Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

those childhood Christmas memories,

- including, but not limited to,

All due festiveness, celebrations,

various and sundry merriments,

and yuletide glee.

He doesn’t actually derive any joy from violence. He doesn’t think that humans, minus the few very fucked-up ones, are wired to experience a sense of happiness upon inflicting pain. Sure, there is the thrill, the adrenaline rush, and the righteous satisfaction, but Jason fights because he has to. He doesn’t go around looking for it like it’s the missing cherry on top of his slice of life shaped brownie.

Which is how he reeled back the bone deep reflex to pull a gun on the vaguely Bat-looking thing as it materialized out of thin air, and simply gaped in horror while it transferred from, what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck, a two-dimensional slap of crude lines and colors, to a motion picture cartoon figure, to what is probably going to haunt him for the rest of his life, when it opened its mouth, took one look at Jason, and declared, “Huh. I don’t like this genre.”

And because he didn’t have his gun at the out and ready, it was also pure reflex that made him punch Bruce square in the jaw when he was greeted with a “Howdy partner!” by the red Pileus clad man upon opening his eyes.

Batman frowns at him. “Have you been drinking?”

“Hecking- No! No I have not. I cannot go over this one more time, just listen-”

“You saw a... cartoon and you passed out?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t put it exactly like that but that was-”

“And when you woke up, I was there?”

“No, you dumbass. That’s my whole point. It wasn’t you.”

“But it looked like me.”

“More than looks, Bats. It was the...everything. It was- I thought he was you.”

“When did you realize that it wasn’t me?”

Jason stared at the pile of man by his couch.

“What the fuck.” He muttered to himself, and then, at a higher volume, to the world at large, “What the fuck?!”

He never received an answer, because Bruce promptly blew up at the end of his question.

The white lenses, per usual, betray no emotion, but he could imagine the gears turning behind those Kevlar cowl and the ten-inch thick skull. When Bruce speaks again, it is with a rare hesitation that rattles Jason more than the entire situation.

“This appears to be quite serious.”

“No shit.”

“When was the last time you went out by yourself?”

“Excuse me?”

“Both Ivy and Crane have been accounted for since Tuesday night’s patrol. Is there any chance that you could have been exposed to hallucinogens outside of-”

“-Are you fucking kidding-”

“Go wait in the med bay. I’ll need blood work-”

“-I did not hallucinate nothing!”

“Nightwing, head on out without me. Contact Red Robin and-”

“Jesus fucking Christ would it kill you to just fucking believe me for once in your fucking life!”

Flutters of wings criss-cross through the echos of his shout as the bats flew deeper into the cave for sanctuary, the untimely, unasked for metaphor of his untimely, unasked for life. Dick pauses with the domino mask half to his face, uncomfortable in the sudden and deafening silence. And Bruce? He couldn’t bring himself to look at Bruce.

He didn’t mean it. He never meant to do any of the things that always seemed to be happening despite his best effort. It’s easier to just roll with the punches sometimes, but not like this. He refuses to go back to his shoebox apartment and watch a jolly merry Bruce combust one more time, even if he always comes right back to life. Even if it’s such a poor parody of low production value pantomime fire and ash.

He can’t. He won’t.

The lenses finally shift away from the computer screen and land on his face, and Batman spends a few seconds taking in whatever it is that Jason can’t see himself, and gestures for him to sit. “OK,” He says, voice level and calm, “OK. Tell me your theory.”

Twenty minutes later, Jason is leaning against the console with more spite than actual weight, and Bruce’s tousled hair becomes unsalvageable when he runs his hand through it for the umpteenth time, brows locked in a tight furrow.

Dick has completely abandoned the front of putting on the last bit of his costumes. “How many times has he blown up?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t counting.”

“But time wise, how could that be possible?” He puts out a placating hand at Jason’s glare, “Not saying I don’t believe you. Just, it couldn’t have been that long between you passing out and you being here.”

Jason swallows, “It, uh, resets. Whenever he-when that happens, I, we go back to when I first woke up. It’s always the same.”

Dick is eyeing him with a mixture of sympathy and dismay. “That does not sound like the fun kind of Groundhog Day, Jason.”

He snorts out a bitter laugh, “I tried to keep a watch on the time, and this is my best record so far. Three hours since last reset.”

“And you said it’s random? No specific triggers?”

“No, I-” He frowned, “Well the first three times it happened, I got a weird feeling why, but it couldn’t be that.”

“In the immortal words of Timothy Drake-Wayne, no theory is bad theory.”

Jason lets out a put-upon sigh, “Yeah no, this is really stupid though. I think he um, I think it happened when I said a curse word in front of him.”

Dick blinked at him, “Like, the f-word?”

“Yeah.”

“But you just – ”

“I am aware. I told you it’s really stupid.”

“So maybe it only works if you say it in front of him specifically? Speaking of which, where is he? You didn’t – ”

“Do you think I wouldn’t have gone with the easiest option if I thought offing fake Santa not-Bruce would solve all my problems?”

“You are certain,” They both startle a little as Bruce rises up from his silent contemplation, “That those were the exact words of the creature? ‘I don’t like this genre’?”

Jason nodded, “Yeah, again, I know it doesn’t make any sense – ”

Bruce leans back into the chair, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose harshly. “I’m afraid,” he grimaces, “That it is making too much sense now.”

Jason looks at the file, then looks at Bruce.

He looks at the file again, then at Bruce again.

“You bastard.” He whispers. Dick opens his mouth, but he’s not nearly done, “You absolute egomaniac inarticulate asshole,” Bruce doesn’t meet his eyes. “How long have you been sitting on this?!”

“It did not strike me as a feasible possibility – ”

“– I’ll strike you as a feasible possibility –”

“Guys, guys,” Dick, ever the diligent cream stuffing between two biscuits, had to physically hold him back from thrashing at Bruce, “Jason! We still don’t know what’s causing the resets!”

“Oh I know what’s causing the resets, Mr. I-trust-you-with-my-back-on-the-field-so-I-need-to-know-everything-that’s-going-on, it’s the hypocrisy – ”

“At the time,” Bruce says, slightly louder, “The concept of an entity with this magnitude of...control, seemed more like a fallacy.”

Jason should have hitchhiked to Metropolis. He should have taken the first offer from the first goon seeking to delegate some crime duty and saved himself about fifty steps there. He should have stayed dead.

He should have driven that tire iron into Batman’s stupid face instead of his stomach. Maybe then, he wouldn't be standing in the high-tech underground cave of an eccentric billionaire, seething at a picture of the Bat-Mite and said billionaire’s broken promise that he’ll always keep him safe.

“Does it,” he manages through gritted teeth, “still seem like a fallacy to you?”

Bruce sighs. “If this is indeed what you saw, then no. Unfortunately, this is very real.”

Jason lets out a humorless laugh and shoves off Dick’s hands, the older man too enwrapped in the menacing grin on the screen to keep a secure hold of him.

“Bruce, why would that...thing want to trap Jason in a time loop?”

Bruce gazes up at the ceiling of the cave thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s trying to trap Jason. It could conjure whatever reality as it pleases, why add Bruce Wayne to it?”

“Because the pest figured out what ingredient it needs to make eternity eternal hell for me.”

They both ignore him. Bruce taps a finger against his armrest, the steady beat of Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells. How he used to antagonize that man with it. He remembers being chased down those long halls, giggling until he’s out of breath, and Bruce’s arms squeezing him as he laughed along, I don’t know, Robin, does Batman really smell? Everything was a game, back then.

Bruce hums, “A genre. In which, there are restrictions against strong profanities, and an alternate Bruce Wayne.” He turns to Jason. “The reset hasn’t happened since you accepted his offer of,” He glances at the wrinkled paper that Jason has shoved under his nose in a panic when he first barreled into the cave, “financial compensation of any sum you name, in exchange for you to ‘recapture those childhood Christmas memories, - including, but not limited to, all due festiveness, celebrations, various and sundry merriments, and yuletide glee’ with him.”

Jason groans and covers his eyes in misery, “I thought it was fu – nuts! I told him it’s nuts. But then he kept blowing up and I kept being knocked out until I said yes.”

There is some sort of unspoken exchange between Dick and Bruce, before the former widenes his eyes in comprehension.

“Jason.” Dick breaths, not breaking eye contact with Bruce, “I don't think it's a time loop.”

“It's a PG rated Christmas movie.”

Chapter Text

“Look at the bright side.”

“Let me know when you find that side, and I’ll look at it then!”

“Boys,” Bruce intervenes, sounding more like the tired father he’s always posing to be, and less the source of all the causes of Jason’s nightmare. “Let’s focus. Back on the game plan.”

Jason resolutely does not look at him but is resigned to shutting up and listening, if only because he cannot fathom an endless future of a relentlessly cheerful and explosive Bruce.

“Based on what we know, this version of Bruce Wayne was transferred here by the Bat-Mite (Jason growls), he’d expressed desire to spend Christmas with you; when denied, the reset happens. But you also remember a few resets without viable explanations.”

Jason sighs, “That’s about right. I asked if he also saw a weird ass blue thing once, and he – it went back to when I first woke up.”

There is a pause, more awkward than Bruce’s normal, yet still assholic, pensive ones. “This Bruce Wayne. Does he know that you are not his – Does he know that he is in a different universe?”

Jason decides to overlook whatever can of worms they didn’t just open. “He told me he’s trapped here. No why, no how. Believe me, I tried asking. Dude’s not in the least worried either. He’s convinced it’s temporary, just ‘inconvenient’ because it’s ‘vital’ that he spends Christmas with his family. So it’s my sanity on the table now. He wants to pay me to act like his –”

He recoils from the word before it breaches his throat, the burning weight that’s no longer truth, the salt to the insult to the injury of the open wound he could never stop picking at, and he wants to rage like he did the first time he heard it.

“I am NOT your son!”

The strange man wearing the Santa hat and Bruce’s face tilts his head to the side, “Not this version of you, no. But you are what I have now.”

“-Anything, you name it. If it means I get to have my son on Christmas.”

 And isn’t that top tier comedy, to be subjected to a version of reality, where a version of Bruce Wayne is buying him to play family, to have that initial fear re-evoked, decades later, life and death later, for it to burn away in what was trust, in what was love, in what was supposed to be the ultimate joke on him already, and to come back as another punchline still. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve this. But that was never the question, and that sure as hell is not the answer now, so he rolls his shoulders back with a scowl that emulates annoyance instead of devastation and he soldiers on. “– Like his family.”

“Like whose family?”

Jason almost gives himself a whiplash, turning as fast as he does at the sound of Tim’s voice. The Red Robin costume is already half off. Has Gotham lost that much edge while he was gone that no one needs to blink twice before randomly abandoning patrol now?

“I got your message. What’s Code Santa Bruce?”

He spends the next twenty minutes with his head buried under his arms, willing to be taken by the sweet darkness of unconsciousness again. Except he doesn’t, because losing consciousness means another reset, and another reset means nothing –

“So,” Tim concludes, with that little trace of uncertainty that says he’s still not fully convinced they haven't collectively lost their minds, “There is now another Bruce, and he wants to spend Christmas with Jason?”

A chorus of confirming grunts, and Tim blurts out, “Why?”

Deliberately and carefully, Jason blows out a slow exhale through his nose, and Tim shakes his hands at the jolt of anger that he clearly didn’t mask as well as he thought, “I didn’t mean it like that! That came out wrong. Just, out of everything, why a hallmark movie?”

“Not a hallmark movie, necessarily,” Dick provides unhelpfully, “More like a family friendly, PG Christmas movie.”

“That’s a hallmark movie.”

“Not all Christmas movies are-”

Jason snaps his attention to Bruce, “I am,” he hisses, “Losing my mind here. Why are we even discussing this? Take down the pest and fix the root of the problem.”

Bruce’s face is void of any expressions. “I cannot.”

Jason looks at him incredulously. “What do you mean you cannot?” The blank expression doesn’t waver, “You are the fu – reaking Batman! Do your Bat thing!”

“I cannot take down the Bat-Mite, because it exists in a higher dimensionality. Our reality bends to its will, and we cannot go against it.”

