay here. They were both dressed up, on their way to some fancy gala, and Dick was swinging happily off his adoptive father’s arm–smiling widely. It makes him feel like crying. 

Dick puts the photo down. 

“I’m going to tell you something you absolutely cannot repeat, Vic. Some really bad things could happen if this ever got out, I need you to promise me you will act like you never learned this information.” 

“I promise, Robin.” 

Jason would absolutely call him an ass right now if he were here. Of course, Dick trusts Victor, with his life and his identity. But the first time he revealed himself was so serious. Dick hadn’t had the chance to mess with them even a little bit. And while he can’t tell them who he is just yet–once again a decision to be made by all of them–he could tell them some things. 

He takes a dramatic breath to build atmosphere.

“Batman is my dad.” 

Victor chokes, and Dick has to cover the mike on his communicator to hide his laughter. 

“He’s your–sorry–” He switches to a whisper. “Batman is your dad?” 

“Technically.” Dick does everything he can to make sure Victor hears the shrug in his voice. 

“Technically. Right.” The hero lets out a defeated breath. “Okay, that’s like–the most you’ve ever shared about yourself, and I’m really honored you’re trusting me with this, but exactly what does this explain?”  

“I was angry with him, but like–he was still my dad, you know?” Bruce would have a stroke if he overheard Dick say that, actually, maybe Dick should make sure Bruce overheard that sometime. “I think I just… woke up and realized how little my anger really mattered when he was already sorry. And as soon as the anger was gone, it was like I realized all at once just how much I missed him.”

Dick pauses, his heart skipping a beat at how much truth managed to slip into his explanation. Subconsciously recalling the start of his actual reconciliation with his adoptive father. He takes a steadying breath, might as well commit to it now.  

“When he got that emergency call, all I could think of was how many emergencies happened while I wasn’t there to back him up. How many times he could’ve died and I would’ve had to find out from the news. He’s my dad and I–I just wouldn’t have known. I’m sorry I worried you. All of you guys. I just need to be home for a little while.” 

“Understood, dude. Take all the time you need.” Dick chuckles lightly at how awkward Victor sounds. “I’ll do everything I can to look over everyone’s training until you’re back.” 

“Thanks, Vic. Seriously.” He eyes the shadow hovering outside his door, smiling. “Call if you need anything, I’ll tell B and Red you said hello.” 

“Take care, Rob.” 

“You don’t have to eavesdrop, Jaybird.” Carefully storing his T-communicator, Dick turns his full attention toward his uninvited guest. The eavesdropper in question opens the door at the callout, his blue (pure blue ) eyes landing on everything in the room except for his older brother. “Victor says hi.” 

“I heard.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you eavesdropped.” 

Jason rolls his eyes. Dick still thinks it’s funny–little brothers are tough crowds. 

“You know,” The younger hero strides evenly into the room, stopping at Dick’s end table. He picks up that same old picture frame. “I always wanted to break in here when I was younger.” 

“Did you?” 

“All the time,” Jason answers immediately, and Dick rolls his eyes when the younger hero smirks at him. “When Bruce caught me… it was the only time I heard stories about you as Dick Grayson. The rest of the time it was ‘Robin’ this, ‘Robin’ that. In here… in here I heard about his son, not Gotham’s Boy Wonder.” 

Oh–okay. Dick straightens up as Jason puts down the photo, unaware this was an ‘emotions’ talk. Jason doesn’t usually start those. (And if part of Dick swells at the idea of Bruce talking about him positively during all their fighting, it doesn’t matter right now) 

“I wanted to be you. I wanted Bruce to talk about me the way he talked about you.” The second Robin chuckles bitterly. “I could never understand why you left when it was so obvious Bruce would’ve given you anything.” 

“I didn’t know.” 

“You weren’t s’pose to.” Jason glares at him, but the expression quickly morphs into something more resigned. “And that’s not why I told you.”

“I’m listening, Jay.” Dick puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, surprised when Jason doesn’t even try to shake it off. 

“Something’s bothering Damian.” His brother starts, lips pursing slightly. Dick hides his smile. The younger hero might try to act tough, but he was a caretaker at heart. “And I mean like– really bothering him, Dick. It’s not just Dad–at least, it’s not just that he died. I just think- maybe you should…”

“Talk to him?” 

“Yeah.” Jason wrings his hands together nervously. “We all think a lot of you, Damian especially. He responds better if you’re the one pushing.” 

“Not sure that’s always true, Jaybird.” Not when Jason had so much more in common with him, not when Jason knew better than any of them what Damian went through growing up with the League. Sure, Dick and Damian get along well now, but it was after a rough ( really rough) start. Dick was still grieving, and Damian was violent–unrefined in his training. It wasn’t a match made in heaven. “You might not believe it, but I think Damian might respect you more than me.” 

Jason scoffs. “Doubt it.” 

“You’d be surprised, I think he still resents me for making the Robin costume have such ‘garish’ colors.” The impression makes Jason laugh, and Dick feels slightly proud about that. “‘Course I’ll talk to him, Jase. But I really think you're selling yourself short here.” 

“Whatever.” The 15-year-old version of his brother shrugs, finally shoving Dick off him. He pauses when he gets to the door though, turning back slightly. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Lil’bro.” 

Jason flips him off.

-

They don’t know. 

Damian should have a hundred different thoughts running through his head, a hundred different theories for why they’d been sent here. But even after 30 minutes of pacing his room alone, it’s still the only one he can muster. 

Dick and Jason don’t know. 

He was so certain it was just him, so certain the omission was an attempt to not manipulate Damian’s feelings for his mother. Damian even tried to steer the conversation toward it, convinced they’d cave if he pushed the right button. When they didn’t, he’d almost opened his mouth to ask outright because the not knowing was killing him. 

Then, Dick had made a joke, a simple, teasing remark he would never have said if he knew, and Damian was forced to consider the other option. 

But it would mean–Bruce didn’t just keep it from Damian. It would mean he’d kept it from Dick, his eldest, his rock, from Jason, the son he lost and found, the son he sold his soul to save. And if they didn’t know, he’d probably kept it from Tim too, who Damian knows understands their father the most at times. (Besides Cassandra, but she has an unfair advantage.) 

The awful gut feeling doesn’t go away.

They were worried, clearly. But none of their worries seemed to be related to how Bruce was handling his arrival. Dick’s jab at it notwithstanding, they hadn’t mentioned it once. Surely, if they knew, they would at least acknowledge it? Or would they shield him from that too? Damian feels the frustration curl in his stomach. It was a lose-lose scenario. 

Part of how he worked through the realization in the first place was the compartmentalization that Dick would have been there for Bruce when it happened. Or if not Dick–he was still young then–then at the very least Alfred. Only, Damian remembers Alfred looking puzzled (or as puzzled as the butler could look) when his father’s first reaction to him was genuine fear.

Bruce he–he confided in someone, right? 

Damian hates how little confidence he has in that. 

His dad wasn't– isn’t, he corrects harshly, he isn’t–the kind of person to confide in other people. He probably never has been, even before he lost his parents. Damian knows, deep down, that if no one was there for him immediately after it happened, then there was a high chance no one knew. 

But Damian did, this time around. Damian could– it would be so easy to just– let Dick and Jason know. But it isn’t his story to tell. Just like it wouldn’t have been Dick’s story if his oldest brother had known. Damian… would just have to be there for Bruce himself. He won’t even have to explain how he knows, Bruce won’t doubt Talia told him. 

“Hey Baby Bat, coming down?” Dick’s voice calls from outside his door, sounding unsure of himself.  Damian must have taken too long, he vaguely remembers Alfred knocking on the door with an invitation to dinner. He just doesn’t feel like eating. “Baby Bat?” 

“I’m alright.” Damian drags himself over to the door, opening it to the 18-year-old version of his oldest brother. At least it wasn’t Jason, Damian has no idea how to act around Jason right now. 

Red Hood was a valued member of their team, and Jason Wayne was a beloved member of their family. But the boy smiling and laughing at that dining table? Damian has no idea who that was. His eyes aren't even the right color.

“You sure kiddo?” 

“Dick.” He says flatly. “I don’t think any of us have been ‘fine’ for 8 months.”

“Fair enough.” His brother sighs, looking over his shoulder before shaking his head. Dick steps into Damian’s room, softly closing the door behind him. “I know I haven’t. Tim was such a mess, Jason banned him from patrol. After that, he locked himself in the cave. I don’t think he had any plans on leaving it.”

The first Robin drops to the floor, sitting criss-cross in a way only an ex-acrobat could. Damian bites his lip, his heart sinking. He didn’t know that. He– hadn’t been around to know that. It makes him feel worse that Tim is next door, instead of home with them. 

“If that’s all you had to say–”

“Damian, please just come sit with me.” And Damian sits. That was Dick’s Batman tone, Damian was quite literally hardwired to follow it. “We need to be on the same page on this one. I know you’re upset we didn’t tell Bruce, just like I know that this is about more than seeing him again. Talk to me.” 

Damian resists the urge to fidget. So easy, his brain reminds, so much easier if he just–told Dick everything. From the moment he woke up with the League to the second Bruce put his arms around him. Dick would know what to do, how to reach Bruce when he’s hiding behind himself. But Damian isn’t a little kid anymore, no matter how much he currently looks and feels like one. (Damian has a running theory thoughts are harder for him to form right now.) He won’t run and hide behind his older brother the first chance he gets. 

Dick takes one of Damian’s hands, squeezing it reassuringly. “C’mon, Dames, throw me a bone. Please?”

His brother must be getting desperate, if he’s using dog metaphors. Damian should put him out of his misery but– he doesn't even know where to start. It feels like, if he talks too much right now, he’s going to have a breakdown. 

“When I saw Talia at the League, she was–talking. Attentive." The words feel like lead in his mouth, his heart beating wildly. "At first, I think I was happy about it.”

He waits for the disgust, the hatred Damian knows Dick has for her to bubble over. It doesn't. His stomach churns, the flat reaction all but confirming Dick has no idea. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to continue. 

“Then she kept talking.”  Damian chuckles weakly, trailing off as he desperately stuffs down the swell of emotions in his chest. Dick’s face shifts through 4 different emotions, settilling in that blank sort of way that means his oldest brother is pissed.  But the fury is too late, and at the wrong cue.

“Damian, whatever she said to you, she’s wrong.” He wishes. “You’re amazing, Baby Bat. You’ve done so much, accomplished so much. We love you, Dames, and I know Dad’s so so proud of you. Even if this Bruce isn’t, he will be in no time. Please don’t listen to her.”

“I know, Dick– and I know…I know what kind of person she is. How she thinks, how she manipulates and uses. It’s just– sometimes, I wish she was my mom.” Dick is quiet when he stops to sob, and Damian regrets that he didn’t keep denying everything. But the words were tumbling out now, his brain mush inside his skull. Because none of it was a lie, Damian was just omitting the part where Talia forced Bruce to have him. “I'm not supposed to care. I know it’s stupid–”

“It’s not stupid, Damian.” Dick objects, Damian wonders how quickly his opinion would change if he knew. “Seeing her again like that couldn’t have been easy.”

“Yeah.” Damian opens his mouth to say more, but he finds all of the words leave him all at once. And when they do, they leave him exhausted. Maybe he should look into this whole ‘being 10’ thing more deeply. It was affecting him more than he initially anticipated. 

Dick’s frown deepens at the reaction, but Alfred’s crisp knock stops him before he presses Damian on anything else. 

“Master Richard, you are aware we have plenty of chairs for sitting, yes?” The butler eyes their place on Damian’s floor with disdain. Dick laughs heartily instead of answering, his previous seriousness completely gone. Always chilling when he did that. Alfred shakes his head, “Please make your way to the dining room for supper, Master Bruce requested I make sure Young Master Damian eats before he settles in for tonight.” 

“B isn’t joining us?” 

“Not tonight.” Alfred looks like he has a few choice words about that, Dick looks nervous. “Master Bruce has work to finish down in the cave. He will be unavailable.”

Damian pretends he doesn’t hear his brother’s quiet sigh of relief. Work in the cave meant no patrol, and no patrol meant Bruce wouldn’t be coming home needing stitches tonight. Even Damian could admit that was a weight off his shoulders. 

-

The next morning, Dick’s early trip to the kitchen is interrupted ruefully by his toe crunching horrifically against one of Alfred’s mahogany step stools. Seriously, those things couldn’t be commercial. What was the most expensive wood a manufacturer would reasonably use for a step stool? Dick has no idea, but he’s positive it isn’t mahogany. 

He has enough pride not to wither to the ground, but it’s a close thing. 

Sleep… hadn’t come easy last night. Whether it was because the last time he’d fallen asleep he woke up to Bruce panicking, or the cause of another one of Dick’s endless anxieties, he couldn’t say. Nor did he care. Either way, it meant no sleep for him. He’d thought about crashing Damian’s room, even figured if he looked pathetic enough Jason would let him sleep on his floor, but he couldn’t risk it. Not with Bruce already being so suspicious of them. 

“Heading out, Master Dick?” Alfred’s voice greets him, a much more welcome interruption to his morning, even if the words sting. 

“Nah, just thirsty.” He smiles tightly, for once not needing to act the emotion. Alfred had been something of a neutral party between him and Bruce, all those years ago. The man took neither side, but Dick knew, deep down, Alfred wanted to strangle him every time Dick called and told him not to tell Bruce about it. Thankfully, he doesn’t look ready to strangle him now.

“I see. Very good.” The butler glides over to the fridge, and Dick accepts having his drink be poured for him. “I’ll be leaving to run a few errands soon. I’m merely waiting for Master Damian to awaken so I may take his measurements.”

“Careful of the press. They see you buying clothes that won’t fit Jason, they’ll know B’s picked up another kid.” Dick jokes, taking the glass when it’s handed to him. Alfred is, decidedly, unamused. “B emerge from the cave yet?” 

“You know how he gets, Master Dick. I don’t suspect he’d ever leave, save for patrol, if left to his own devices.” Fair, especially now. In their future, the bats had a system for dealing with Bruce’s tendency to overwork. One that Batman reluctantly goes along with, lest his kids revolt against the systems he has set up for them. Right now they didn’t have either, and Dick imagines this isn’t the only time it’s gonna bite them in the ass.

“He’ll want to be up if you’re leaving though.” Bruce would anyway, even if it was just Jason, (he didn’t like leaving kids alone in the manor) but with Damian there, the feeling would only be exacerbated. Alfred raises an eyebrow at him.

“Perhaps you could inform him for me, then.” If Alfred were any less professional, Dick is sure he’d be giving Dick a sly smile by now. 

Dick gives him a lopsided grin. “Sure thing, Alfie.” 

The butler pats his shoulder approvingly, and it isn’t too long after that Damian comes shuffling down the stairs. His hair is a mess, Dick muses, the silky, black locks sticking up in every direction. It’s adorable. Alfred takes the once again 10-year-old’s measurements easily, having had plenty of practice with much less compliant models. It’s during this process that Jason joins them, slotting himself next to Dick with a yawn on his lips. 

“Sleep well?” He tries, watching as his younger brother’s eyes shift to him in a tired glare. He holds his hands up in defense, “Just asking!” 

Jason groans, leaning his full weight on the counter as he mumbles out a sarcastic, ‘Peachy.’ and goes back to ignoring Dick’s presence. 

“That should be sufficient.” Alfred nods to himself, scribbling down a few more numbers on his notepad. “Would you happen to have any preferences?” 

“Anything is fine.” Damian answers and Alfred writes something else down.

“Very well then, I will return soon.” The butler gathers his things, taking the keys to the McLaren as they all call their goodbyes after him. Dick momentarily mourns ownership of the Rolls-Royce, it’d taken years to wear Bruce down enough for that. “Do look after yourselves.” 

“Drive safe, Alfie,” Jason says through another yawn, and then, Alfred’s gone. 

They hover around the kitchen awkwardly for a moment, Jason moving from the counter to rummage through the pantry. Dick clocks the sullen atmosphere, frowning meaningfully. Sure, he could admit he wasn’t feeling much better himself–not without Tim here with them, but this was just unacceptable. There would be plenty of time to sulk later- when they were all together and all that matters is keeping them together. Right now they need to keep their spirits up.  

Alfred doesn’t usually make breakfast unless they ask, and since Bruce almost never did, the man probably didn’t have any plans on it. He turns to Damian.

“Hungry?” His littlest brother makes a noncommittal sound, his eyes studying the grooves on the floor with an intensity that tells Dick he’s not paying attention to them at all. “Jason?”

“I could make something.” The other hero answers, his eyes lighting up a bit as he leans forward. Jason takes out a bag of high-quality chocolate chips from the pantry, “Pancakes?” 

Dick smiles when Damian nods, helping Jason by bringing the jar of flour to the middle island. Alfred never believed in pre-made mixes, but even if he did– Jason’s homemade pancakes were to die for. (Bruce didn’t like it when Jason called them that. The description stuck.) He was the only Wayne with any real talent for cooking. Baking in particular. The rest of them could scrape by if they needed to, but Jason could give Alfred a run for his money.

“Damian, could you grab the sugar?” Said Wayne asks, already pulling out Alfred’s scales and a bowl for the batter. Damian dutifully brings over the ingredient, and Dick almost laughs at how absurd of a picture it makes. The youngest and biological Wayne would never have listened to Jason at this age. 

“Can I get extra chocolate chips on mine?” He pleads innocently, throwing Jason his best puppy eyes. Jason shoves his face away with the hand not sifting the flour. 

“Get quiet and I’ll think about it.” 

Dick lets out an offended sound, poking Jason’s side in retaliation. His fearsome attack goes ignored. 

“Think Bruce’ll be hungry?” Damian pipes up from somewhere outside the kitchen, presumably having gone to set the table. 

“Probably not, Lil’ D. B doesn’t usually eat in the mornings.”

“Or evenings.” Jason snarks bitterly, and Dick purses his lips at the trajectory of the conversation. Talking about their father’s eating habits would, decidedly, kill the light-hearted mood he was going for, and Damian still hasn’t smiled yet. 

This calls for drastic measures. 

“Jay, Jay.” He pokes Jason’s cheek this time, it makes the younger boy’s brow twitch. “Can you shape mine like a batarang?” 

“Dick,” His brother growls, “If you don’t shut the fuck up I’m going to reshape your face.” 

“You wouldn’t, you love my face too much–”

Jason folds the batter particularly hard, unmixed flour puffing out of the bowl and right into Dick’s face. Oh, Dick smirks devilishly, it is on. He maintains eye contact with his brother, slowly reaching into the flour container. They stare each other down for a beat, Jason’s frozen frame fixated on where Dick’s hand is plunged in the substance. 

“What on earth are you two doing?” Damian asks, returning from the dining hall. It breaks Jason’s focus for a split second. Unfortunately for him, it's all Dick needs. He claps his hands above Jason’s head, (he’s really enjoying being the tallest right now) and the result is instantaneous. Flour speckles Jason’s clothes, but the sheer amount of it in his hair is hilarious. 