They are all staring at Bruce now, unsettled. They have,each of them, been confronted by the frailty, the limitation of how much of a hand you actually have on the wheel, Jason most of all, in a sense. But being told that there are critters floating around who could snap some fingers and end their world? Jason swallows, “Like fate.” Like what’s written in the stars hanging over the Ethiopian desert, silver memories of distant planets shivering against the frozen night sky, the lost dreams and broken promises in his life, “Like fate.” He repeats, and lets defeat wash him over. Pointless, that's what this is.

“It rarely intervenes, and when it does, it’s usually with good, albeit misguided, intentions.” Bruce, possibly sensing the eventual nihilism this conversation is veering towards, sounds like he’s trying to be reassuring,he fucking is not.

Tim who visibly brightens with a light bulb moment is doing a much better job. “But if you are separated,” he pipes up, “then you cannot trigger the reset, right?”

Jason tentatively relaxes at the idea. Hey, maybe if he just stayed away from Sa –

And he blinks his eyes open at the sight of his own shitty apartment. 

Thirty minutes and another bike ride into the Batcave later, they agree that no, the lack of interaction between him and Gung-Ho-for-Christmas Bruce does not prevent the resets.

“Look at the bright side.” Dick cajols, and Jason doesn’t bother tempering down his murderous disbelief at the man, “It didn’t throw you all the way back to the beginning. We are still here, and we remember everything that happened since you came in, which means this is getting warmer. You played along, and the plot moved forward. Oh hey,” He slaps Jason in the arm in, is that fucking excitement? “Say it’s a movie, so that means it has to have an end. Maybe all we need to do is figuring out the script that will lead us there.”

Jason is pretty sure he knows which script that is, “I’m not going to play house with fake Bruce!”

When he wakes up this time, he grabs the other man before taking off towards the manor, because he’s decided to make it everyone’s problem (and not because his traitorous stomach does a funny little twist when he thinks about him bursting into dust out of Jason’s sight).

He stashes the man in the greenhouse, right next to Alfred’s prized evergreen camellias, and storms off with an instruction to “don’t go anywhere.” He doesn’t respond to the thumbs-up or the smile.

“Do you think he’s aware of the,” Dick waves a hand at the cave, “Bat stuff?”

“Do I think the man in a Santa hat who told me 56 times and counting, that there is nothing more important in this world or any other one than spending Christmas with his family, is aware of a counterpart that dresses like a bat to beat up criminals?” He turns faux curious eyes towards Bruce and Tim, “Gee, Dick, I don’t know. Lemme consult the world’s greatest detectives. What do you guys think?”

And they don’t call them that for nothing. Tim is giving him a cautiously calculating look, “You keep saying ‘family’. But he just means you, right?”

Jason thinks he’s more than earned that tiny sliver of gratification as he bares his teeth in a grin.

“If he’s not Batman,” Tim speculates, “Then how did he even meet all of us?”

“I don’t know. And we are not going to ask.”

“Jason’s right.” Dick muses, “So far, breaking the fourth wall seems to be triggering the resets pretty consistently.”

Which is why they’ve left their Bruce-their version of Bruce-in the cave as the three of them trudge upstairs in civilians. Or at least two of them are trudging, since Dick is practically bursting with exhilaration, and once again Jason raises the question: why him? Why couldn't it have been, well, anyone else, but preferably Dick?

“Why me?” Tim complains, validating his sentiment. He pauses. “Why did I let you rope me into this?”

“Why did you have to put on my costume and dive into the never-ending crusade of a masked man?” Jason says flatly, and maybe it’s a little mean of him to throw that at Tim, knowing he has no chance of forming a comeback as they step into the greenhouse, and is met with a sharp and happy squeal.

It just confirms his longtime suspicion that Bruce Wayne is a goddamn menace and a threat to society, Bat or no Bat. Jason snorts at the way he swoons at the sight of two more sons. Figures.

Why shouldn’t this version of Bruce prefer the company of the better Robins?

“So, Brucester,” Dick says, an arm casually thrown over broad shoulders, “Heard that you are looking for some holiday fun. Shall we make a plan for tomorrow? Robinson Park has that fair thing going until 5, and we could make the skating rink if we-”

Fake Bruce laughs as he pats Dick back, “Oh no! No, chum. I cannot tear you boys away from your actual father on Christmas.” He gestures for them to follow him into the manor with all the unwarranted confidence of a man who owns the same place in a more or less fucked-up universe, Jason couldn’t decide which yet. “Let’s go talk to him, lads. We could all celebrate together!”

When Jason was Robin, he had once held in his possession a picture of Bruce, fresh out of the Batmobile, covered in the aftermath of Condiment King, as a retaliation for going on patrol without him.

He distantly wonders where the picture is now as he secretly compares that image of utterly unimpressed to the current look on Bruce’s face. He is starting to see that bright side now, just a speckle but it's there and promising. 

“I’m a very rich man.” Other Bruce says, not a single flick of self-awareness, let alone shame, “I will pay you handsomely.”

“He says he’s a very rich man, and he’ll pay us handsomely.” Jason relays, like they are not speaking the same language and he’s the designated interpreter. The flare of Bruce’s nostrils almost makes all the trouble worth it. Almost.

“...I’m a very rich man, also.” Bruce says, with strained effort, probably trying to stave off a blown vein, “And I am not renting out my family and my family home.”

The other Bruce smiles the Brucie Wayne smile, and the room jointly shudders. “You misunderstood,” he’s soft-spoken and somehow genuine, even like this, “I’m proposing that we all spend Christmas together.”

Chapter Text

Despite what everyone, Alfred most of all, might have believed, Bruce didn’t wake up one day and resorted to putting on a batsuit and leaping out of the dark to pounce on criminals. Extensive researches were done, regarding his mental and physical capability, and the validity of the Bat. Some of those were academic – alongside the more pragmatic classes, he’d also audited quite a few courses in law, seeking more insights, if not an answer, to the idea of justice.  He never did find what he was looking for, at the end of the day. Two weeks of jurisprudence; four for criminal procedure and the American legal system, which led him off the far end of the merits of common law vs. Roman law; some quick glances thrown at contract law and tort, just to make sure he’s covering all the basics; all those years, and Gotham remained the same black hole of hope.

However, those were simpler, and arguably, better times. He remembers one idle morning, sitting in the warm hued lecture room, almost blending in with the rest of the twenty somethings.

“Types of damages for breach of contract”, it said on the blackboard, and their sexagenarian of a professor (who’d painfully reminded him of Al, even though the man was considerably younger back then. Bruce hadn’t had the chance to put him through what’s to come yet) had pointed at a girl in the front, “And why shouldn’t specific performance always be granted, for a contract for service?”

“Because you...cannot compel someone to perform something if they don’t want to?”

How befitting, he thinks, staring into the hand painted mural of the drawing room walls, – jade peony and Chinese bulbul, wealth and old age, they were one of those two things, the Waynes - , that he should fail, in this as well. Everything he’d built his life on, challenged, defeated, rendered useless, even that one fleeting, harmless morning when he had felt remotely human: you cannot compel someone to provide a service if they don't want to. But then again, why shouldn’t it be? He had failed so much more spectacularly, on so much grander a scheme.  And now there is a man, sitting in his mother’s favorite chaise, waving a freshly amended contract. If only he too could have paid for Jason to stay, just for Christmas, just one more time—

Still he tries, swimming against the kismet currents.

“There are logistic impediments, if you wish to... participate in the full-scale of festival celebrations. For example, the two of us cannot be seen together, in public.” Even his extra-dimensional, self-claimed enthusiast should know this. You bend reality enough, it will simply snap.

“Oh don’t worry.” Wayne dismisses, “I’ll wear a disguise.”

“He’ll wear a disguise.” Jason parrots, with too much zeal for comfort, which is better. Zeal is better than despair, and Bruce understands that the boy has strong motivations to push this forward (either to end his own suffering or add to Bruce's. Too often these two things correlate with each other). It does not lessen the sting. If it’s inevitable that Jason must succumb to, - what did Jay say? - “playing house” with a father from a different universe, Bruce would rather not be there to witness it.

Dick clears his throat theatrically, “Can I talk to you for a second, Bruce? – my Bruce?”

He follows his eldest into the corridor.

“You are being unfair.”

Bruce crosses his arms in front of his chest. The words are not structured for him to have a response.

Dick sighs. “Look, I know that the whole thing is unfair, especially because it’s Jason and - . But if Bat-Mite is what you say he is, then wouldn’t the best strategy be for us to join in on this?”

“It hasn’t reset again.”

“What?”

“It hasn’t reset again, after I said no. If it’s Jason that he – if this must happen, it doesn’t have to happen here, and it doesn’t have to involve more people than necessary.”

“Bruce.”

Fine.

“If you and Tim want to stay, you can have the manor. I’ll take Damian to the penthouse and –”

“What if you do it because you want to?” Dick interrupts, entreating, and when did Dickie learn to sound like that? They are all too grown, too fast, his boys. “Not because you have to, but because you want to?”

Bruce levels a look at him. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Think about it, B,” There is a spark in his son’s eyes. “Knowing Jason, if he were ever to see you in a more favorable light, it would be in comparison to your flamboyant counterpart. Plus,” he adds, softer, “You’d get to spend Christmas with him.”

Pine garlands hugged the walls of the gallery hall, hanging above generations of the Wayne family. He’s running after an impossibly quick little boy, but he’s not quick enough yet. Bruce has him pressed to his side and in a squeezing hug in seconds, strands of wild dark hair poking into his eyes as he bends down to plant a couple kisses to baby soft cheeks, rosy from the exertion.

It doesn’t gut him like it used to, nowadays, when he knows that his son is alive. Sometimes, he closes his eyes and he pretends, with the smell of Alfred’s gingerbread cookies and the seasonal music in the air. He can still hear Jay, humming along loudly. What he wouldn’t give, just to hear that laughter one more time.   

He still grits his teeth when he puts down his own name next to the flourish cursive of Bruce T. Wayne, and has to remind himself again that all the rules of contract law cannot help them, in the face of cosmic powers.

The other Wayne claps his hands in a way he probably does when a plane lands (Bruce has done exactly that once, but it is for keeping up with appearances), and throws the contract like a graduate cap. “Marvelous! I’d say that this joyful event calls for a toast! Where do you keep your best champagne, fellow Bruce?”

“It’s really past that hour,” Dick interjects, before he could say anything, “As a matter of fact, Alfred would have our heads if he catches us out of bed.” Tim nods.

Other Wayne laughs obnoxiously. “Ah, good ol’ Alfie! I bet he’s more likely to hog the bottle himself.”

And that is...something. Bruce has never seen the elderly British with anything other than an occasional polite glass of Fernet-Branca. He tries to imagine an Alfred less than sober, and finds the mental image deeply disturbing. Some realities are better left unchanged.

“I don’t care about the rest of yous,” Jason announces, “But I’m going to bed, this is f-rigidly late for a growing boy like me.”

It is, Bruce thinks, desperately. You are. And you should be going to bed. In your room. Here at home.

What comes out of his mouth is, “Are you two going back to your place?”

Jason narrows his eyes but Wayne is already hopping up and heading out the door, Bruce follows quickly, only because he has a sinking suspicion of where he’s headed for, and the kids trail after them. “Nonsense, Bruce. – I’m surprised that you let the boy live on his own at all, by the way. I could not bear it when my Jay went off to college. Proudest day of my life, mind you, but absolutely crushed my heart. Granted it’s still on the East Coast, but – ”

“Where?” Jason asks, quiet, quieter than Bruce has braced himself for, and Wayne turns back to look at him with a giant smile. “What was that, lad?”

Jason’s face is closed-off, and he sounds just verging on hoarse. Bruce wants to grab the other man and throw him out the front gate. He wants to dive back to the cave, and contact every magic user in his pocket, even though he knows that Bat-Mite is not on the same plane of magic.

He wants to wrap his little boy in his arms again and tell him that –

“Where does he go to college?” Jason says. Bruce can see right through the casual drop of his shoulders. Does Wayne see it?  

“Yale.” He beams. It’s the first glimpse of something akin to genuine Bruce gets of the man, something he'd be able to recognize in a mirror. “Going to apply for their law school, just like his old man.”