“Damian!” Jason screeches, his younger voice cracking as he attempts to dust the substance off with little to no avail. “You little– you did that on purpose, didn’t you?” 

The boy scoffs. “As if. You were the one so easily distracted.” 

Dick has to hold Jason back from vaulting the island to attack him, Jason’s leg half on the counter spilling the plastic jar’s contents everywhere. Jason uses his weight to pull them forward, enough to get his hands in the split flour and fling a good amount at the youngest Wayne. Damian squawks indignantly, looking down at the white splotches on his clothes. 

He bristles like a cat, using Alfred’s step stool to gain a bit of height as he uses the flour on the countertop to splash the both of them. It’s silent for only a beat before Dick releases Jason and saves the batter bowl from its creator barreling over it on his way to tackle their youngest brother. When they hit the ground a cloud of flour blooms above them, and Dick doubles over himself laughing. 

He sidesteps the island, approaching his brothers unsteadily. They topple toward him unexpectedly, the force of it sending him to the ground with them. 

“St-stop.” He tries to scold. It’s not very convincing through the fits of giggles. “Alfred’s going to kill us.” 

The threat of Alfred finally gets through to them, the two boys releasing each other without having drawn blood. When they finally settle, forming a neat triangle on the kitchen floor, Dick breaks. Jason’s hair is ruined, enough flour in it to make it look like he has that white tuft of hair back. Damian is coated too, the flour sticking out sorely against his darker skin. 

He figures he must not look that much better, because Jason and Damian are laughing too the next time Dick’s brain is aware enough to register sound. 

By the time they calm down, the flour has settled, leaving a thin layer of it all over–well, everywhere. The laughter slowly petters out, and Jason finally– finally –gets a pancake on the griddle. It sizzles audibly in the searing hot oil, and Disk basks in it. Almost as much as he basks in the relaxed smiles that don’t leave their faces. 

The pancakes taste awesome, which is to be expected. Jason even puts extra chocolate chips on his. 

“So.” Jason starts, after they’ve sufficiently gorged themselves on his fluffy creations. He rests his hands on his hips, surveying the disaster they’ve made in the kitchen. “Who wants to tell B.” 

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’ve got it. I told Alfie I’d tell B he left, I need to go down there anyway.” Dick shakes some of the flour out of his hair, thankful he’s not quite as covered as his brothers. “Get cleaned up and wait in the library, it’ll be less conspicuous.” 

Nodding, his two brothers scurry up to their rooms to shower, and Dick dusts himself off as best he can. 

Dick turns the hands on the grandfather clock nervously, feeling his heart speed up with every stair he descends. Maybe Dick should use the opportunity to apologize? When they’d been on the roof, Dick hadn’t been able to get two words in edgewise. This could be his chance to apologize, his chance to own up to some of the shitty things he did. 

When he reaches the main cavern, Bruce is slumped in his chair. Dick’s first thought is to panic, but as he gets closer the rise and fall of his father’s chest is easy to see. It’s especially easy without the bulk of the Batsuit. Dick hadn’t really realized it at dinner, but that was the first time he’d seen Bruce without it since arriving here. 

And Bruce looks– smaller than Dick remembers. His shoulders are narrower, scars on his arms Dick once had memorized gone without a trace. Some were still there, but the difference was night and day. This Batman was a lot younger than his, a lot more inexperienced. Dick had known that like– intellectually, but it seems like his heart is still getting used to the idea. 

Bruce shifts slightly in his sleep, brows knit together in worry, and Dick wonders if it wasn’t too long ago that sleep overtook him. Dick wouldn’t be surprised, but it makes him feel worse about waking him up. He shakes the thought away, opening his mouth to call his father’s name. 

-

“B?” 

Bruce blinks at the sound, his head screaming. Who was in the cave at this hour? Usually, Alfred didn’t come down if Bruce refused dinner the previous night–passive aggressively avoiding him–and Jason wouldn’t enter the cave of his own volition after his Robin stunt got him grounded indefinitely, no matter how many times Bruce told him he was allowed so long as Bruce was there to watch over him. 

He opens his eyes groggily, mind far away as his brain finally registers there weren’t just 2 other people in the manor anymore. “Dick?” 

“Hey Bruce.” His eldest son is smiling when Bruce’s eyes reach him. Bruce squints at him pointedly, his sight blurry with sleep.

“Damian–”

“Is fine, B. He’s upstairs with Jason in the library.”

“Alfred with them?” 

“Alfie’s out, told me you’d want to be woken up to look after the kid.” 

“Thank you.” Bruce sits up fully, expecting that to be the end of it, but Dick peers over his shoulders curiously.

“What were you working on?” He asks, reaching over him and poking at some of the papers Bruce has stacked on the desk. “Thought you finished all your big cases before coming to the tower?” 

“I did.” 

“That only answers one of my questions.” His son switches to poking the Dark Knight’s cheek repeatedly, It makes Bruce nostalgic. 

“Security.” When Dick glowers at him Bruce chooses–smartly–to elaborate. “Damian, got through the old system undetected.” 

“How far'd ya get?” 

“I tested the new system a dozen times.” Is this really happening right now? “It should be ready to install by tonight if my programs don’t find any errors.”

Dick hums at that, draping himself against the armrest of Bruce’s chair like he was born to be there. Bruce pinches himself under the table. The pain pointed to ‘really happening’, and Bruce isn’t so sure how he feels about that. 

“B?” 

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.” 

Bruce frowns deeply, turning his head to study his eldest. The first thing he notices is that Dick looks tired, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that makes Bruce want to swaddle him in a blanket and lock him in his room until he sleeps properly. Despite the exhaustion–despite the words that just came out of his mouth, Dick’s posture is relaxed, his hands palm up where they’re resting in his lap. The vigilante looks up to meet Dick’s eyes, they look like they’re studying him back. 

Bruce decides to repeat it back to him just in case.

“You’re sorry.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“... Why?” 

Dick chuckles at him, and the Dark Knight feels even more out of his depth.

“Lots’a reasons, but if you want the current one.” Dick’s eyes fill with mirth, and he leans down to deliver his next sentence. “Alfie’s precious kitchen is currently area zero for Gotham’s most violent flour fight.” 

Bruce blanches. “What did you do?” 

“Damian was hungry! Jason wanted to make pancakes, and like the newfound big brother I am, I had to make sure it was memorable so…”  His son smiles mischievously, and with Bruce’s vision slowly clearing, he can distinctly see the remnants of said fight sticking to the boy’s clothes. “I might have provoked Jason purposely.”

“Dick.” Bruce runs a hand down his face tiredly. 

“Hey–I said I was sorry?” 

“Let’s just… make sure it’s clean before Alfred moves back to England.” He stands up from the chair, dislodging Dick from the armrest and forcing him to follow suit. 

“Righto!” 

Chapter Text

Jason whistles appreciatively, pushing open the library's arched double doors. Books were strewn about, some piled neatly on end tables while others were sorted haphazardly on the floor. He vaguely remembers how his younger self laid them out. The ones on the floor were titles he was unsure about, while the end tables were reserved for books on his reading list. Nostalgia eats at the back of his mind, a smile forming on his face remembering how much Alfred had loathed the mess.

Bruce was the one who convinced him to dust around Jason’s process. It was just one of the few things his father did to make ensure Jason felt comfortable in the manor. 

Nowadays, Jason isn't so disorganized. He’d keep the new arrivals in one place, only sorting them into their proper genres after finishing them. Most of his current reading list, (future reading list?) he'd keep in his apartment, periodically returning to the manor to switch them out for space. His tiny Gotham apartment could only hold so many books, and Jason genuinely enjoyed adding to the manor’s collection–even if he’d never admit it. Besides… Jason spent enough time in the manor where having his favorites stored here (there? Here, but future here?) was more convenient. 

“It looks like a tornado tore through here.” Damian steps through the large double doors behind him, those sharp, green eyes studying the mess. There’s a towel around his neck, catching any small droplets that fall from his still-wet hair. 

“I had a system.” 

“You mean it’s like this purposefully?” 

Jason doesn’t dignify that with a response, scooping up the first book he doesn’t recognize and anchoring himself in Bruce’s reading chair. 

If it was going to be anything like yesterday, then Bruce would spend most of his time cooped up in the Batcave. And without anything productive to do himself, Jason figures reading is as good a time waster as any. The Stranger is the title that greets him when he takes the time to actually look at the book in his hands. One of his teacher’s recommendations, he knows, but if Jason got around to reading it, the memory died when he did. He opens the cover, keeping his youngest brother in his peripheral vision. 

Damian appears marginally less upset than he had last night, his posture relaxed as he continues to stare at the safety hazard Jason made out of the library. But appearance could mean very little in this family at times, so Jason hesitates to take it at face value. Maybe if he'd had the chance to ask Dick how their talk went last night, Jason wouldn't feel so out of his element facing Damian today, but alas, he hasn't had the opportunity. 

Jason wishes his brother would at least sit down- say something else about the mess or complain about Dick sticking them up here together. But, as the minutes stretch out, his brother just stands there. Frozen. It’s similar to how he'd acted previously at lunch. Only now, there’s no Dick to draw the real Damian out. Just Jason, and Jason has never been good at that. 

Before Jason can open his mouth to try, his brother finally opens his mouth to speak. 

“Before you– you were disorganized?” 

What?

“What?” 

Damian purses his lips indignantly, staring at the ground intensely for a moment. Like he’s reformulating his– approach? In his head. 

“Before the pit changed you, you were disorganized?”

“Oh, I guess so.” Jason regards Damian carefully, the boy (yes, boy. Jason refuses to think of him as anything else right now) still hasn’t looked at him. “Before Bruce kidnapped me from the streets, I hadn’t had a home to keep clean. So I’m not so sure the change is as much pit-related as it is Alfred-related. Besides, It’s organized chaos.” 

“I refuse to believe that.” 

“Fuck you.” He points to the pile by the door, “Historical non-fiction,” again to the stacks blocking access to the couch, “Mythology,” he kicks a pile by his feet, “Literary classics I would go on to reread a dozen times,” a nod to the neat array on his end table, “Those are recommendations from Bruce–”

“Okay,” Damian does look at him then, but his eyes dart away before Jason can meet them. “You’ve made your point.” 

Weird. This is all way too weird. Sure, Jason and Damian’s relationship could sometimes be boiled down to ‘shared League of Assassins trauma’ but their conversations were usually less stunted than this. Especially in the last couple of years, when Damian really matured. Jon liked to joke that he was a ‘well-adjusted’ version of Bruce, and Jason really didn’t have any refutes to that. 

Damian is a lot like their father, but Jason thought he’d outgrown Bruce’s awkwardness– at least with them. 

“What's this about?” 

“What is what about?”

Jason rolls his eyes, “Why ask about the pit? You know what it did to me.” 

“I do,” His brother is silent for a moment, shifting his weight back and forth from one leg to the other. “But I hardly know what it changed you from.”

Uh, what? Jason tilts his head, and Damian lets out a tired breath.

“Everyone else knew you. Even Tim interacted with you before the Joker killed you.” Damian was the only one of them who could ever say it out loud, at least other than Jason himself. Secretly, he’s always appreciated that bluntness. It was nice knowing Bruce and Dick couldn’t stand to think about losing him but, sometimes, it was nicer to have someone fully acknowledge that it happened and not treat him like glass for it. “I did not.” 

“Oh.” This was his brother’s way of asking Jason to– tell him. But what could he say? Even if Jason’s memories were perfectly intact, it’s not like he knew himself very well before he died. At least, he doesn’t think he did. His youngest brother scowls.

“Yes, oh.” 

“Well,” He gestures vaguely to the mess around them. “I liked books.”

Damian doesn’t look appeased. “You like books now.” 

“I don’t know– I liked school, playin’ chess with Alfred or Bruce when they were free. Once, I bugged one of Bruce’s Batarangs so I could eavesdrop on the Justice League, only for him to use it immediately and get the dead silence of a random abandoned warehouse.” Jason feels his chest tighten as items become harder to list, as the memories get fuzzier. “The first night I patrolled with Bruce, I broke someone’s nose and couldn’t stop laughing because Bruce was more worried about my hand than the poor guy whose only crime was actin’ shady on the first day Robin took the streets again.” 

“You assaulted someone for ‘acting shady’?”

“In my defense, I’m pretty sure he admitted to somethin’ before I actually took the punch.”

Damian seems to consider this, his brows furrowed as if deep in thought. Jason decides not to disturb him, waiting awkwardly for Damian to sort through whatever intense calculations he was running in his head. 

“It doesn’t sound like you were all that different.” 

“It doesn’t–” Jason cuts off his own exasperation, “How?”

“You still play chess with Alfred, don’t you?”

“Sure, when I feel like losing.”

“You still attempt to infiltrate the watchtower, though I admit your attempts have improved.” 

“Damian, I don’t really think–”

“And Father still worries about your hand more than any enemy you punch.”

It feels like all the air has been pulled from his lungs, the syllables burrowing into his brain one at a time. And suddenly, Jason understands what Damian is trying to say. That things have changed–but at the same time, haven’t. There’s a part of him that truly did die when the pit brought him back to life, but there’s so much more he's been able to recover with Bruce’s efforts. With everyone's efforts– including his own. 

His brother is also saying, that no matter how many people he killed coming back from the dead, a part of Bruce was always still more worried about the son he just learned he still had. 

“Meeting this version of you…” Damian finally looks him in the eyes. “I find it unnerving. But if what you described is truly how you were, then I do not believe you changed as much as everyone seems to think.”

“I–” Jason folds his hands together. “...Thanks, Dames.”

“Then, we are operating under the assumption that you no longer experience the Lazarus pit’s effects?”

“That’s what Dickwing seems to think,” Jason decides not to mention the Tower fiasco for now. “But I dunno, feels like I can hear it sometimes.” 

“A placebo, probably.” Damian suggests. “The changes we’ve experienced due to this instance of time travel seem to be limited to our physical bodies. With a mind as used to the pit’s corruption as yours is, your brain could be conjuring a phantom of its effects. Still believing it’s a part of you, despite your cells having never been exposed to or corrupted by Lazarus” 

“Well, isn’t that just lovely.” One more amazing thing he can thank his brain for. Phantom pit effects, flashbacks, and clown PTSD. (To be fair, you don’t live in Gotham if you don’t have at least some level of clown PTSD.) Jason groans into his hands.

His brother seems to agree with the sentiment if the frown on his lips is any indication. 

-

The kitchen is… just as much of a disaster as Bruce anticipates. But, somehow, he can’t shake the warm feeling in his chest, even when Dick sweeps flour at him with an innocent expression that all but confirms he’s entirely guilty. 

It’s been so long since the manor has felt this lively. 

Of course, they do not quite get rid of all the evidence before Alfred returns, but Bruce thinks he’s too stunned by the sight (Bruce and Dick in the same room, alone, without arguing) to be as mad as he wants to be. He even offers to check on Jason and Damian, so Bruce doesn’t have to keep going up himself to make sure no one’s dead. 

At least Damian won’t have to continue wearing Dick’s old clothes. Bruce regrets not being able to take Damian out to pick out a few things for himself, but right now, Damian being seen in public was too much of a risk. Soon… Soon they’ll need to contact his lawyers and get Damian official paperwork, but how difficult that process ends up being... It largely depends on the results of Damian's DNA test. Actually, that particular test should be finished around now.

“I asked Cyborg to take over training the Titans while we’re here.” That’s another thing, actually. ‘We’. Dick has used it a couple of times now, as though staying in the manor is something the teenager was actively planning on. He… didn’t have to. Bruce hadn’t asked him to. Dick should be with his team, with the family he made for himself. “I doubt it’ll be quite as effective without you there to run it, but it’ll give them something to do. It can get boring in the Tower without a bunch of crime fighting to keep you occupied.” 

Dick sighs somewhat wistfully, the broom in his hands going still. “God knows Jump city is no Gotham.” 

“Dick,” Bruce formulates his next few words carefully. “If you would rather return to the tower–”

Only to be cut off almost instantly. 

“Cyborg’s got it, B.” His son waves a hand dismissively. “It’ll be good for him.” 

It’s not that Bruce doesn’t agree with him, because he does. (Even if he didn’t, Dick knows his team. Bruce would be unwise to disregard his input.) It’s that staying away from the tower doesn’t have to mean staying in the manor– or even Gotham to begin with. The last thing Bruce wants is to make Dick feel like he’s trapped here, because that would do nothing to improve their already rocky relationship. 

Only maybe… he shouldn’t push it. They’ve managed to go this long without fighting, and as worried as Bruce is, Dick seems– happy. Bruce is terrified to change that. 

“Alright.” He concedes softly. “If you’re sure.” 

Dick hums something in the affirmative, continuing his task offhandedly. 

Eventually, the kitchen is back up to the butler’s standards. Honestly, Bruce is almost… disappointed. When was the last time he’d actually spent time with his eldest son? No fighting, no capes, just– existed in the same space. Bruce couldn’t say. He never forgot how much he’d missed Dick, but the void feels so much larger now that it’s being filled again. Still, the constant, overhanging fear of another fight is enough to have Bruce breathe a sigh of relief when his eldest child is out of his proximity.

He quickly changes in order to avoid tracking flour across the house, his ever-growing to-do list taking priority now that Alfred’s wrath has been avoided. And with that squared away, the vigilante descends into the cave. 

If Bruce is completely honest with himself, he doesn't know what he wants the truth to be anymore. Damian being his biological son… it would make gaining custody of him significantly easier. Hell, it would even make announcing Damian to the public easier. A surprise child can be easily explained away as a drunken one-night stand, and the media wouldn’t question it for a second. But it would also mean Bruce left Talia with his child. 

In the end, Bruce decides it doesn’t matter. Either way, Damian stays.

Bruce pulls up the results and, just like that, at least part of Damian’s story proves to be true. 

It feels surreal, to have the near irrefutable proof laid out in front of him. Damian Wayne is just that, a Wayne, no matter how impossible it feels. The first thing Bruce does is send a notice to his lawyers. Now that Bruce is sure Damian is his, there doesn’t need to be nearly as much effort put into their cover story. 

The second thing Bruce does is completely shut down. 

He thought he’d prepared himself for how it would feel, for the violation, the nausea. He hadn’t been prepared for the guilt, for the sinking feeling that this is what she wanted. That if the league couldn’t have Bruce as its successor, they’d take his son. That it’s his fault. That, if he hadn’t denied her, Damian would have never had to grow up a child soldier. 

Why couldn’t he have at least put it together? Brought himself to think about it for more than two seconds and figured out her true motivation. Maybe then, Damian wouldn’t have had to run away on his own.

If that– if everything Damian claimed is the truth, what if the boy had never worked up the courage? When would Bruce have found out he had a son that needed saving? 

Bruce prints the report and exits the cave. With this… with his lawyers probably already preparing for ‘Brucie Wayne’ to apply for custody, they needed to start talking about school, (If he places well, Bruce might be able to get him enrolled before school starts back up for the year.) about– everything. About if Damian is really okay with having Bruce as a father more than biologically. 