Fuck you, Bruce thinks viciously, both at the man in front of him and the cosmic power, and he repeats it in his head, again, when the other Wayne makes a turn down the family wing, towards the master bedroom. 

At least it makes Jason snicker. “Well well well, isn’t this awkward.” He drawls, “Looks like it’s battle royale for the bedchamber.”

Wayne has the decency to smile somewhat sheepishly, “Now, why don’t we bunk? Assuming you splurged for the Extravaganza Alaskan king?”

Bruce draws the line there. “I did not.” He informs him, a hint of Batman coming through. Look who’s only human after all. “There are seventeen guest rooms in this house. My son Damian sleeps with a scimitar sword, so don’t go knock on any doors and bunk with people if you see an occupied room.”

He counts it a small victory when Wayne walks away with a pout, and another rather (surprisingly) large one, when Jason sighs dramatically and elbows Tim, “Ain’t going all the way to the west wing. I’ll just bunk with you, young squire.”

He's here. His son is alive, and he's here.

Chapter Text

Tim’s room is pretty cool. Pegboard wall panels for camera gear storage, a charging station, and dry cabinets for lenses; the Fender Telecaster hanging next to his skateboards, alternative rock posters in a scattered display, custom-built gaming PC in one corner. It’s also designed, with the secrete goal of maybe having visitors from time to time, friends who’d hang out with him here. He’d spent a lot of time arranging the egg-shaped bubble swing chair, picking out just the right kind of beanbag with enough give but also back support to put against the end of his bed, and fitting a large futon sofa under the bay windows.

A very large futon that would be very comfortable for someone 6 feet and taller.

So it is a little disheartening to watch Jason swing open the door and flop down onto his 12x15 Mimikyu rug face first, groaning.

 “This has been a huge mistake.”

“I mean, you can take the bed, and I could use the futon.”

Jason groans louder.

“...Or you can have the room to yourself, if you really don’t want to move. I wasn’t going to sleep anyway, I’ll just go to the cave and –”

Jason flips himself over, limbs askew. “Have I ever told you that I am sorry for breaking into the Titans Tower and trying to kill you while dressed in a Robin Plus costume, because my brain was still sorta kinda functioning in zombie mode and I just got more screwed every direction I go?”

Tim blinks. “Um, not phrased like that, no?”

Jason lifts his head slightly up as if he’s listening for a non-existent countdown. After about five seconds he drops it back into the rug. “Nope. Nothing’s happening. Still here. Not a punishment for that then.”

“Did you think that the Bat-Mite (seriously, who’s coming up with these names) would have like, put us in a freeze frame and start rolling credits if you got it right?”

“I don’t know, Timothy. I was just hoping for something.” Jason peers at him. “And for the record, I really am sorry.”

Tim shrugs, trying to emit a lack of fear and/or resentment, which he does not have, against Jason, not anymore. Sure there was blood, but the blood has been diluted in the water that’s also under the bridge now.

Far worse things have happened, since then. He doesn’t know how to convey any of that beyond a twitchy shrug. “Yeah, um. Don’t worry about that. I, I get it, a little.”

Jason flops again. “I can’t pull this off. I don't know what's the script I'm supposed to follow. Heck, I don’t think I’ve ever watched a Christmas special in either of my entire lifes.”

Tim too, has never watched a Christmas special, at least not that he can remember. But there is someone across the corridor two rooms down who definitely has. “Do you think we could ask Dick about it? Figure it out before everyone wakes up?”

That plan is brutally shot in the face almost immediately when Alfred’s voice creeps through as they lean against the double doors. Tim jerks his hand off the handle and Jason curses under his breath.

“Great, what do we do now?”

“He’s probably checking up on Bruce.” Tim speculates. “It won’t be long.”

Time is relevant though. Five minutes later, Jason is pressing muffled moans into the beanbag. “I am losing my mind here!”

And Tim could sympathize. According to their brother, Jason has lived more than his fair share of this day, effectively the mole caught in back-to-back whack-a-mole games, and he's obsessing over the one theory that could pull the plug on the arcade. However, Tim doesn’t want to explain this to Alfred any more than the older boy does at this moment. He'd rather stay away from that door. 

Oh. Oh the door.

“I have another way out.” He offers.

Jason doesn’t look very impressed as they stand on the window seat. In all honesty, it’s more a distraction rather than a plan that Tim’s come up with.

“I was once a teenager living in this place too. I know how to disarm the alarms, but the old man’s gonna catch us climbing over his windows.”

Tim carefully pokes his head out into the cold night air, and then some more, so he can crane his neck to the left and check. The dark drapes of the master bedroom have been drawn together, but speckles of lights glistened through. “I think we are safe. I think he’s standing at the door talking to Alfred. He won’t notice us.”

It’s not very pleasant, and not his best footwork. Gripping the ancient carvings of the manor wall with his socked toes, Tim briefly questions his own mental stability. Surely Alfred has gone back downstairs in the few minutes it took them to edge towards the east wall, and their convoluted little escapade will take them longer to reach Dick than if they just stayed put and waited.

But Jason was vibrating out of his skin and Tim, well, Tim wanted to help.

He is about to round the corner when Jason lets out a startled yelp.

They both freeze while Bruce yanks the curtains open. “What are you doing?”

Jason, who’s behind him and plastered to the window like a decal sticker, doesn’t say anything. He flexes his right foot once and stares at Bruce like a deer who's much offended by the headlight. Tim shifts his hold to take a tentative step to the right, hoping to sneak out of sight before –

A burst of warm air brushes past him. Bruce no longer sounds muffled as the windows creak open. “Get in. You too, Timothy.”

For a second Jason looks like he’s considering doing a freefall onto the ground two stories below them, and Tim quickly climbs back and all but shoves him in. One by one they squirm through, Jason battering away the hovering hands of Bruce. The door shoves open a second after their feet hit the carpet. Dicks pops in, clutching a stack of DVDs. 

“Hey B, I wanted to show you some of my – where did you guys come from?”

Jason throws his hands in the air. Bruce raises an eyebrow expectantly at them. Tim gulps. “We were just...on our way to ask you some questions about some Christmas movies.”  And we thought doors are for jerks. 

They end up in front of the fireplace, examining Dick’s collection of holiday specials. Jason seems exceedingly unhappy, whether about the lecture on safety they just received or the situation in general remains a mystery to Tim. He does feel another surge of commiseration for his predecessor. This is not the normal kind of detective work. So far, they’ve only reached an agreement that this debacle would likely end if they make it to the morning after Christmas, and not much progress regarding a script. 

“Two days!” Dick says, in a clear effort to rally their spirits, “Actually, not even that. It’s currently almost the morning of Christmas Eve. We can go to the mall (dual grunts from Bruce and Jason), get a picture with Santa (Tim joins), hang our stockings, and it will be Christmas before you notice! Just presents, eggnog, and family fun! This is like, the least fermented pickle we’ve been in, guys.”

“And if we reset?”

“I’m pretty confident that we won’t.”

“You’ll have to forgive me for not buying this confidence.”

“Listen,” Dick leans in, “I've been thinking. You know how every movie has two throughlines? There is the storyline, which I’m assuming is, you know, ohana means family for this one; and then there is the plotline, where more concrete stuff happens. You need to overcome obstacles, and discover the moral of the story as you do. I figured that in a Christmas movie, the obstacle would be the Grinch, right? So that means, uh – ”

Jason looks offended by the abrupt halt. “What? Why are you stopping? Who’s the Grinch?” He turns to Tim. “Am I the Grinch here?”

“...No?”

“No, Jay. I think you would be the protagonist. The reluctant hero.”

“Then who? Who’s the frigging obstacle?!”

Two sets of eyes struggle to not drift towards Bruce. Jason follows their glances and glares. “You, go away.”

Bruce blinks. “Excuse me?”

“We are going to plot against you. Get out.”

“This is my room.”

“I don’t care. Go wait in the bathroom.”

“I’d thought,” Dick intervenes hastily, before Jason decides to lock Bruce in the en-suite, “That everything would reset when you refused to sign the contract at first, but it didn’t, so perhaps you being you is what the script wants, something for us to work on.” He flashes the man an apologetic smile, “Just be Bruce, apparently, and feel free to embrace the merriment when you are completely, and perfectly, and incandescently happy.”

The subtle twitch of Bruce’s face tells Tim that now would be a good time to wrap this up, but the mention of the contract brings up another disturbing thought, one that's been bugging him for a while. “Didn’t the thing say all available equivalents of his family members? Shouldn’t we warn the others? Alfred?” He winces at the mere idea of this. “Damian?”

“Cass won’t be here until after the New Year.” Bruce laments. He is chewing on the inside of his lower lip.  “And I was hoping that we could... keep the others out of this.”

Tim is concerned, a lot more than he usually is, for the man’s sanity.

“You think,” Jason says, very very slowly, “That you could spend two whole days with a grown ass man, who looks just like you, right under everyone’s nose, without them noticing?”

“I could tell Duke and Damian that he’s a distant cousin. He said he’ll wear a disguise –”

“– And I repeat. You think that you could spend two whole days with a grown ass man, who looks just like you with a fake mustache, right under Alfred’s nose, without him noticing?”

Bruce sighs. “I... OK. I’ll talk with Alfred tomorrow as well. Go to bed, all three of you. We’ll make this work.” He meets Jason’s eyes for a second, and the hard lines around his mouth soften minimally. “It’s going to be OK.”

Chapter Text

Dick graciously offers to join Bruce at the kitchen island, where he has gathered Duke and Damian to warn them about the stranger in their home, but the front gate bell rings harshly and Dick puts a hand on his shoulder before Bruce could stand up, and wishes him good luck as he leaves to check it out. Without his physical beacon for moral integrity, and possibly, common sense, Bruce finds the temptation to adopt the estranged cousin narrative very hard to resist. However, the fear of his present dishonesty causing certain future dooms at Jason’s dispense is as strong as his intense needs to shield the youngest members of his family, and Bruce fumbles through a threadbare briefing on the Bat-Mite, the other Bruce Wayne, and the contract for their joint celebration of Christmas.

“Do you have questions.” He finishes, taking away the soggy spoonful of cereals that’s been suspended half way to Duke’s open mouth for the last ten minutes.

Of course, Damian’s the first one to speak. “Why Todd?”

Bruce sighs. “I have yet to detect a pattern in Bat-Mite’s –”

“No.” His son interrupts shortly. “Why would any version of you seek out Todd in the quest for,” tiny lips curl in distaste – how could something so small be so angry? – “familial delight? I would be the better candidate in any event, seeing that I –, Thomas!”

The protest comes out muffled because, in a rather valorous display, Duke has clamped a hand over Damian’s mouth. “Whoa, little man. You better watch it. I think this is the kind of attitude that could,” He glances at Bruce apprehensively, “Send us back in time.”

Secretly, Bruce has had his reservation about who should be cast as the Grinch. He indulges in the uncharitable fantasy of his pouting youngest with green nylon leggings and a Santa jacket, the color scheme overlapping with his Robin costume, and for a moment he almost wants to smile, until Jason’s face comes to mind, willful, untamed Jason, anger and pain burning through those emerald greens like forest fire when he screamed at Bruce. No. He will always be obstacle, the designated villain in the story of Jason Todd. He nods against the lump in his throat. “Jason needs our help, Damian.” 

That’s all he manages to say, for now.

Alfred already had his suspicions when Master Bruce lied about the guest that moved in last night, but he let the man get away with the little deception, on account of the holiday spirit. It is a rare treat indeed, when as many of them gather under the safe roof. His benevolence is further rewarded when, on the way to answer the front door, he is greeted by the presence of an, admittedly, disheveled Master Jason. “Ah. Quite the present I was hoping for this Christmas, dear boy.”

Jason jogs backwards to keep pace with him. “Yeah, hi, morning Alfred. I really –”                                                                 

“I’m going to make some tea, Al,” Bruce calls out, a tad more joyous than he normally is at this hour. The man is clearly heartened by the presence of his wayward son. “Yet another shocking development.” He replies without pausing in his brisk steps. The damn bell is bound to wear out at this rate.

Jason pales slightly and widens his eyes behind Alfred’s back as they pass the kitchen. “What the hell,” he mouths to Bruce – one of the Bruces, before running off after the butler. “Al, there is something that I – Are you kidding me?!”

Dick, Steph, and Cass huddle at the open door like ducklings in snow, the first because he’s a dumbass who ran out with no jacket or shoes, and the other two for reasons unknown to Jason but must be equally stupid, Alfred ushers them in with a tsk and well-masked surprise. He turns to Jason. “Apologies for putting you on hold, Master Jason, what is it that you wish to tell me?”

“Oh, uh,” Jason chances a wary glance at his siblings. Dick is shaking his head minisculely. “I, um, I left some soda stain on Tim’s futon. I’m really sorry. I know how you feel about us eating in bed.”

“Fret not, my boy. I shall change the cover and allow the small indiscretion for once, provided that you will be celebrating Christmas Eve with us? I am intending to make spiced pomegranate and orange glazed ham. Speaking of which, why don’t we fetch you a hot beverage, Miss Stephanie, Miss Cassandra? And do find yourself some suitable footwear, Master Richard.”

The clipped tone sends Dick scrambling the opposite direction, as Alfred leads the rest of them back to the kitchen. Jason looks over his shoulder in silent panic the same second Dick turns around to give him a grimace. They are so doomed.

Bruce is very glad that he decided against the “a guest will be staying with us for two days and there’s nothing else to be said about that” approach when his counterpart, wrapped in a large towel, trots into the kitchen.

“What an auspicious day! Good morning, fellow Bruce. Good morning, Duke. Sabah al-Khayr, Habibi Baba.”

“Sabah al-Noor.” Damian replies automatically before he fully registers what’s happening, and stills next to a shell-shocked Duke. So the preparation wasn’t as thorough as it should have been. Other Bruce snatches an apple off the fruit bowl. “May I borrow some clothings, old chum? I really only had the shirt on my back.” He winks at the boys, before grabbing a mug, Bruce’s mug that Tim gave him, “But first, some tea. Nothing beats an early earl grey, am I right?”

“It’s half past ten.” Duke points out. He’s such a good addition to his flock of children, one of the, seven to eight, depending on how you look at it, good choices Bruce has ever made in his life. The flicker of comfort is swiftly drowned, like Alfred’s favorite blend, in tap water, when Wayne puts the mug under the running faucet. They watch in trifold horror as the then walks the cup of cold water and tea to the microwave and starts heating up the worst monstrosity that ever defiled this kitchen.

Two sets of footsteps come closer and closer, whilst everyone else hold their breath in the terror-stricken stillness, Wayne shouts out an exuberant declaration that he’s making tea.

To Alfred.

Alfred Pennyworth.

Who, mercifully, just walked by without looking.

But their brush with death is about to become a very solid plunge if that mug of tea is still in the microwave when he comes back. Wayne whistles between bites of the apples, completely unaware of the catastrophe he’s thrust them all in. The boys are gazing at Bruce with such dread. He has to do something. Years of crisis management and pure survival instincts kick in. “Please put on some clothes first.” He bargains, more with fate than its absurd, whistling manifestation. “I have sweats and T-shirts in the third drawer of the wardrobe. But feel free to take whatever you want.” As long as you could kindly leave this room.

It takes painfully long minutes for the man to finish his apple, locate the compost bin, attempt to fling the core into the bin from all the way across the room, misses, and tries again the second time. Bruce dives for the microwave as the towel tail disappears out the doorway, and nearly pulls the handle off in his haste to grab the steaming mug.

There is nothing he could do other than turning around slowly with his fingers wrapped around the offending object when he hears Duke gulp.

Jason, who’s trying to squeeze his way into the kitchen first, goes from panicked to disgusted disbelieving in a split second, but nothing could compare to the scathing look on Alfred’s face.

“Master Wayne, is that a cup of tea that you’ve just taken out of the microwave?” 

 Bruce had at least five different openings to inform Alfred about the intruder. Carefully worded, tactful openings.

“It wasn’t me!” He blurts out. “There is another Bruce Wayne in this house.”

He’s well aware that they lead a fairly complicated life. Still, it is less than encouraging, to see how easily his family embraced that fact. But Alfred dumped the microwave tea down waste disposal without further comment, and Bruce does not push his luck. Instead he turns to the girls. “I thought you were supposed to be in Colorado.” He frowns, lifting an arm up. “What happened?”

“Avalanche.” Cass steps into the hug and gets on her tiptoes to kiss the side of his jaw. “Not hurt. Resort gone. No casualties. But worried, for home.”

Steph collapses against the counter. “That’s one way to say it. I was going to book us another skiing resort, or you know, get a new coat first, but Cass kept freaking out about her bad feelings so we turned tail and ran back. She wouldn’t even let me grab a toffee nut latte on the way here!” She scowls. “You bats and your freaky sixth senses though. Where’s the other guy? I deserve to see Santa Bruce on a sitcom if this isn’t an emergency.”

“Who said this isn’t an emergency?” Jason grumbles darkly, and Dick chirps “Christmas special!”

It’s a bittersweet realization that for the first time, all his children are in the same room, out of uniforms, unmarred, uninjured, and relatively safe. Bruce hates that he needs to start flushing out the finer details regarding their house guest.

“Maybe we should go downstairs.” Duke suggests. “The fourth wall rule? He’s gonna come back soon, and do we want him to hear us talking about a script for this?”

“I don’t think it’s going to look less suspicious if all of us just disappeared at once.”

“Somebody needs to stay and distract Santa Bruce.”
“I vote Jason.”

“What?! Why me? I have more at stake here than any of you lots and I’ve been dealing with him the longest!”

“Well exactly –”

“Alfred.” Bruce begins, louder than everyone combined, but withers a little at the flat expression on the old man’s face.

“Alfred.” Jason pleads. And Alfred sighs. “Master Jason –”

“I know it’s ridiculous. I know it doesn’t make any sense. I am so sorry that I got you involved. But please, Al, if you’ve ever held any shred of fondness for me in your heart, and could still find it in you to care, please please please just keep him occupied for like, half an hour, tops.” He draws in a deep breath. “Speaking from personal experience, I’d rather die again than to revert back another minute.”

Their trusted and loyal butler surveys the clusters of vigilantes. “All of you, are under the impression that the best cause of action is to entertain this creature and his script?”

Nods and sounds of confirmation, some a lot more enthusiastic than others.

“And you, Master Bruce? You are also, as the kids say, in on this?”

Bruce winces a bit. “It would appear so.”

“Very well then, I will keep... the other Master Bruce occupied, while you fine-tune your looney plans.”

Bruce winces some more. “I understand that you don’t believe it’s –”

“With due respect, sir.” He shuts up immediately at the foreboding tone dripping with icy chill. “But what I believe is that it’s all going to go tits up.”

Chapter Text

They set up a perimeter around landmine topics that technically wouldn’t break the rule against the fourth wall, but could still potentially shock the alternative Bruce into reset. Jason eagerly rules out light bodily harm.

“I punched him in the jaw first thing.” He puffs his chest out. “And nothing happened.”

Everyone stares at him, save for Damian who nods sagely. “A wise strategy, to determine the effect of physical force.” Tim rolls his eyes. “That explains our first encounter.” He receives a smirk in return.  

“Perhaps we should focus on the things not to say or do.” Dick redirects pleasantly. “For example, nobody tell the other Bruce why the current chandelier is the third replacement of the one we had when I moved in.”

“How about nobody tell this Bruce.” He grouches. “ The third?”

They make a list. Certain bans gain a unanimous vote: the crime fighting, for obvious reasons; the initial motivation for the crime fighting, for safe measure, although Stephanie holds a different opinion in that front and gets outvoted (“It’s not necessarily healthy to repress it.” “And it’s not necessarily jolly to bring up someone’s dead parents on Christmas.”), Bruce wishes they understand that just because the other version is not in the room, it doesn’t mean that he can’t hear them either. And then, finally, upsetting things that are the direct results of the crime fighting.

“My powers.” Duke adds. “And all meta stuff. But maybe it doesn’t matter if he’s OK with the dimension hopping...” He trails off. Jason shakes his head. “Nah. You got a good point. I asked him about the Bat-Mite and that did not any happy result yield, so no meta powers. OK. What else is stressful for the old man?”

Cass pops her chin against one hand and taps her lips. “Us...in the past... hurt? Injuries?” Jason snaps his fingers. “Definitely injuries. We gotta hide the more permanent stuff. You think he already knows about your spleen, Tim?”

A deadly silence falls over the cave before it erupts with the cacophony of several voices.

“I’m sorry,” Dick demands sharply, “Your what?”

“I really think it is not of import right now –”

“You don’t think it’s of import that you are hiding a spleen injury–”

“I don’t have a spleen injury!” Tim protests. “I don’t. I just, I, uh –”

“Do you mean to tell me,” Bruce leans in ominously, “That you no longer have a spleen?”

“Why the hell would you bring that up?” Tim turns to Jason, betrayed. “Why would you do that to me? I gave you my limited edition zesti cola!”
“How am I supposed to know that you never told them?! You told me!”

“Because I didn’t think you’d care!”

Jason sputters, hurt confusion flashes across his features, but Tim’s on a bulldozer ball now. “What’s even the point of this anyway? We are all dancing around the elephant in the room. What’s a spleen compared to the literal death toll?!”

Nothing. Nothing but his own effortful pants and quiet breathings. Tim can see the gleam of red yellow and green out of the corner of his eyes. The shrine in the middle of the cave. The constant reminder of the wounds that crawled and marked all of them. The glass life and volatile death of Robin.

Jason is going to explode and storm off any second now. And Bruce is going to retreat into an opaque shell again. At least they didn’t reset. It’s a miracle that Tim hasn’t triggered it yet, but everyone is still going to remember his little outburst. The consequence for his lack of control, lack of decorum. His lack of discipline.

This, he tells himself, is why you could never fill those pixie boots. And tries to swallow hot shame along with an incessant need to sneak a glance at Jason.  He’s met with a light scoff when he finally loses that battle. One hand shoves at his shoulder, not too hard, not hard at all, actually, Jason says “Yeah that’s covered by the effect of crime fighting, you little shit”, and the iron claws around his ribcage retract. The hammering heartbeat of the room calms down to a gentle tha-thump, tha-thump. “So should my thing, asshole.” Tim grouses, no reason to play nice since they are in the realm of harmless bickering now.

“That reminds me,” Stephanie raises her hand before Bruce could speak or blow another vein. “You said he exploded when you said fuck. So does that mean we all have to watch our language now?”

“Oh yeah. Censor yourselves. No bad curse words.”

“– What are non-bad curse words? –”

“– But these two just called each other –”

“– It’s fine as long as you don’t say it in front of the guy. Once he’s out of earshot, feel free to do your worst. It won’t trigger shit.”

“However,” Bruce says, through clenched teeth, “This is not an open invitation for you to start cursing.”

“Just a disclaimer that it wouldn’t have any effect if you do so off-site.” Dick winks. Duke looks nervous. “Uh, could someone maybe give me a list? Coz, I’m not planning on saying anything too bad but just in case –”

 Damian huffs. “I fail to see the point of all the mania. In any event, the spell shall wear off by the end of the 25th of December.” He rolls his eyes. “So what if we encounter certain resets? Time moves forward.”

“No.” Cass whispers. Dick scratches his head. “Yeah, about that... We developed a working theory that it’s less about making it to the end of Christmas time wise, but more to the end of this movie, story wise.” He launches into another round of explanation, including, much to the chagrin of Bruce and the delight of the majority of the people present, the part about Grinch.

Steph blinks at the end of it. “So...this is...a movie movie. We have to do retakes if whoever’s in charge doesn’t like the way things went? Until what? To what end?”

“The literal end. A plausible happy ending, just like all the Christmas movies. Family! Friends! The real treasure was the journey itself! You know.”

Steph stares. “A happy ending.” She repeats.

“Uh-huh.”

Steph turns to Duke and Cass. “We are gonna die here.”

“Oh, come on.”

“We are gonna die of old age. And I’m not even his family!”

Bruce looks like he’s chewing on gums made of marble, and Jason pales considerably. Dick knocks their shoulders together. “Hey, you OK?”

“No.” He hisses. “I’m freaking the f out. This is getting out of hand. I didn’t want to get those guys involved.”