He passes by Damian’s room twice before he finds the will to stop, peering in unobtrusively when he notices the door’s open. Damian is on the floor, staring at the miniature suits and the more-casual but still-fancy clothing blankly. Bruce sighs quietly to himself, of course Alfred would prioritize formal wear. 

Bruce taps his knuckles against the hardwood frame, “Damian?” 

The boy opens his mouth as if to respond, before closing it and furrowing his brows together.

“... Bruce,” He greets tentatively. “Good morning.” 

“Morning,” Bruce kneels next to where the boy is seated on the floor. “If you’d prefer something else, we can pick out clothes together next time. Alfred won’t be offended.” 

Damian frowns, picking up one of the mini suit jackets and sliding it gracefully onto a hanger. 

“I do not require anything more than this.” Predictably, the comment only solidifies Bruce’s resolve to fix the boy’s (still fairly barren) wardrobe. What is it with his kids always refusing to let him buy them things? “Is there something you came here to discuss?” 

The question sobers his mind, the paper held in his hands becoming almost heavy. Bruce doesn’t know what to say, it’s obvious enough that the kid already knows. But confirming, that’s something else. Especially when Damian has never met him, when Damian has no real reason to feel welcome. Bruce swallows nervously, 

“The… DNA results confirm your relation to me.” He shifts so he’s seated fully next to Damian, their knees just barely touching. Shame and guilt gnaw away at him when Damian meets his eyes, but Bruce forces the words out anyway. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“You couldn’t have been,” The boy shrugs. “You didn’t know I existed.”

“Even still.” Bruce reaches out then, hesitantly putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders. When Damian doesn’t pull away, Bruce pulls him into his side. “I’m sorry.”

The boy shifts in the embrace, his smaller arms wrapping around Bruce’s middle. 

“You’re here now,” Damian whispers, his boyish voice sounding older, somehow. “So I forgive you. Okay, Dad?”

Bruce’s brain blue screens, a rush of sudden, overwhelming emotions flooding through his system making his ears warm and his hands numb. Damian doesn’t move from his side, doesn’t make a single effort to backtrack or correct the address. Momentarily, all of Bruce’s insecurities fade to background noise, and the idea of raising Damian himself doesn’t seem so selfish anymore. This… isn’t like Jason or Dick. 

In Damian’s case, the boy might actually want Bruce to be his father. 

“Alright, Son.” 

-

The indoor gym is a lot emptier than Dick remembers. Of course, there is still all of his acrobatics equipment taking up a good portion of the right side, but the left is missing Jason’s numerous weights, the punching bag that always leaks sand everywhere because his younger brother hits too hard for his own good. It’s missing Damian's practice swords, the authentic dojo mat the young assassin persuaded Bruce to buy because the ones they had just ‘weren't the same’. 

It’s missing Tim and Barbara’s exceedingly ridiculous mechanical sparring partners, Steph’s collection of combat high-heels. It’s even missing Duke’s treadmill, strategically the closest machine to Bruce’s sectioned space– and thus– the least likely to be destroyed by one of Tim’s robots. (Barbara’s either worked or didn’t, Tim’s were prone to explode upon failure.)

Dick should have just trained in the Batcave, awkward interactions with his father be damned. All seeing this place did was remind him just how lonely the manor must have felt for Bruce after he left. (Not for the first time, Dick is glad Jason found his way into their father’s life.)

He throws one last, depressing glance at the empty side of the gym, before setting down his water and spreading chalk all over his hands. Deep down, Dick always knew mending their relationship from what it’s been for the last some odd years was going to take time. Hell, the catalyst the first time around had been Jason’s death. So of course, realistically, Bruce wouldn’t be comfortable around him this fast. 

But fuck, does Dick want to hug his dad. 

It feels like seeing him is only getting harder, the emotions building in his chest to the point they’re painful. The (younger than normal) vigilante huffs into the silence, shaking the stiffness from his shoulders. 

Dick spends most of his time futzing around with some of his old gymnastics routines, trying to get a hold of his shorter limbs and lighter weight. In some ways, his gymnastic moves were easier without his growth spurt, even if it felt like he couldn’t put nearly enough power into the moves for them to be viable. Still, as a couple of hours roll by, his control over his body massively improves– the old muscle memory snapping back into place. 

He’s in the middle of a pommel routine when the sound of those glass double doors sliding open breaks his concentration. 

“Ah, Master Richard.” Alfred bows politely, and Dick dismounts the expensive equipment with a flip. “Don’t mind me, I was only going to switch off the light if the Gym was not in use.”

“You’re all good, Alfie. I just didn’t want to bother Bruce by training down in the cave.” 

“Surely I’ve misheard you, Master Richard.” The butler hands him his water bottle. “Because I could have sworn you insinuated your presence as being something other than a blessing.”

“My bad,” Dick gives him a diffident grin, accepting the bottle. “How… how have things been here? Collect any embarrassing stories to tell me about my new baby brother? Or, not my new new one, but my old new one.”

“Unfortunately for you, Young Master Jason is far less prone to embarrassing shenanigans, and more so to dangerous ones.” There is hardly any attempt to conceal the fondness in the words. “I’m afraid the most I can offer, is that he leaves the library a right mess.” 

“How will we ever manage?” 

“You tell me. Because it appears to me, Master Richard, that you and Master Bruce have become quite the cleaning duo.” Alfred’s usual British sarcasm softens towards the end, a genuine smile breaking through his usually blank (Professional, the man would protest) face. Funny how Alfred’s approval makes him feel like so much less of a failure. 

If Alfred’s praising him, his efforts must be paying off more than he’s giving them credit for. 

“Yeah. I guess so.” Dick smiles deviously. “Be careful what you wish for though, else you’ll be out of a job.” 

“Perish the thought.” The butler will forever deny it, but he chuckles when Dick laughs aloud at the dry remark. 

“Well, I’ll let you handle Jason’s book hurricane then.” Dick pulls one arm over his chest, stretching the muscle out. “I should get back to it.” 

“Of course, but if you would allow me to ask one more question?” 

“Sure thing, Alf.” 

“Something’s changed for you, hasn't it?” Oh, Dick really should have seen this coming. It’s… just like he said, Alfred was a neutral party during all their fighting. He knew better than most why Dick had been so adamant on making something for himself. Bruce, while definitely trying his best to understand, always put too much of the blame on himself, always regarded Dick starting fights as something he could change, if only he learned to say or do the right things.

Truthfully, there are times Dick fought Bruce even when his father did do everything right. 

Anger is not an emotion Dick is proud of. Even after all these years, when it’s hardly who he is anymore, remembering how he’d handled his early relationship with Bruce makes his heart sink. There were so many times when all he did was say the most hurtful thing he could think of. So many times when screaming ‘you’re not my father’ was easier than facing the new and complicated emotions welling up inside him. 

But there were– good times, too. Of course there were. Some made even their worst moments feel worth it, towards the end. Still, if Dick could hasten the process…

He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, strategically avoiding Alfred’s gaze. “Am I that obvious?”

“My time in service to my country was not brief, Master Richard. I know well the type of happenings that cause a prideful young man to return home as you have. I will refrain from asking the details since you have not freely shared them,” Some of the tension seeps out of Dick’s shoulders. “But you should know that you are always welcome. Master Bruce would not hesitate to agree with that.” 

“Yeah, I know. Sorry I took so long.”

“You need not apologize.” The butler puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Not to people whose forgiveness you will always already have.” 

“I missed you.” Dick disregards the hand on his shoulder in favor of dragging the stubborn butler into a hug. “Both of you.”  

Alfred completes the embrace with a steady arm. “The feeling is returned, Master Dick.” 

-

Bruce suits up the moment darkness fully sets over Gotham, determined to get something productive done after spending the whole rest of his day catching up on WE meetings and messaging back and forth with Barry about an ongoing case in Central City. (Speaking of the Justice League, there were only so many founder meeting requests Bruce could dodge from Clark before the Kryptonian became genuinely worried. Batman really needed to respond to him.) The kids would be okay for a couple of hours, and Bruce was overdue to check in on Barbara personally. He should really take some of the work off her hands if he's going to be back in Gotham. No matter how much she made it sound like she relished the work.

Still, he couldn’t ignore the main reason for this outing. His research into the Drakes made them more suspicious by the hour, and with at least part of Damian’s situation handled, checking on that loose end had moved up his to-do list. 

He swallows the sigh before it forms. It’s–nice to be able to confirm something, even if it feels like the last thing Bruce wanted to be true. Damian is his son. No quotations, no extrapolations- his son. And Bruce had left him alone with the League of Assassins for over 10 years. Forced to grow up fast, forced to carry a responsibility he didn’t ask for, all because his father is a coward. 

“Heading out?” Dick’s behind him then, hovering in a way Bruce can’t remember him doing before he left. “Need any backup?” 

“I… appreciate the offer, Dick.” Bruce turns fully to face his eldest, his teenager currently sporting a loose t-shirt and horrible plaid sweats, and decides he doesn’t look anywhere near field-ready. “But it’s an in and out job, nothing that should require your assistance.” 

Dick’s brows narrow, his arms coming up to cross disapprovingly. Bruce immediately backtracks. 

“I just– would like you here. With everything that’s happened, it would–comfort me, for Damian and Jason to have you with them.” 

“You think the League will come for him?” 

“As Talia’s son, he would have had high clearance. If he’s truly gone rogue, they’ll want him terminated.” With the cowl in place, Bruce runs one last check of the batcomputer’s systems. Nothing seems out of place. “The updated security system should function properly, but if there is any chance the League can still get through–”

“Okay.” His son huffs, but Bruce can’t detect any anger in the breath. (Exasperation, maybe?) “I’ll stay. Just–promise you’ll call if anything happens.” 