Dick chuckles. “You seemed pretty happy to involve me and B.”

“That’s because I – ”I didn’t want to do it all on my own. “– I thought you’d have a way out of this!”

“Look at the bright side,” Dick says, addressing all his siblings while Jason drops his head to the table with a loud bang, “Santa Bruce’s definition of happy ending is very likely just us sitting around the dinner table enjoying some nice turkey. It’s couldn’t be that hard. He’s a sweet old man.”

Bruce grumbles. “He’s my age.”
“Aaaaand this is now awkward for the both of us.” Dick pats him in the shoulder affectionately. “In conclusion, we are going to conduct ourselves to the standard of a healthy, functional, fun family. No bats, no vengeance, no stabbing. Mission Wayne Christmas is officially on!” He shoos everyone towards the staircase, “Go get em tigers! Oh hey, what’s up?” He pauses at Jason, who has snagged a handful of his teddy fleece jacket. “Something still eating you, Jay?”

He drags Dick towards the lockers, away from Bruce who’s currently pretending to be shuffling some casefiles around. Then he spends several minutes leaning against the wall, curled into himself. Dick is suddenly reminded of the five-feet-tall, whip-smart boy he met, all those years ago. Too short a temper covering up too scarce yet ferocious a faith he had in all the people who have walked in and out of Jason’s young life. It’s bizarre to think how much and how little things have changed since. Dick still would not hesitate before jumping in front of a gun for him, if that’s what Jason needs. He hasn’t been the expert on Jason needs, lately, so he waits, until his little brother looks up with frightened eyes and says, “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Do what?” Dick probes softly, knowing he means beyond the tenacity obviously required by the circumstance. Jason stares at his hands.

“I can’t – I don’t know how to be nice to him.”

“Which one?” He asks, more earnest than the usual teasing tone reserved to antagonize. Jason scowls the same way Bruce does, inner cheeks sucked between teeth. He wishes they know how much they are alike. Dick relents. “Maybe the whole point is not for you to be nice to him, Little Wing.” He muses. “Maybe you can be whatever feels is right for you at this time, and it will be fine.” Jason blows out a humorless snicker through his nose and straightens. “Sure. Since that’s always worked wonders for me before.” He pivots on his heel in what seems like a very not merry way, and Dick can’t have that kind of attitude head upstairs. “Look at the bright side –”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Look at the bright side.” He insists. “We are all in this together, yeah? Especially Bruce. I bet if you play your cards right, the end scene will be him singing carols door to door in Bristol, and doesn’t that raise your holiday spirits?” It does draw out a genuine little chuckle out of Jay. So Dick tests his luck by hooking an arm over broad shoulders. “Bet you five of gingerbread cookies that the old man will sing. What do you think?”

Jason thinks if he were ever so close to that bomb he’d have been blown up to high heavens and there wouldn’t have been a body to bury, but he can’t say that, so he just says “oh you know Dickie, I think this is going to be so, so bad.” And pushes his brother off.   

Chapter Text

Bruce mentally steels himself when they came out of the study to two raised voices from the reception room, yet nothing could have prepared him for the sight of his doppelganger, kitted out in the blonde wig of Legally Blonde, and a faux fur coat decorated with pink yarns so loud that his eyes went deaf briefly. For a moment, words left him. Abandoned him in this cold, slimy reality where another overly saturated figure will be shoved into his roster of nightmares.  

“I was just informing the... other Master Bruce here,” Alfred’s clipped tone yanks him into a mournful resignation – this isn’t a hallucination due to many a head injuries he’d suffered on the job, otherwise Cass and Steph wouldn’t be squealing as pink arms suddenly squished them both– “That in this universe, disguises are meant to serve the purpose of avoiding attention, and if you are planning to leave this house in –”

“Or,” interjects the other Wayne, “Are they meant to serve the purpose of subverting expectation?”

It...makes no sense. But then again. What does, anymore?

“Why?” Bruce croaks, and Wayne flaps a hand like he’s a socialite with a fresh coat of nail polish. “Oh, why not? Dickie gave this to us, remember?”

“I remember.” Dick whispers from the back of the group, accompanied by the looping track of Stephanie’s “Holy shit. Holy shit. Hoooooly shit could this day get any better.” And indeed, Bruce remembers as well, the gift from a very young Dick Grayson, under the advice of a Selina Kyle who was, at the time, very annoyed at Bruce, that he had essentially financed himself.

“Although,” the other man continues, oblivious to the mixture of absolute horror and marvel in the wake of his...everything, “I had to have it remade, in haute couture. I might be allergic to these yarns.”

“As one would be.” Alfred replies drily, pocketing a case of powder. “And you are certain I couldn’t persuade you to wear an actual disguise? Other than the concealer to cover up the bruise mark, that is?”

“I wouldn’t have let you talked me into the concealer either, Al.” Other Wayne whines. “Jay gave me that when he punched me.”

“I see that some things never change.” Dick mutters. Bruce however, is still too in the stage of Why to properly compute that.

“Very well.” Alfred says coolly. “What is one more act of atrocity, after all.”

“I have apologized for the tea! You can’t still be mad at that. And speaking of atrocity, what’s with the fake accent, Al? You auditioning for a Brit?”

The butler looks up slowly. “I beg your pardon?”

Other Wayne, who clearly has zero sense of self-preservation, carries on. “Ya know, what happened to that Kansas pride?” He barks out a laugh that sends shivers down Bruce’s back. “Oh man. Remember how mad you were, when I first told you that the state is actually flatter than a pancake? Good times.”

Here are the facts: one, Bruce knows that Alfred has killed before and he never held it against his adopted father; two, Bruce loves his children more than anything in this world, and would lie down his life for them without hesitation.

Bruce is also hyper cautious to make sure he’s blended into the rest of the group when they all take a collective step back, flanked by Cass and Jason.  If he blended a little bit more and became almost obscured by them, it’s only because he trusts those two with their physical prowess.

Duke grabs Damian by the elbow. “Make sure to cremate me.” He pleads. “I don’t want to turn out like Jason if this is what happens when you get un-dead.”

“Hey!”

“I shall honor your will, Thomas.”

“I am afraid,” says Alfred, who’s gone reasonably stiff, “That this is my default setting. I was born and brought up in England, Master Wayne.”

Other Wayne blinks. “Oh well, that explains the Master deal. England? Yikes. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jason sucks in a breath. This is it. They are all going to die and it’s going to be his fault. Watch Jason turn the Brady Bunch into a murder mystery.

Finally, it was Bruce who broke the tense silence. At least he’s good for something. “This is not going to work.” He tells the other man rigidly, glaring at him in his brain of a coat, and the other Bruce just slips on a pair of sunglasses and beams at them in return.

“And you thought Matches was bad.” Dick whispers to no one in particular as they enter another round of staring contest.

They head to the garage on a compromise: they will go to the mall for the obligatory Christmas activities as a family, and other Bruce gets to keep his neon pink coat and sunglasses, but he has to lose the wig. Alfred is picking that thing up with two fingers and a look of absolute disdain. “I bid you farewell good luck on your endeavors. I shall remain to prepare for tonight’s Christmas Eve dinner.”

Other Bruce gasps. “Alfie! You are not coming with us? Is it because of the thing I said about Kansas?”

He’s met with a flat look. Jason is 200 percent sure it is the thing he said about Kansas, just not in the way he thought. “Please don’t leave me with them.” He begs. Alfred sighs but doesn’t move. Jason takes a big inhale. “Please, Al, if you’ve ever held any shred of fondness for me in your heart, and could still find it in you to –”

Alfred tosses the wig onto the table and strides out the door with them.

Jason ends up in the car with both Bruces, in one of their less conspicuous Range Rovers (Bruce tries to not dwell on the revelation that there is a monsterized Evoque convertible in champagne somewhere in the vast unknown). With them are Steph, because she insisted and Bruce did not have the mental energy to fight her; and Duke, because Bruce needed more mental energy.  Everyone else takes the town car. Jason wishes he could be in the town car, or anywhere else, literally, instead of a conversation with Bruce One and Two.

“I cannot believe,” Bruce Two complains, “That you don’t have matching sweaters! It is a festive staple.” The buzz words hit him like a zap of the charged batarangs and Jason coils. “I don’t have any festive outfit,” He strikes back preemptively, “I don’t have any outfit other than what I’m wearing right now.” Which are the same pair of tactical pants he’d had on since yesterday, and a grey hoodie he plundered from Dick’s closet.

Bruce glances at him from the rearview mirror and frowns. “Where is your coat?”

Are these people for real?  “I don’t have a coat.” Jason snaps back, his secret resolve to play nice dissolving at record speed because one overbearing Bruce is already one too many. He can’t deal with them both.

Other Bruce turns to look at him from the front seat. “You don’t have a coat?”

Jason sighs loudly. Other Bruce gives regular Bruce an accusing look, “You didn’t buy him a coat?”

Steph giggles and Duke yelps when he gets whacked in the stomach by Jason who’s reaching over him to hit Steph in the arm. She shoves back, and Duke yelps again. “Do you guys wanna switch seat?” The car turns sharply, knocking everyone into their seats and away from each other’s limbs.

“I’m buying you a coat.” other Bruce decides. “And matching sweaters. We must all purchase sweaters.”

Jason tries to ignore him, but he can’t ignore the sound of Bruce grinding his teeth, the sound of Jason being more trouble than his worth. It’s not like he asked for this: life punches him in the guts and there Bruce is, pulling a face at the inconvenience of it all.

Suck it up. He reminds himself. Don’t drag it out any longer than it should be. You explode and everyone resets. Don’t make them go through that.

“I want a new coat.” Steph chirps. Other Bruce points a very happy finger at her. “You are getting a new coat. Duke, honey, do you want a new coat? No need to answer that – you are getting a new coat, too. Everyone is getting a new coat!”

Bruce’s temples throb. He rolls out his jaw, trying to release some of that tension, even though what he really wants to do is to jump out of this car, and walk, into the staunch air of Gotham harbor, of a winter cold and sure, where wind clawed and howled in ways he’d always envied, but could never act out on, not when he was eight, and certainly not when a strange man wearing his face is talking animatedly to his children, singing off-key. They are all laughing and giggling. Even Jason has the little tug at the corner of his mouth, the same one before he –, when he was still Bruce’s. How many times has he recounted that secret smile to the dark, and how painful it is, to see it now, directed at another.   

 It’s selfish of him, but it’s not annoyance that makes him grip the steering wheel extra tight when they slide into the parking lot of Bergduffs. He’s here. He tells himself sternly. He’s here, and that is enough.

Chapter Text

It is comforting to see how fast they fall back to the universal family tradition of biting each other’s head off when stuck together during the holiday season. Roughly 35% of them are here by their own volition, to be very generous, and still they cannot agree on one direction to go in the mall. Dick wants to fulfill his long-term wish of having a group picture taken with Santa. Stephanie wants to check out the newly opened dessert place exclusive to Bergduffs. And in an act of utter betrayal, Alfred is enthralled by the idea of matching Christmas outfits for everyone. Wayne wants to do all of the above, a proposal which Bruce has had to shut down for the fifth time, as the perfunctory one-hour in-and-out mall visit he had in mind is slowly shaping into what is definitely going to be the rest of his afternoon.

“I don’t think you are grasping the core concept of Flafla’s Garage DJ.” Stephanie argues. She’s been the most vocal about her demand so far. “You get to make your own desserts! Have you ever threaded and sugar coated your own tanghulu? Assembled a taro, sticky black rice, mochi sandwich? They have a station specifically labeled as Every Carb Has Potential to Waffle, for god’s sake! You can’t deny me that.”

“You can’t deny her that.” Wayne says. Every pair of eyes follows the finger Stephanie is pointing at the pastel grunge shopfront, and lands on the sign next to it that says Two Hour Minimum Wait, No Reservation Available. 

“A roti waffle!” Stephanie wails.

Jason stalks off to find a bathroom when Dick suggests a vote.
Once they agree to split into groups comes the fight about who’s doing what with whom. Some have their choices made easy by having that choice made for them –Tim gets hauled off towards the end of the dessert line almost immediately, and Dick delegates the duty of standing in the Santa line to Duke and Cass, because he’d like to accompany Alfred to balance out his more sensible fashion style, and that leaves Damian, who wants to go with no one but Dick; the other Bruce, who wants to go with everyone; and Bruce himself, who’s quietly reminiscing about his rotating patrol team schedule that has been refined throughout the years.  

“You have to come with us.” Duke tells Damian. “You are the kid. We need you to get into that line.”

“I am not a child –” Cass bends down to whisper into Damian’s ear, and his eyes go wide. “ – However, I shall aid you in your quest. Let’s find Saint Nicholas in his most pedestrian form.”

Bruce gets an inkling of what Cass must have said when he realizes he’s standing alone in the middle of the courtyard with his alternative self.

Jason scowls at them from ten feet away. “What’s happening? Where is everybody?”

The entire boutique brightens at the sight of Bruce Wayne, eccentric billionaire, and associates. Jason suspects that they have actually turned the light on more, somehow. An assistant escorts him towards the back of the shop with a probing yet sweet smile. “So, what brings you here today?”

“I had horrible aim when I was twelve.” Jason tells her point blank, once he’s made sure other Bruce is busy flicking through a rackful of clothing. And now I’m coat shopping with an asshole who wears sunglasses indoors in fucking December, plus just a plain asshole.

Although, if he were in a more charitable mood he’d agree that this is maybe not entirely Bruce’s fault, except Jason is not in a charitable mood. He’s not in any sort of mood that’s charitable-adjacent because there is a dozen outerwear barraging him in the face, each with an array of qualities that he could not give less of a shit about. Sunglasses douche Bruce refuses to hear it, when Jason tries to convey the amount of shit he does not give.

“We are not leaving,” He says, firmly. “Until we find you the perfect coat.”

It doesn’t help that regular douche Bruce is sitting there looking as uncomfortable as one can get on a plush leather couch, with his arms crossed like this is the greatest waste of time, and it’s not even that Jason disagrees, it’s just.

It stings a little to see how much Bruce does not want to be here.

No one forced him. Jason thinks bitterly. Or, well, yes, they are all forced to be here by the situation, but it’s not like Jason personally tied the man down and dragged him into the shop kicking and screaming.

They never did this sort of stuff before, when he was little and living with Bruce. At the end of the day, he only spent a fleeting handful of years in that tall mansion. There were things he mourned when he lost them, things he knew they would not get a chance to do together now, but shopping had not made the cut.

Something inside him is piqued by this cheerful, buoyant man and his gravitational pull towards domesticity. The other Bruce’s fussing makes him wonder what happened in that other universe, whether it is a regular occurrence for him and his Jason, to hang out in matching ugly sweaters, or to spend agonizingly long minutes browsing for a piece of clothing.

Hand wraps around Jason’s, folding and unfolding his cuff.

When was the last time Bruce held his hand?

They must, right? What reasons do they have to not do that, an ordinary man and his ordinary son who’s going to be in law school, following his father’s footsteps? He wonders if Bruce took that Jason to the New Zealand trip they always talked about, after his high school graduation, or maybe they went sooner since they would have had all the extra time from not being Batman and Robin. 

Jason doesn’t want to be wondering. He hates it.

“May I see the other one?” Bruce says, suddenly. “The one that was next to the one you –, yes, that’s it. Thank you.” The shop assistant moves to hand the item to Bruce but he gestures towards Jason instead, who’s currently struggling out of a green tartan trench coat. He stares. “What is this?”

It’s a maroon wool coat, absolutely out of his normal style range, but still a lot more subdued and therefore tolerable than anything other Bruce has picked out so far. Doesn’t mean he’s going to give Bruce the satisfaction by trying it on cooperatively though. “What is this? I don’t want this, Bruce.”

Bruce leans forward, ankle propped on one knee and elbow on another, frowning slightly with the same focus he only grants top priority cases. “You’ll want to see how it layers.” He muses, and points at the folded turtlenecks and slacks. Then Bruce proceeds to casually and accurately rattle off Jason’s size in everything, which is a shock big enough that he forgets to resists being pushed into the fitting room.

By his third sneeze, Bruce decides to move away from Wayne and his pink coat. The other man smiles at him apologetically. “Interesting, isn’t it? Figures you would be the one allergic since this is your...” He winks when Bruce furrows his brows in warning, “...coat, after all. And speaking of things that’s yours,” Wayne cocks a foot towards the fitting room, “Why does he keep calling you Bruce?”

Tiny, fragile ribs, barely protected by baby fat that they’d worked so hard for, fluttering under his fingers, the high-pitched squeals of a child’s laughter, little hands fighting to tickle him back but failed because the boy is beyond himself with hysteria, “Stop it! Stop! Daaaaad –”

Ribs, jutting out of the uniform. Robin’s red. Robin’s red uniform. The red of the bird and the red of the blood. Seeping into the sand. The sticky paste of what once was his son. His son. He’d never be able to –. The hands. Mangled. Broken. He encircles the small fingers in his palm. Did he lose a fingernail? It’s going to hurt so much when he – When Jason – He’s going to – He’ll never –

Did he call for me? He asked the ruins, the dessert, the stars hanging above. My son, did he call for dad, in his final moments? Did he know that I was coming?

Does it matter? The frozen night sky mocked. You’ll never hear it again.

Jason must have finished changing into the new clothes because the idling assistants flock to the fitting room, gasping and crooning. How handsome. How smart. The man that his boy has grown into somewhere Bruce couldn’t see. Wayne’s eyes shine with a spark that is almost familiar, a kindred knowing. “What happened?” He asks quietly, “He’s your son, Bruce. What happened? Why doesn’t he call you dad anymore?”

I lost it. He wants to say. I lost that title and everything related to it when I lost him. And the last time I held his hand was when I kneeled next to his fifteen-year-old body. And there was so much blood that I can no longer bear seeing him in red anymore. Some days I think the whole design philosophy behind the Red Hood is hinged on the Red so that I die a little each time we meet. Some days I am able to recognize my complete failure and insurmountable idiocy as a father but I can’t help but wonder if red is still his favorite color, and if that has anything to do with the hoodie Catherine once bought him. Every day I wish I was the one who died. I wish it was me and not him. I wish it was me and not him. But I couldn’t change that. Red is still his favorite color. I can’t change anything.

What he manages to say is, “I’d really appreciate it if you don’t mention that again, especially to him.”

Chapter Text

2.86 pounds.

Not many can tell the exact weight of the normally proverbial last straw for them, but for Jason that is a very solid, very precise 2.86 pounds, because it is neither normal, nor proverbial.

He’s put up with a lot in the span of less than 24 hours, and the hits just keep on coming. The two Bruces were in some weird arguments when Jason came out of the fitting room feeling like a rich-ass fucking preppy. Bruce looked like he was hiding a stab wound far more recent than it should have been, and other Bruce looked the least amount of happy since he’d materialized in Jason’s shoebox apartment, which is a cause concerning enough that he didn’t fight them as much as he’d wanted to over the purchase of the stupid outfit (plus he’d rather get bashed with a crowbar again than to try on another coat). He kept his scowling to a minimum and most of his mutterings to himself when both brooding men moved towards the counter to pay, only that other Bruce paused, and gave Jason a bunch of goosebumps by considering him for several moments, before informing them that he’d like to explore a little and wandered out, leaving it to Jason to search for the lunatic with no other than Bruce Wayne and a gigantic laminated matte finish carrier bag between them.

So in summary, Jason was already on edge, slightly freaked out, and quite tense about if there would be a fucking reset in his immediate future when he saw it.

It’s been many years since he donned those colors, but Jason could have spotted the second Robin costume amongst a row of Fluffy Sidekicks from a mile away because, one, for years he ran around in the human replica of them green pixie boots almost every other night, and two, they are arranged in order of appearance with name tags such as “The Second Robin” proudly displayed on their chests.

Bruce takes one step in the direction of the popup toy stand and turns to go the other way as if he just heard an explosion. “We should probably go check the – ”

Jason has snatched a handful of his sleeve before the man could even think to run. Oh no, he does not get to pretend he didn’t see what Jason saw. “What,” He jabs an outraged thumb towards the stuffed – haha how original and it sure will leave a fun print when he’s finished beating Bruce to death with it – Robin bird in his old costume. “Is that?”

“What is what?” The old man has the audacity to act confused, but he sounds guilty enough to validate Jason’s righteous fury. He drags them both to stand within arm’s reach of the plush animals and points again. “What. The. Fuck. Is. That?”

A mother with two small children hums disapprovingly at his raised voice. Jason truly could not care less. He picks up the thing and thrusts it in front of Bruce’s face. It’s surprisingly solid, heavier than it looks. “You have about twenty seconds to explain, then I’m blowing this mall up.” He hisses. Lady mother pulls her children away with an alarmed look.

Bruce’s eyes cross a little as they land on the toy. “It is the second Robin from the fluffy sidekick line.”

“No shit Sherlock. Why does it exist?!”

Bruce clears his throat uncomfortably. “Well, legally speaking, Wayne Enterprise owns the Batman trademark, and they must have granted some third-party companies the merchandising license –”

“ – Does this look like Batman to you, old man?” He gives the toy a good shake. “You had no right –”

Now Bruce seems like he’s seriously fighting the urge to shift from foot to foot. “Um, technically, the Batman trademark extends to its associated –”

“You sold me?!” Jason snarls incredulously, then stops to rein in his volume and rage. God almighty he is not going to compromise his own secret identity this way, even though Bruce is making it really hard at the moment. He exhales long and harsh through the nose and whispers again, in quieter but still burning anger. “You sold me to the fucking toy company?!”

“I really think that you are overestimating the level of personal involvement I had in that deci –” He sneezes explosively and Jason pulls the stuffed animal out of his face. Not because he feels bad for Bruce. He doesn’t want some kid to get infected by his germs is all. He tosses the plushie into the air and frowns when it lands in his palm with a thud. “Why is the stupid thing so ridiculously fucking heavy?” He spits.

Bruce is shifting through his pockets for a handkerchief but looks pained. “It’s not heavy.” He says, and reaches a hand out like he wants to take the toy. Jason jerks it away from him. “It’s exactly 2.86 pounds.”

“Uh-huh. Why is that? And ‘not personally involved my ass’. The costume looks like y – like someone gave them the original design draft, you lying asshole!”

There is a pause, and Bruce sighs. “It’s made to scale.” He says. Then there is another pause where they both know what’s going to happen before Jason explodes again.

“You think I weigh 286 pounds?!”

“I factored in the cape and gears.”

“You think that my gears are –“  

“Test groups reported that their fluffy sidekick companions provide more comfort when they are weighted – “

“Stop calling it the fluffy sidekick!”

“It is a commercial name – ”

“I don’t care!”

“This line has done tremendously well since it came out. We were able to,” Bruce grimaces at the crump of tissue he has found. “Donate 60% of the profits to the Martha Wayne Children’s Health Foundation.”

Jason glares at the rows of stuffed toys, four Robins, two Batgirls, Spoiler, Red Robin, Signal, Nightwing, each with their own tags and shelves, next to a pile of Christmas Edition Batman, he snorts. “Guess who’s not even good enough to be a part of the corporate sell-out.” He sounds bitter to his own ears. Why does he sound bitter? It’s stupid and demeaning and he doesn’t care. The sight of all the members of his – of these vigilantes in their plushie form, smiling up like idiots doesn’t make him yearn for a sense of belonging. For heaven’s sake, the second Robin is actually there and he despises it (except that’s not him. Not anymore).

Bruce twitches in surprise and chews on his next words carefully. “I...didn’t want to assume.” He says, sniffling in a very not Bruce-like fashion. It makes the ugly knots in Jason, not quite loosen, but go slightly lax somehow. The old man looks weirdly human standing there clutching a wad of tissue and the shopping bag. “I wasn’t sure if you’d...and we never got the clearance from the in-house.”

Jason’s mouth moves just a beat quicker than his brain. “He has that Bat symbol on his chest, doesn’t he?” He throws out. That should mean something. He thinks. He doesn’t catch Bruce’s reaction because their phones buzz at the same time.