Bruce shifts under Dick's gaze, the sudden intensity unexpected. In that moment, it's hard to remember that Dick isn't his Robin anymore, that he isn't the little boy who stayed up way too late waiting for him on nights Bruce wouldn't let Robin out with him, and Batman defaults to how he'd always answered that request before.

“I will, Dick.” He promises. “Thank you for looking out for them.” 

“Don’t thank me.” Dick crinkles his nose. “And I mean it, Bruce. If I find out something happened, and you didn’t call, there will be consequences.” 

Bruce chuckles lightly despite himself. “Understood.” 

Jack and Janet Drake hardly live far from the manor, but Bruce loads into the Batmobile anyway. With a visit to Barbara on his mental to-do list, it would be good to have the car on hand. He gives his son one final glance before taking the long way out of the Batcave and circling back to Bristol. Can never be too cautious. (A voice sounding suspiciously like Jason’s echoes in his head, Yes, yes you totally can.) 

-

Tim has been feeling awful all day. Or, what he thinks has been all of a day. Everything was getting hazy, like he was only really conscious for a few hours at a time. Maybe– it’s actually been for weeks. Not knowing frustrates him, he’s supposed to be so good at keeping track. Maybe all of his talent died with Bruce too. Normally, he wouldn’t need to open his old blackout curtains to know if the sun was still up or not.

Normally, Tim wouldn’t be in this situation at all.

He pulls the black sheets off the windows violently, uncaring of how they might rip at the action. Dark, that’s–good? Tim was expecting it to be dark, he’d–wanted it to be dark. But with the window uncovered, all he can remember is how, when there was enough light, he used to be able to just make out where the Drake property ended and the Wayne’s began. 

What if he doesn’t wake up? If magic really is involved and he’s stuck here forever? And just like that, all the questions, all the unknowns that have been piling up hit him at once. Do the others know he’s gone? Has the same amount of time passed for them? Who would have been able to get to him in the Batcave?

Another bout of nausea hits him, saliva pooling in his mouth gratuitously. That better not be a sign he’s gonna hurl, he’d sworn after he caught the stomach bug from Damian years ago he’d die before throwing up again. (There have been some very creative solutions in keeping that promise) His arms catch him before he completely topples over, supporting him against the window. The cool glass feels nice against his skin. 

He forces himself to swallow thickly, using the wall to help guide him to the door. Items were strewn about the space, scattered clothes and old rubix cubes nearly becoming the death of him as he navigates his old room. A room so cold and hollow, no amount of mess could ever make it feel like a home. Funny, he doesn’t remember ever letting the place collect even a speck of dust before, always terrified his parents would come home to see it.

... He was a wishful thinker.

Tim bumps into a display table as he’s meandering through the hallways, setting it askew from its place perpendicular to the wall. It sends a perfectly innocent vase of flowers crashing to the ground. Not that he’s particularly worried about them, nothing alive could survive in the esteemed ‘Drake Manor’ for long.

They were fake. Just like everything else about this place. 

A fake fireplace connected to an even faker chimney. Framed photos holding snapshots of framed family outings, each smile captured more forced than the last. Walls that looked made of stone only home to carefully carved foam made to emulate Old Gotham’s unique, gothic charm. It suited them, really. An imitation of a home for an imitation of a family. 

Tim kicks the table back into place, the wood creaking at the force. What was the point of sending him here? To break him? He almost laughs. Whatever magic was keeping him here was apparently too stupid to realize he already was. 

For… for everyone else this wasn’t the first time. Everyone, even the Justice League, have already mourned his father once. But when they lost Bruce the first time Tim had always believed, always knew his father was still out there. Doubt never touched his heart once. 

Because it couldn’t, because accepting Bruce was really gone would break him. And faced with that reality, it did. He was hardly any help to Dick and Jason anymore, Barbara stuck picking up his slack while he lost hours in front of Bruce’s old suit. Tim knows they miss him too, knows their father’s death eats away at them like a parasite, but Tim can’t help but envy their ability to be productive in their grief. 

Bruce was like that too, after losing Jason. Continuing his mission as Batman despite the pain doing everything it could to paralyze him. Would it destroy them like it destroyed Bruce? Did they… need him to save them too? Bruce… Bruce needed Tim to save him. He’s even said as much, over the years, that Tim saved him. That after Jason, he needed someone to remind him how to be human again. 

Tim doesn’t think he really did all that much, Bruce was the one who made himself better for Tim’s sake. But if his brothers need someone to… remind them to be human again, maybe Tim can do it again? Something deep inside of him knows Bruce would want him to try. 

It’s the first time in months that the spark to do something lights up inside him. The first time since Jason shot the supervillain that took Batman down that Tim doesn’t feel sick at the thought of being Red Robin again.

Speaking of, he still feels sick right now. (It’s a different kind of sick) 

Batman had to deal with something like this once, right? Tim remembers seeing it in a file… a dream he had to kill himself to wake up from. Unhealthy… when has Tim ever claimed to be healthy? If it would get him back to his siblings–he could finally feel needed again. Of course they needed him, this… helping bats when they can’t be trusted to help themselves is what Tim’s hero persona was made for. 

Let the supervillain of the week call him out for it, how he cares more about his so-called teammates than he cares for the people of Gotham. Tim wouldn’t let it bother him anymore, because protecting them meant protecting Gotham. Because having them alive would always save more lives in the end. 

Let them call him pretentious, let Jason scream until his lungs give out. They needed someone to step up and make them choose to be better. If Tim could be that for Bruce… maybe he could be that for them. Bruce would never forgive them (or himself) if they fell apart because of him, he was probably rolling in his grave just thinking about it. Would they really be so much trouble for their father figure, even after his death?

Not on Tim’s watch.

He’s dragging a dining room chair out into the foyer before he’s actually thinking about it. Tim’s too squeamish for anything sharp and, seriously, he’s been choked enough for one lifetime so blunt force trauma really does sound like the most comforting option. Maybe he should just try and knock himself out first? Going, ‘full send’ as Steph puts it, right away seems dumb, even for his already foggy brain. 

One quick, easy, knock on the head. That’s all. If he wakes up here, he’ll call for more drastic measures. As he climbs the tall (fake Bocote) chair, the dizziness he’s been feeling since he awoke intensifies. He doesn’t have time to question if it’s got something to do with the spell or not, because Tim’s world is slanting sideways as pins and needles attack his fingertips. 

The young hero shuts his eyes tight, bracing for impact as another horrible bout of nausea returns full force at the free fall. 

“Tim!” 

Bruce?

His eyes shoot open, just in time to feel his fall cushioned by strong, armored, arms. It’s not the sickness causing the nausea anymore, not really. It’s Bruce in full Batman regalia hovering over him that truly causes his head to spin, Tim’s vision could never be blurry enough for him to mistake his father's worried frown. (When did his vision get so blurry anyway?)

“D-dad?” 

-

Bruce sets the boy down carefully on the tiled floor, heart beating out of his chest as he checks the boy's head for injury. There’s no blood when he pulls his hands away, but as he tilts the boy’s chin up to shine a light in his eyes Bruce realizes he can feel the child's body heat through the batsuit’s gauntlets. 

“Dad,” Tim repeats, one of his arms weakly attempting to grab the hand on his face. “You’re… here? How’mm I ‘suposta… whake up if yuh'r here…”

The boy wrinkles his nose. “Tahlking guh– got’ har-d.”

“You’re okay, kiddo.” Bruce brushes a strand of black hair out of Tim’s face. “Can you tell me where your guardian is?” 

“Guar-di-an? Sho’re funny, Bruce.” Tim chuckles– almost derangedly– before his expression becomes somber. “I forgot u could b… fumny.” 

The vigilante pauses, reaching up to make sure the cowl was still in place. Did Tim know a different Bruce? Was that who was supposed to be taking care of him? His blood was beginning to boil. How could anyone have let this happen? Have left a child alone long enough to let this happen? 

Suddenly, full-on tears are streaming down the child’s face, Tim hiccuping through his words. “I don’ wanna forget, Dad. Why cann’ I jus r’member?” 

“Tim, I need you to focus on me, okay? Eyes on me.” He cups one of Tim’s cheeks, his gloved thumb clearing away some of the tear tracks. “Who’s taking care of you?”

“No ‘un.” Bruce startles as Tim brings a hand up to poke at his face. (He tries to ignore how much it reminds him of Dick, the thought would only make him angrier) “Mot amymore.”

“Okay.” It’s definitely not okay. “I’m gonna lift you up now, alright?”

“Awright.”

Bruce doesn’t wait any longer, though, he’s careful not to jostle the boy too harshly in his arms. Something is obviously wrong, the slurred speech is concerning enough but– it almost seemed like the boy had been hallucinating. Even if Bruce gives the dazed child the benefit of the doubt, if he assumes the boy did somehow recognize Bruce through the batsuit, it still didn’t account for Tim’s repeated use of ‘dad’. 

He backtracks through the manor, the only thought running through his mind to get this child help. What was he doing standing on a chair like that anyway? … Bruce figures it’s a question with no good answer. 

Abruptly, Bruce is forced to reevaluate everything he’s seen or heard about the Drakes up until now. Janet and Jake Drake are out of the country, Bruce had confirmed that before he’d stepped foot on their property. Why on earth would they think it smart to leave the boy alone in Gotham? Even Bristol Gotham? There’s a reason all the manors in the area have security systems as advanced, if not more advanced, (Okay, maybe Wayne Manor was an outlier there) than Gotham City Bank. 

The vigilante seethes silently as he opens the Batmobile’s passenger seat door. He sets Tim down as gently as he can manage with the awkward angle, strapping him in securely. The seat belt doesn’t fit him nearly well enough. Even being designed for Dick, it still felt like it was more danger to the boy than help. Bruce takes a deep breath and leaves the strap on regardless, it was better than nothing. 

As Bruce is settling Tim into the car, the boy’s eyes flutter shut. His incoherent mumbling comes to a complete stop when Bruce finishes adjusting the strap as best he can. And Bruce, Panics. Panics, because Tim is showing every sign of having a head injury and no sign of being awake. 

“Tim, kiddo. I need you awake for me, bud.” Bruce puts a hand on the boy's shoulder, shaking it slightly. Tim’s breathing is even (if slightly elevated) for the first time since Bruce had found him, but it does nothing to calm Bruce’s heart. Not right now. “Tim, wake up, please.”

“Mmph,” Not a word, but a good sign. He lifts Tim’s chin up, searching one last time for any sign of surface level injury.

“Need you awake, Timmy. Just for a little while.” 

“Mmn tryin', Dad.” Tim squeezes his eyes shut tightly. “Mm’ tryin' sho bad.”

“Good, that’s good. Just like that then. Just until we get to where we’re going, is that okay?” 

“Sho’kay. I got’it.” 

“That’s right. You got it.” He pulls away reluctantly, climbs into the driver's seat as quickly as humanly possible, and punches in the directions to Leslie’s clinic. 

Bruce strips what he can of the batsuit as the Batmobile speeds to their destination, all the while sparing no small amount of glances to his child passenger. In any other situation, he'd be terrified someone outside of his family knew his identity, already running over every possible outcome, every possible way to lie or charm his way out of the situation. 

But Tim isn’t just any situation. He’s a kid with a dangerously high fever hallucinating his father (at this point Bruce is terrified there is head trauma) and potentially recognizing Bruce Wayne as Batman. A deep, deep part of him hopes the ‘Bruce’ part was another hallucination. The rest of him hopes it isn’t, if only so it will mean the boy is still partially lucid. 

Free of most of the bulky kevlar, Bruce digs his civilian phone out of his pocket. Depending on how bad it is he might not be getting home any time soon.

“Dick,” Later, when Tim is alright and he’s panicking slightly less, Bruce will regret how terse the name comes out. 

“Everything okay, B?” 

No, but Bruce doesn’t say that. 

“Something’s come up, it’s possible I’ll be home late–” The Batmobile jerks as it runs over a particularly deep pothole in Park Row’s progressively worse roads, and Tim lets out a heartbreaking whine at being jostled. He hesitates for all of two seconds before he’s tearing off his last gauntlet and reaching out to brush a lock of sweat-soaked hair from Tim’s face, temperature checking his forehead. It’s still burning up. “How are things? Damian and Jason alright?” 

“They’re… fine. Bruce, is there someone with you? Are you sure you don’t need backup?”

“I have everything under control.” What a lie. “Contact me immediately if you need me, I’ll find a way to be there.” 

“You worry too much.” Dick chuckles, but for the first time since the teenager came into his life, the sound is hollow. Bruce’s heart, if possible, drops further into his stomach. He’d definitely said something wrong. “Damian’s a great kid, B.”

“I have no doubt.” The batmobile swerves this time, and Bruce just barely steadies Tim before he falls over in the chair. “Listen, Dick. Thank you for offering, I didn’t mean to–” 

“Just– be safe, B.” The teenager exhales defeatedly. “Please be safe.”

“I’ll be fine, chum.” Bruce tries his best to sound reassuring. He is– unsure of the result. “Take care.”  

With the call ended, the vigilante sits the boy back up straight, caressing his too-warm cheek tenderly. 

“You’re okay.” He whispers, heart pounding with anxiety when all Tim does is press weakly into his hand. “You’re okay, kiddo, it’s almost over. You’ll be alright.” 

Bruce repeats it like a mantra, even as the weaponized vehicle slows to a stop. Even as he’s scooping the boy up and kicking off the last piece of the suit. Tim makes another, truly heartbreaking noise as he settles in Bruce’s arms, his shivering frame clinging to him like a lifeline. God, his fever is terrible. 

With exactly zero grace, Bruce bursts through the clinic’s back door, praying dearly that parking the Batmobile so close out of panic and worry wasn’t going to bite him in the ass later. It has cloaking on, he reminds himself, focus on the kid. 

Leslies startles at his brazen entrance, eyes widening. “Bruce–”

“Please help him.” 

The rushed plea is all she needs to put the questions off for later, guiding Bruce to one of her only private rooms. She helps him deposit Tim onto the bed, checking his temperature with the back of her hand. As she starts to examine him Bruce moves to leave, knowing full well Leslie will scold him for being in the way if he stays. But Tim catches his wrist, in a move so fast and accurate it startles the nervous hero. 

“Bruce…” Tim slurs, his grip as tight as his body would currently allow. “Please come back. Please… want my dad back.” 

Bruce curses under his breath, taking Tim’s shaking hand into his. All of his calls to Janet and Jake had gone to voicemail, he couldn’t even offer him the comfort of knowing they were coming–or even worried about him. Bruce feels the rage come back with a vengeance, but he pushes it down to smile reassuringly. 

“I’ll stay, Timmy.” Bruce hopes he doesn’t mind the nickname, he’s used to Jason and Dick adoring them. (Maybe Dick not so much. Not anymore.) “I’ll be right by your side, just focus on feeling better.” 

“I–I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m so useless.” The boy’s eyes fill with tears as he tries to shake his head. His small hand twitches in Bruce’s hold. “I couldn’t–even though it’s my job–I couldn’t protect–”

“Shh. Tim, Kiddo, no. Please don’t say that, this isn’t your fault.” Deep breaths, Bruce. You can’t be angry yet. Not in front of the kid. “You’re sick, not useless. And you’ll be better in no time with Leslie taking care of you.” 

“Damn right.” Leslie smiles confidently, but Tim’s hauntingly sad blue eyes don’t leave Bruce. She takes it in stride, readjusting the pillows above him on the bed. “Help me sit him up.”

Tim protests when Bruce lets go, but just as quickly quiets when Bruce slips a hand under his shoulders to help lift him up. Their impromptu doctor finishes settling the pillows in a more comfortable manner and Bruce's hand is immediately recaptured as soon as Tim is resting back against them. Leslie must see what he did because she shines a light in Tim’s eyes. 

Bruce sees her shoulders sag slightly with relief as she pulls the flashlight away, but she still checks one last time for any bumps or bruises. She doesn’t find any, and Bruce feels himself breathe just a tiny bit easier. The slurred speech and hallucinations must be due to the fever. 

“Got some medicine here, should help with that fever of yours.” Leslie hands Bruce a water bottle, the action drawing Tim’s eyes to her. “Think you can take two pills for me?” 

The boy’s nose scrunches up, but when his eyes are on Bruce again, he sighs defeatedly. 

“Fine. But– just two.”

“Just two.” She promises, and Bruce holds the water to his lips as steady as his nervous hands will let him. (Which is pretty steady. He is Batman, after all.) Tim coughs slightly, but both pills are swallowed obediently. 

“You did great, kiddo.” He praises softly, running a hand through Tim’s hair. “Thank you.” 

Tim hums, clearly pleased, and promptly passes out against his pillows. Just like he did in the car– out like a light. Bruce doesn’t pull away, and this time, he lets the boy sleep. Leslie continues her exam, looking over every inch of the boy she can get to without disturbing him before pulling back and setting up an IV. Bruce can’t even begin to describe how much it unnerves him that Tim doesn’t wake up or flinch when she inserts the needle. 

“He’s moderately dehydrated. This will help.” 

“And the fever?” 

“I’m… not sure. He doesn’t show any other signs of a cold or flu. I’ll run the tests anyway, but it’s possible the fever is a result of dehydration or even stress. There are some beginning signs of malnutrition as well, his food intake will need to be monitored.”

Bruce sucks in a breath sharply, squeezing Tim’s hand. “Thank you, Leslie. I’m sorry to spring this on you.”

“No, you did a good thing, Bruce. Moderate dehydration is extremely dangerous in children, but I’m worried about keeping the IV in for too long. If he’s up for staying awake for a little while I’d like to remove it as soon as possible and switch him to an ORS solution.” She pauses, running a cool cloth over the boy’s forehead gently. “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”

He looks away when she tries to meet his eyes.

“Bruce, you’re barefoot in my clinic at 12:45 am on a Wednesday.” She crosses her arms, more out of exasperation than frustration. “I think I deserve some kind of explanation.”

Bruce winces, shuffling his feet together on the ground. He’d been too preoccupied with getting the batsuit off to worry about getting anything on. (Better to show up with no shoes at all, than fully armored combat boots.) Really, he’s not even barefoot, not if you count socks. 

At least he remembered to put on a coat, she’d probably call Alfred in a panic if Bruce walked in with nothing but the Batsuits undershirt and a hastily thrown-on pair of slacks.

“Take a pair of our slippers home will you? You’ll step on a needle walking around Crime Alley like that.” Leslie lets silence fall between them at his nod, waiting. Bruce breaks under her stare. 

“His name is Tim Drake. He’s my– neighbor.” 

“So, not adopting this one then?”

The billionaire grunts intelligently, and Leslie seems to realize she won’t get more out of him than that. After his haphazard explanation of Jason’s arrival, she probably expected it. If he thinks about another mop of black hair running around the manor with any kind of yearning, it’s quickly squashed by how desperately Tim seemed to be wanting his father. (That, and the idea of putting another kid in danger because of him. No more kids on the streets. Please, no more kids on the streets.)