“What did you say to him.” Jason complains. They are currently roaming the ground floor of the mall, more frantic than before the encounter with those little misrepresentations. He hits the volume down button several times before playing the last voice message from Steph. It’s in the same vein of graphic threats and hysteria, about what will happen to everyone if they make her lose her precious table at the precious dessert place, but he can hear Damian in the background too which means they have at least regrouped in the Santa line. Bruce has his phone pinched between his ear and shoulder, and grabs a napkin off the fro-yo stand as they run past it. Jason can hear chaos spilling over the receiver. He’s just about to suggest they search the men’s room again when Bruce taps him on the shoulder.

“Dick says he’s there.”

“He what?”

“He’s there. He remembered the group picture with Santa and he found them in the line. There are only three families before them though. So let’s go.”

Thankfully, they were already on the right floor. Wrong end of the mall, but the right floor, and it is much easier to spot an eight feet bedazzled Christmas tree than a single dude running around, even if he’s dressed like a flamingo.

“Oh thank fudge you guys!” Steph exclaims as they join the group. “They are holding the table for me for fifteen minutes, and I swear to god I will leave in ten, picture or not.”

“Be my guest and take me with you.” Jason mutters, glancing at the sweater Alfred pressed into his hand. It’s gotta be a new record for the number of outfits he’s been forced into in one day, since that disastrous nativity play he did in preschool. He doesn’t suppose it’s worth the argument, seeing that even the youngest Wayne has the matching sweater on, looking his age for once but very, very sour about it. He’ll wait till the last second then. There is still one other family in front of them, and neither of the  Bruces has put on theirs yet.

“I’ll run to the bathroom super quick.” other Bruce declares, giving up on trying to wrestle on the sweater without disturbing his sunglasses. He chucks the pink coat at Bruce, and wiggles out to the sound of protests from five different people.

“Why.” Jason asks dourly.

“Because it’s adorable! It’s got the snowman and the tree and the reindeers! And it’s also the only thing that fits everyone actually, so, happy coincidence.”

“Not why the sweater, Dickwad. Why am I here?”

“Because you are filled with the spirit of Christmas and this is what people do during Christmas.”

 “Do people lose their place in line that they’ve waited two hours for?” Duke gestures at the ginger house background, the family before them is moving up to gather around Santa. “Because we are about to.”

Everyone groans, and Steph visibly vibrates with angst. Damian huffs. “If he could not return in time, then we should simply take the picture without him.”

Jason could punch every person in this line. “He is the only reason I’m even here.” He tells the brat tightly. “We are waiting, or I’m not doing this.” He’d have to shoot himself in the head if he gets forced to relive any of the past two hours, for leaving happy Bruce out of the Christmas photo.

Alfred turns to the people standing behind him gracefully. “I’m afraid we are still waiting for a family member.” He says. “Perhaps you would like to take our spot?”

After a little awkward shuffling and a lot of bleating from Steph, they manage to switch with a group that’s even larger than theirs, and are now standing in front of a sullen teenager texting furiously on his phone.  Jason starts pulling on the damn sweater at the combined looks from Alfred and Dick, but Bruce merely winces at his.

“I think.” He sneezes again, directly into the pink coat this time. “I’m having an allergic reaction.”

Tim wags a finger at him. “Yeah, no. Nice try, Bruce. We are all wearing it and so are you.”

“Seriously.” Another sneeze. “Can someone please take this damn coat away from me.”

Cass extends a hand to him, but gets knocked off-course when a big guy shoves into their entire group.

“What the hell.” The man says. He’s taller than Jason, and maybe even Bruce. “You cut us off!”

Dick frowns at him. “Uh, no.” He points to the family having their pictures taken now. “We switched with those people. We were at the front of the line.”

The man grabs the teenager by the shoulder and he yanks his head up. “I don’t remember seeing you lots in this line. Do you remember seeing these assholes, Matty?”

Matty shakes his head, but Big Guy doubles down. “What’s the matter with you, boy?” He demands. “We told you to hold your position. How’d you get cut off by a dozen people?”

“Sir,” Alfred intervenes, the only one of them who is successfully schooling their expression into “not two seconds away from driving my fist into your stomach”, “There is no need for that. You could simply ask the –”

“Security!” Big Guy yowls, still gripping his son by the shoulder. People are turning their heads to this direction. “Yo! Security! You gonna do something about it?”

A beleaguered guard in blue moves towards them at the same time other Bruce emerges, arms open wide, happy like a clam and just as oblivious. “Hey gang! Look at us all – Whoa,” He blinks, once he’s close enough to see the stand-off. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong,” Big Guy raises his voice some more when other Bruce tries to blend into the group. “Is that now another of you pricks is cutting us off!”

Bruce opens his mouth in obvious annoyance only to gets interrupted immediately by a loud sneeze, so Jason decides it’s his turn to voice some opinions. “Listen, shithead.” He gets up close and personal with Big Guy, shaking off whoever’s arm snaking around to hold him back. “We didn’t cut you off. So shut your mouth and take your hand off your son.”

Big Guy sputters indignantly and curls his lips. The security guard hovers an obligatory hand over his chest while both Bruces are actively trying to shove Jason behind them. There is a semi-circle slowly forming around them, the line for Santa picture long forgotten.

Then a woman appears.

“Honey?” She’s pulling two kids along. “What are you doing?”

“They cut the line!” Big Guy yells and his son flinches minutely. Out of embarrassment or out of fear? Jason doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He flexes his fists in anticipation, except Bruce also has a hand on his shoulder now, reaching back, warm and grounding.

“We didn’t cut the line, douchebag!” Stephanie’s voice. She’s not going to make it back to the dessert shop in time for sure. “My family have been standing here for two hours!”

“I don’t remember seeing them!”

 “Because there were twenty people between you!”

“Miss. Miss.” The security guard tries, struggling to be heard over the screaming.  “Please calm down.”

Several voices join at that, from their side, until Bruce, one hand on Jason’s shoulder and one hand still holding onto the shopping bag (Cass has finally extricated the coat from him at some point), sneezes right at Big Guy’s face, spraying him thoroughly with bodily fluid. Big Guy freezes. Bruce freezes. For a second he looks like he’s maybe wanting to apologize, but the wife lets out a screech.

“You did that on purpose!” She screams. “Oh god. Oh disgusting. Oh...”

“Madam.” The guard begins again, then wisely decides he’d rather talk to their group instead. “Sir,” He turns to Bruce. “Maybe you should...”

Jason takes a step forward because fuck this. They didn’t do anything wrong. He doesn’t remove Bruce’s hand, just goes to stand next to him shoulder to shoulder, all six feet of intimidating bulk. “They are the ones –”

The woman screeches again, at Jason this time, for a family of jackasses they do have amazing vocal ranges. “Him! He threatened to blow up the mall! I heard him next to the toy stand!”

Jason’s brain frizzles for a second, and then he sees one of the little kid, who is holding a Fluffy Sidek– a fucking stuffed Robin.

Oh.

Oh.

Stunned silence fan out slowly behind them. Jason gets it. It doesn’t exactly sound like something he wouldn’t do. He exchanges a look with Bruce when other Bruce shakes his head in good humor. “This is clearly a misunderstanding.” He also goes to put a hand on Jason, around his bicep. “He is just a child.”

No one, not the family of sopranos, not the security guard, not even the stuffed animal looks convinced by that. Jason appreciates the comradery, sorta, but could not be less impressed by the strategy.

Big Guy eyes them all incredulously. “The hell. That is not a child.”

“He really is though. He’s just...tall.”

The security guard renders his verdict. Jason’s stomach drops a little when he looks at them. “Sir. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask your group to leave.”

The stuffed Robin clutched tight in the child’s hand squeaks once pitifully while they are being escorted away. Huh. He was not aware it comes with a voice recorder option, or that an inanimate object could sound disappointed. 

Chapter Text

The thing about being escorted out of the Bergduff’s is that, it’s very hard to do with dignity, and Stephanie has had her share of “hard to do with dignity” experiences. She can still feel the weight of a borrowed cape trailing off her shoulders. Bruce’s unwavering disappointment stuck in his unwavering eyes. She holds her head high though, as high as possible with a neon pink Cass huddled close.

“I feel...” Cass struggles. Every eye is on their group of alleged line-cutters and mall bombers. “I am...quite...embarrassed.”

“Of course you are embarrassed.” Steph tells her. Several stripes of LED lights dramatically combusted as they walked, causing screams and startled shouts until Dick took a hold of Duke’s wrist and squeezed. “Because this is embarrassing. For all of us.” She pats her friend reassuringly on the head and glares back at the psycho family. Jason might have started this (or she had. Or Bruce, when he showered someone with his spit. Semantics) but she’d be damned if she doesn’t at least get the last look in.

Not that anybody appreciated her solidarity. The ride back is what Stephanie would describe as tense. Jason is fuming at the ceiling muttering darkly. Regular Bruce is driving with sniffles and a neck so stiff that Steph is concerned about their fellow road users not within the man’s peripheral vision. Even happy Bruce has chosen to busy himself with frowning out the window.

She has no idea what happened between her joining the revered line of FGD and her being ripped away from her heart’s desire, but she can make an assumption. Historically, the combination of Jason and Bruce has never proved to be the formula for peace and mindfulness. It’s normally fifty fifty in terms of who did what and whose fault it is, but she’d take Jason’s side on this one. Historically, one Bruce under duress has the opposite effect of peace and mindfulness on any sane person, and tossing in another Bruce who’s responsible for the duressing? Poor dude didn’t stand a chance. She thinks Jason would have bolted had that been an option, and maybe the same goes for Bruce. She also thinks that they are somehow both blaming themselves for how they landed here. That’s the problem with Jason and Bruce: they are too much alike, even physically now. People with no blood relation have no business sharing that cutting line of irk in the twitch of their jaw muscles, the eyebrows tucking in dark clouds with roaring complexes.

When she was Spoiler, Tim had shown her pictures of the previous Dynamic Duo, the small flare of Robin colors leaving a soft ache in her for the boy she’d never met. But then Jason came back as a brick wall and one of her first thoughts was “Jesus Christ we have a very convincing Batman substitute”.

They look like they could be father and son. Steph wonders, when Jason was tiny, if people ever thought he was Bruce’s own; if they ever got the chance to go somewhere far enough for the name Bruce Wayne to not ring of loud recognition. What must the boy have felt about it then and how would they, the both of them, think of that now?

The other Bruce sure looks like he fully embraces the idea of Jason as son boy. She studies him surreptitiously studying Jason under the pretense of shifting his gaze to the windshield.  The man is from a happier universe, which means what? No Bats, they’ve established. And no deaths, either, probably, be it the one that led him to this path or the ones caused by this path. No peeling filthy uniforms along with dried blood off already scabbing skin at 4 am. No rooftop screaming matches swallowed by Gotham gale. No jagged wounds. No Robin. No Batgirl. No Spoiler.

Steph allows herself a fleeting, alarming moment to wonder what she meant for this man in that happier universe.

If she meant.

“How,” she asks again, just to rid the car of the stifling silence, “and why did we get thrown out? What exactly happened?”

Nothing, from Regular Bruce and Jason. An apologetic smile from Happy Bruce.

Duke gives his seatbelt an awkward tug. “I mean, we kinda got into it with that other family.”

“Who weren’t asked to leave.” Steph points out. “We were. Because what, Jason threatened to blow up the mall? When did you even threaten to blow up the mall?”

Bruce shoots her a look of warning in the rearview mirror.  She’s learned to interpret that look as “it’s actually possibly my own fault but I’m going to act all bitchy about it instead of explaining”.

“I didn’t threaten to blow up the mall. I said I – ” Jason stops himself with a long and deliberate and totally Bruce-esque intake of air – See? –  and gives Bruce a dirty look. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters a little when they banned us from the mall!”

“And they’ll unban us. Or Bruce will sue, or something.”

“I’m not going to sue.” Bruce says tiredly. “Because they didn’t ban us. You can go back whenever you want.”

“Oh yeah? Can I go back now?”

“...No.”

“No.” Steph affirms. “Which is why I am entitled to an explanation for what led to my untimely ban from the mall.”

Jason thuds his head roughly against the headrest. “Jesus Christ. I’m sorry, OK? It’s my fault. That’s all you need to know is that it was completely and fully my fault, if that makes everybody happy.”

Happy Bruce frowns at him.

“No one blames you, Jason.” The air in the car shifts, loose ripples of exasperation gathering to shape into much more significant waves. “No one blames you for anything.” Happy Bruce adds firmly. Steph is starting to get an inkling of a feeling that isn’t quite ominous yet still troubling, like when you know you didn’t have the stove on, but maybe you are actually supposed to. Like they are collectively forgetting something.

The expression on Jason’s face shifts too. For a second, the sadness softens him the way a meat mallet tenderizes. As quickly as it appeared though, the look is gone. “Whatever.” He mutters.

The waves are slowing down again but Steph is in a surfing mood. She pokes Jason in the shoulder. “Whatever? Whatever? I have suffered undue punishment and it’s whatever?”

“Can’t you let it go, man?” Duke complains. He’s very likely getting the same reading of the room (well, vehicle) but would rather not get splashed. Nope. Whatever weird-ass off-brand tsunami they are brooding, it better hit while she’s wearing swimming fins. She keeps up the poking.

 “I don’t know, Duke. Can I get my table at Flafla’s Garage DJ back? Can I have a seasonal special only Christmas pudding made with sticky rice? Can I – ”

“Poke me one more time, and I swear you won’t be able to chew anything harder than Gotham’s tap water for the rest of your – ”

“Stop it.” Their Bruce snaps, harshly. “Both of you.”

Steph shouldn’t feel anything. In fact, she barely feels anything. Been a long time since that tone could form an ice shell of humiliation over her shoulders when she’s around Bruce. I’m so used to only being visible to you when I’m out of line, somedays it’s almost muscle memory to take that step.

But Jason bites down on his lower lip so hard that she catches the first look of Happy Bruce that has fully tilted over into the realm of anger, and it is directed right at Regular Bruce.  It’s actually super unnerving to see something almost Batman, on a man that is also almost Batman (And here comes that “stove is supposed to be on” feeling again).

Their Bruce either does not pick up on that, or does not care, knuckles straining over the steering wheel. “We each had a simple task, which we each had failed. Let’s leave it at that, and strive to do better, next time.”

What. The. Fuck.

Steph is doing her very absolute bestest best to remember the 4th wall and the no cursing rule, but Bruce, in effectively rebutting his counterpart’s declaration that no one blames Jason for anything, just managed to make their little mall shenanigan sound like a mission. A failed one, at that.

The man’s compulsive regression back to drill sergeant whenever he feels not one hundred percent in control is going to be the death of her someday. At the moment, it’s just bad. Really bad. Duke hangs his head and Steph trails her finger down Jason’s bicep, hesitating to form a comforting grip until it’s shaken off.

Other Bruce’s eyes are sharp. “That is very uncalled for.” He glances back at all of them. “It was only supposed to be some family fun. And we had fun.”

Steph keeps her mouth shut at that, but different people have different ideas about self-preservation. Bruce pursed his lips until Jason let out a loud snort, then the man growls. “Well, as long as you had fun.”

To be fair, Bruce is actually very rarely mean on purpose, which is probably why the sarcasm dripping from his voice immediately sours the atmosphere like acid. Other Bruce narrows his eyes. “You know, I’m beginning to think that me being here is causing more trouble than it’s worth.”

“And why exactly would I be troubled by the presence of a dimension-traveling stranger who has commandeered my home?”

By sheer miracle, or unknown movie rules, they are not sent back four hours in time. The backseat vibrates when all three of them flinch in fear but nothing else happens.

Jason looks a little murderous though.

“Leave him the f–ridge alone.” He yells at their Bruce. “This isn’t even about him. Why are you acting like we ruined the day when you wouldn’t have been here at all in the first place?!”

The clouds are rolling in. The winds have picked up. There is a white line at the horizon moving towards them at 500 miles per hour and Steph realizes maybe swimming fins are not quite the right tool for a tsunami.

 Bruce opens his mouth then closes it with an audible click of teeth, then he opens it again. Steph thinks this is it, he’s going to say something that could either make or break the glass threads between him and Jason, but nothing comes out. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth, a delicate thing too bitter to be a smile, too broken to be anger.

“How are you not bothered by this?” He asks the other Bruce instead, ignoring Jason as if he hasn’t spoken. “You are trapped in a different universe, yet it is not your first priority to find a way to return?”

Happy Bruce must be affected enough by the near grief-stricken tone to go with the sudden change of flow so willingly.

“Well, I’ve been to other dimensions before.” He recounts. “Many times, in fact. And they always worked out at the end. I always return to my universe. To my family.”

 Bruce doesn’t say anything back, just sniffles again and swallows, subdued and distant. Steph would feel bad for him if he hasn’t just been such a big jerk. They drive in silence for a while, and Happy Bruce turns to him.

“I understand you and I have different...styles.” He begins softly. “But you are here for a reason. So why –”

“Oh please.” Jason interrupts loudly. “We are all here for a reason. And that reason for B is called he signed a contract.” So many things in life is about obligation and duty for him. It’s easy to give the impression that he doesn’t want to be there if he doesn’t have to. Does he really though? Steph has her doubts and questions. 

This would have been the window for Bruce to say something (or once again, for other Bruce to blow up), about why he’s here or about the look he got earlier that’s half sorrow and half memory. Happy Bruce shakes his head when he doesn’t take it and the silence stretches uncomfortably.

“Uh uh uh. Remember, Jay, you both signed it. So let’s turn that frown upside down and return to some yuletide fun.” He rubs his hands together. “Now, why don’t we share our favorite Christmas songs? Mine would be Villancico.”

There is a beat where Jason tries to hold back the question and continue with being sullen but fails. “Your favorite Christmas song is called carol?”

“Well, yeah, there is this rendition with the zambomba. I’m quite fond of it.”

“Now you are just making up words.”

“Much hurt. Very accusation. And I was going to offer to demonstrate my zambomba skill –”

“ – Did you just revive the doge meme –”

“– You play the zumba bombom –”

“Yes, and yes.” Other Bruce twists fully in his front seat to point at Jason and Steph, a broad grin on his face. “And actually, another yes. I’m not bad at Zumba either.”

The mental image of a Zumba dancing Bruce really stokes the fire that the doge reference started, so when he wiggles his eyebrows at Jason, it finally sets the boy off. A startled laugh erupts out of him like spring water and he titters.

“My god. You are ridiculous, Bruce.”

The man’s smile brightens before he turns back. “So I’ve been told.”

They keep up an easier chat after that, Steph and Duke chime in occasionally and Bruce contributes by sniffling only.  The laid-back vibe lasts until Happy Bruce starts telling them all the stories of his world traveling.

“– so imagine going all the way to Antarctica and finding no polar bears there! Still would recommend though. What a magical experience. You guys ever been?”

The only one who’d probably been to the South Pole is Bruce, and he’s busy frowning at the traffic and purposefully ignoring their conversation. They all shrug.

“Nah.” Jason says. “Never been away from Gotham too much for...uh, pleasure. The furthest I’ve ever been to was E – ”

Car in front of them brakes so abruptly that Bruce has to swerve to avoid crashing into it. Everyone yelps and Steph drives an elbow into Jason’s side amidst the chaos.

“Emerald city.” He finishes lamely, a little wide eyed.

“Wow.” Duke murmurs. Happy Bruce would hopefully think he’s referring to the almost collision even though their Bruce looks like he just witnessed a petting zone being pancaked by a freight train.

“And how was Seattle?” Steph asks loudly over Bruce’s furious honking.

Jason gives her a long look that is dirty and incredulous. “Rainy.” He finally says, drily. Their Bruce glances back. “Are you all OK back there?” He honks again for good measure before overtaking the front car. “I’m...” A pause. “Sorry about that.”

He takes another breath and Steph patiently waits for this buildup to lead to another apology about the snap earlier.

Happy Bruce interrupts. “It’s probably my fault. I shouldn’t have distracted you with my polar bear story.”

Bruce grits his teeth. “I was not distracted by your –”

“And,” Other Bruce adds, “I’m sorry for getting us kicked out of the mall. I’ve been meaning to say this. I shouldn’t have called that guy a pogger. I just didn’t like the way he was looking at you, Jay.”

“Do you just know what this means or did you google ‘trendy insults’?”

“I don’t think that is why we were–”

“As I was saying –”

“No, no.” Jason waves a hand primly. “I appreciated the support. And, uh, I probably overreacted a little. Guy was a douchebag but his wife was just spooked. Guess we wouldn’t have gotten kicked out of the mall if I handled...stuff better.”

Duke clears his throat. “Since we are talking about it, I’d also like to apologize for knocking out those–, ow!”

Steph pinches Duke before he could admit his guilt for blowing up those mall lights. No meta talk, they’d agreed. Happy Bruce doesn't seem to have noticed anything but she changes course swiftly nonetheless. “So refreshing to see everyone blaming themselves for something, except me, because I also blame yourselves.”

Jason groans as they drive up the manor’s private road. “Seriously, blondie. What do you want?”

 “Well I wanted a soy mochi milk tea!”

They go back and forth, bickers and banters bouncing off each other as they hop off the car. Steph ducks behind Duke when Jason tries to pull the end of her braid. Other Bruce trails after them into the den and they converge with the rest of the family. An impromptu dance competition breaks out between him, Dick, and Cass. No one else notices Bruce stalking off when Jason throws his head back, laughing so hard he has to clutch Tim for support.

The cowl doesn’t turn towards the sound of footsteps but Steph knows he hears her.

“Does this mean I can have your dessert? If you are going to banish yourself to patrol on Christmas Eve?”

“Some of us has to do the job, Stephanie.”

It jabs. It always does. The only difference between now and then is that she’s stopped trying desperately to prove something to Bruce, because it’s like juicing pebbles for a smoothie. “When you say things like that, you make people feel bad.” No response. “Like in the car. I think Jason would agree with me.”

The gauntlet flipping open belt pouches pauses for a millisecond and Stephanie knows she’s struck gold.  She takes a seat on the console like she’s not supposed to, facing Bruce, head tilted towards the cave entrance: past that, is Bruce’s study, and past that and a bunch of rooms down the winding hallway, is Jason laughing his head off with another man who’s almost Bruce but not.

“I once had this friend, Ashley, when I was like, six or something.” She tells the tip of one Bat ear. “And we were tight. Friendship bracelets and all that. Had some sleepovers at her house. Nice family. She had this Barbie collection and we were both obsessed. One summer she invited me to a themed party and I made my mom take me to three different malls to find a purple Barbie dress. I spent weeks looking forward to it and,” In her imagination, the ears twitch in captivation. “And I didn’t end up going because, uh, my dad got arrested, and so I stayed home to make a scrapbook.”

She smiles a little sheepishly at Bruce. “Thought if, if I could convince the judge that he can be a good dad, then maybe he wouldn’t have to go to jail. Didn’t know that six-year-olds aren’t qualified to be character witnesses.”

“The thing is, looking back I'm not even sure if I liked Ashley as a friend, or if I just liked watching normal families, you know? Like I wanted to know how things would have been if my parents were different.”

The white lenses meet her eyes and when he speaks it’s Bruce in his quiet, sincere self. “I’m sorry, Stephanie.”

She shakes her head. “No. I know you are. That’s not why I’m telling you this. The part I felt you needed to hear is, I’d still have chosen him, do you understand? I never wanted another dad. That’s not how it works. I knew there were better-functioning people out there but I still wanted him. I just wished that he were...different. Tried harder, maybe.”

There is no sound but Steph could hear all the old wounds bleeding.

“He seems so happy around him.” The look that vaguely reminisced grief on Bruce Wayne’s face juts out of Batman so starkly that she suddenly tears up. “I don’t remember the last time that I –”

“You have to let him know.” She pleads. God she hates this family and everyone in it with their entangled love and fear for each other, if only she could make herself stop caring. “Jason’s going to keep assuming the worst until you tell him how you actually feel.”

The man in front of her looks more defeated than she could ever remember. He chooses and picks his words like they have thorns. “It would be selfish of me.”

Steph blinks at him. “Uh...come again?”

He sighs. “It would be selfish of me, to burden him with my own baggage.”

And that’s when Steph does something she’d always wanted to do: she smacks Bruce right in the Bat ears.