“Alright, keep your secrets. But he’s going to need proper care and supervision for the foreseeable future.” 

“I called his parents, but I haven’t been able to get through. Even left multiple voicemails explaining the situation.”

“They aren’t home?” 

Bruce shakes his head. “Out of the country.”

“Babysitter? Live-in nanny?”

“Tim said there was no one.”

Leslie frowns at that, hard. He, for one, agrees. Tim has obviously been alone a long time if he was able to get this bad, (His parents have been out of the country for months) and it breaks Bruce’s heart to think about how lonely it must have been in that big house. Bruce was lonely, and he’d had Alfred. 

“Well, I do happen to know someone who would take real’ good care of him.” Leslie’s smile turns soft, eyes fixated where Bruce’s hands are caught in the child’s grip. “He seems to like you well enough.”

“I can’t just–take him home,” Bruce says, exasperated. “That’s actually kidnapping, Alfred would murder me.”

“Funny, I seem to recall those two things having zero effect on you when you brought home a certain fowl-mannered 12-year-old.” She teases. “But–seriously, Bruce. I would contact child protective services–one of your lawyers, if you really can’t trust them. He’s far too young to be left alone like this.”

“I know. I– I know, Leslie. But I won’t assume the worst until I can talk with Tim properly. This could be a misunderstanding, a bad babysitter or any other number of possibilities.” Despite every bone in his body screaming otherwise, Bruce knows it’s the right choice. Besides, it’s not like he’ll be leaving Tim alone or giving him back until he’s sure. Being thorough wouldn’t do any harm, it could even prevent tearing a happy family apart if Tim’s parents really didn’t mean for this to happen. (Even if that would never excuse it, a part of him whispers.) “If things turn out bad, I’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”

“Or.” Leslie drags out the word. “Or, Tim knows you and you’re a registered foster parent already. It might be tough living next door to his old place, but there’s plenty of space between the manors.”

“There is no ‘or’ Leslie, I wouldn’t be a good fit. I can barely handle the kids I have.” 

“Please, those boys adore you.” (Bruce highly doubts that.) “And don’t think I don’t see the way you look at him. Tim needs someone to love him, Brucie, you’ve got love in spades.” 

Maybe. But when has Bruce’s ‘love’ ever helped anybody? All it seems to do is drag Dick down, trap Alfred with him when Bruce knows how much the man misses England. It’s forcing Jason back onto the streets, it’s the reason Damian was born to someone who would never have the capacity to love him the way he deserves. (Bruce… can’t quite find it in him to regret that last one. Damian is here now… maybe he… maybe Bruce can make it up to him. Damian deserves for Bruce to make it up to him.)

He doesn’t want it to hurt Tim too. 

Even ignoring all of that, Damian was still an unknown. If he hurt Tim, Bruce would never forgive himself.

But. Tim might still be in more danger at home. Not just from his neglectful, absent parents, but from the League. Bruce was so caught up in the problem in front of him he’d neglected to do much actual investigation while he was at the Drake Manor. A… temporary arrangement might be okay–only, it already sounds like a lie in his own mind. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Leslie whoops. 

-

“I think we screwed up.” 

Jason raises his head at the sound, the book resting precariously over his eyes jostled by the movement. It falls into his lap, closing with a soft thud. Jason… doesn’t remember the page number. 

Dick sighs tiredly into his hands, seemingly waiting for Jason’s response. Considering the hero was in a decent mood this morning, (and every other time he’d visited the library today) the dramatics were an interesting change.

“We tend to do that a lot.” He settles on, fully abandoning his book in favor of his brother. “But what is it this time, Goldie?” 

“Dad called, said something urgent came up and he’d be home late. But I heard– in the background I heard– God Jay, I swear it was Tim.” Gracelessly, Dick fumbles his way through Jason's hazardous sea of books, his words stringing together incomprehensibly. 

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down, Tim? Why would Bruce be–” Jason’s train of thought screeches to a halt, before crashing entirely. “What does he mean late? Are they okay?” 

“I don’t know.” Dick says miserably. “I– I don’t know. I didn’t–hear any words, but I know his voice, Jay. I know it was him.”

“Okay. Okay, I believe you.” Because it really feels like you need me to, right now. “Do you know where they are?”  

Dick drops himself on the floor by Jason’s feet, head angled aimlessly toward the ceiling. He stays like that, silent as a bat, longer than Jason likes. When he speaks next it’s barely a whisper. 

“Leslie’s. I checked B’s tracker after he hung up.” 

Shit. 

“It doesn’t have to mean something went wrong, Dickie.” Jason stares back when Dick gives him a look. “It doesn’t. You know how paranoid Bruce is– hell, he’d take me to Leslie if I so much as coughed when I was younger.”

“Jay–”

“I’m serious, Boy Blunder. Tim’ll be fine.” He needs to be fine. Jason doesn’t know what they would do if he wasn’t. Dick deflates, shrinking into himself. 

“It’s… not just that, Jason.” 

Alarm bells ring in Jason’s brain the moment his full, unmarred first name leaves Dick’s mouth. ‘Jason’ is hardly something he hears from his brother if they’re alone, most of the time even if they aren’t alone. Dick closes his eyes, breathing out heavily through his nose, and Jason can’t take it anymore. He slides out of Bruce’s chair, joining his brother on the floor, “Then what is it?”

“Do you know what Bruce was doing in the cave last night?” 

“I know he wasn’t sleeping.” 

Dick sighs. “He was overhauling the cave’s security.” 

“What? Why would he need to…” Jason blinks once–twice–before it hits him. “Damian.”

“In Dad’s eyes, some kid completely bypassed his security–”

“And Damian is from the League, which either sent him with a way in or taught him enough that he was able to get in on his own.” 

“Bingo.” His brother gives him a tired set of finger guns. “Perfectly good security system compromised, and the thought never even crossed our minds.”

No wonder Bruce wanted them out of the manor so badly. If he thought the League could get in at any second, he’d want them all as far away as possible. Jason does his best to ignore all of his own feelings on the matter, honing into Dick’s last sentence. 

“Don’t do this to yourself, Dick.” 

His brother has the gal to look innocent, “Do what?”

“This.” Jason gestures vaguely in Dick’s direction. “Hate yourself for every oversight we make.”

“And what if our next oversight gets one of us killed? What then? We can’t keep relying on Bruce to clean up our mistakes. That’s not why we’re here. We should have been the ones to take Tim out of there. We should have done something regardless of where it left us.” His brother pauses, eyes glued to the ceiling. “I just don’t get why Bruce is still the one doing all the saving.” 

“Dick…” 

“When you collapsed in the tower- when I ran away to sulk like a child. He’s always the one there for us– when we’re supposed to know better now. So how come it feels like the same thing all over?” Light glints against something wet on his older brother’s cheek. “I can’t lose him again.”

Jason doesn’t think any of them could. Which, damn, that’s gotta be one of the unhealthiest things about them. One of them falls, and it tears them all apart. Still, Jason could agree they definitely did better the first time around. Maybe it was the horrible thought that another miracle might happen that made it all the harder, or maybe it was the intrusive thoughts of making a miracle happen, but the year Bruce was in the timestream never quite felt like this. (He tries to ignore that another miracle did happen, thinking about it would just make his head spin.) 

“Dick Bruce is– Dad is always going to be ‘there’ for us.” Jason leans against his brother, just a little. “No amount of time travel is going to change who he is.”

“But what if being ‘there’ for us gets him killed again?”

Oh. Oh. That’s what this is about. They’d only been able to touch on it briefly at the tower when Damian showed up, and before being–here, Dick shut down whenever anyone brought it up. 

Bruce died saving Dick’s life, and he’s lived with that burden ever since. 

No one blames him, no one. Jason would maim them if they did. It’s just that– Jason couldn’t maim Dick. Nightwing did everything right, everything he could have done, but Batman saw the shot coming before he did. And no one could blame Nightwing more than Dick.

“Then he dies.” 

“What are you–”

“Then. He. Dies. I know you’re terrified, and I’m not saying we– let him, but this needs to stop eventually.”

“But this is–”

“We need to let him go eventually.”

“I can’t!” The two heroes still at the outburst, shock coloring both of their faces. Dick’s breaths come out sharp, heavy. They’re all Jason can hear. “I can’t. I’ve lost too many parents already.”

Jason sucks in a breath, directing a few choice words at himself in his head. Before Bruce, Dick had already watched his father die. Already lost a set of parents that loved him. Jason switches tactics. They’re not going to lose Bruce so early this time around- they're not. Frankly, Jason doesn't give a shit if that makes him a hypocrite, but he also knows, one day their luck is gonna run out. One day their goodbyes are gonna be for good. This– obsession they all have, with keeping the family together, Jason sees why Bruce always tried to stop it. It was only hurting them more, in the end.

He forces his mouth to move, “Do you ever stop to remember… that he smiled?” 

Dick flinches, shrinking in on himself. 

“Bruce would never regret dying to save you. Altering things like this, I’m all for it. I miss him, I want him back, but Dick, he was happy when he died. If that changes this time around because we hold on too tightly, I’ll never forgive myself.” 

“Can we– drop it?” His brother shuts his eyes tightly. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” 

“Whatever.” Jason reaches up to grab his abandoned book from the chair, keeping his place on the floor as he opens to a random page and hopes for the best. “Keep this up though, and I’ll be forced to sick Damian on you.” 

When Dick chuckles, it’s only slightly weak. “Thanks for the warning.”