Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1976

~ Bruce ~

Bruce first paid attention to the stories at age 18, when Commissioner Gordon’s family was affected. He was about to embark on his journey to become the Batman, but this news gave him pause.

Of course he had heard of the phenomenon less than a year prior, when a case first had enough witnesses and undeniable evidence to break into global news. The Flying Graysons. 

He remembered being intrigued by the story in passing: A husband and wife duo of world-traveling acrobats made an unintended spectacle in front of a sold-out crowd when Mary Grayson very abruptly went into intense labour, swiftly giving birth to a child on stage. 

And if that in itself was not stunning enough, the acrobat had not in the slightest bit been pregnant before that very moment.

Apparently, there were already several more cases of this type of event occurring over the past few years all around the globe, but none of them had yet been quite so spectacular. Most of these instances had resulted in the death of the mother, as well as the miracle child. 

But the Graysons were some of the first to survive the experience with both mother and child still breathing, even if Mary’s condition left her out of commission for the foreseeable future. She hoped to soon return to performing, but it was no surprise that the traumatic, divine birth had quite the impact on her body. Not to mention the child that they suddenly had the responsibility of caring for.

The story was certainly compelling and awfully puzzling, but Bruce hadn’t given it too much though at the time. He had been far too focused on setting things in motion for his training. Then, not a month later, it came to Gotham - to the family of the Commissioner himself. 

Jim Gordon’s sister-in-law, Thelma, single and long-since-divorced from his brother, fell victim to one such spontaneous labour, from which she did not recover. The child, however, managed to make a full recovery, and the Commissioner took full custody of her in place of his brother.

Hearing the news report on this one, seeing the haunted agony in Jim’s face as he held his sister’s tragic gift - the cursed blessing of a child impossibly born with such unwelcome violence and a cost none of them deserved to pay - something shifted within Bruce. Like a heavy weight clicking into place, so that he just couldn’t let it go.

The weight grew tenfold just 5 years into his training, when he heard word from the monks that their village in the mountains also had a miracle child. Not only that, but this child was believed to be terribly cursed. The villagers said that he spoke with the dead. They only left him and his father alone for fear that his curse would be passed on to the rest of them.

Apparently, as word came out about this ongoing phenomenon, it became more and more common for these spontaneously-born children to be killed or left for dead as an attempt to rid their communities of their so-called ‘curse’. This superstition had only festered as more and more stories circulated about these kids displaying ‘demonic powers’ and causing panic and harm to the people around them. 

A surge of fury washed over Bruce as soon as he heard of this, and he demanded all of the information that the monks could give him. The child was safe in his father’s care at the time, but even his mildly favourable situation was an extreme rarity for these cases. Less than a week later, Bruce would encounter another scenario which was unfortunately far more common and it would shake him forever.

He was merely passing through another Tibetan village when he heard a massive commotion of villagers returning to town. Many ran anxiously to greet them while several others were weeping and shouting. With a pit in his stomach, Bruce inquired about the cause of the chaos and was merely informed that ‘the demons were cast out’. 

The pit in his stomach curdled into a sickening storm as he forced the locals to tell him where they had come from and what exactly they had done. He soon learned that earlier that day, a woman in their village had been struck by one such spontaneous labour, and that the villagers’ response to this event had been swift and callous. 

Unfortunately, what he learned would be too little, too late to change the outcome. He found her dumped just a few miles outside of the village, her unshivering, blue-tinged body sprawled over the scarlet snow. They hadn’t even shown her the mercy of executing her themselves to spare her or her child the pain. She was still barely breathing when he skidded to her side, her arms somehow wrapped around the blood-soaked, stillborn child. She opened her eyes one last time before she was gone, almost like she sensed him there and wanted to cry for help.

He buried both of them right there, painstakingly digging into that frozen ground with his own raw hands. He would wash up a million times after that day, but he would never seem to clean the blood and dirt out from under his nails. 

Once he returned, he began throwing himself into investigation, gathering reports, data, anything at all he could find about these magical childbirths. The more he learned, the more his horror grew - and the more that protective rage blossomed. 

Their deaths were a statistic. Like criminals in alleyways, these sort of incidents may very well have been happening every day, blanketed by shadows and obscurity. The image of her eyes stuck to him like tar - the horror in them as she clutched the body of her child was agonizingly familiar. He couldn’t shake it off.

He adjusted his plans, just slightly. The focus blurred, honing in on the same path, but with a different target. He would save Gotham, he would instill fear into the hearts of every low-lying thug until they thought more than twice about raising a gun. But he had another mission, too.

None of these kids asked to be born this way, and none of these families were prepared for such a momentous responsibility to be quite literally dropped into their laps. If these kids truly were ‘cursed’ with some strange abilities to match their bizarre entry into the world, then perhaps Bruce could help them cope, or even help them gain some amount of control over their curse. 

Maybe he could rescue these children from exile and execution, and build them somewhere safe to have a second chance at life.

From this thought, this sentiment, The Robin Academy was eventually born.

1997 (Present) 

~ Barbara ~

Rain gushes down from the darkened sky, splattering dispassionately over the dreary, Gotham streets. Everything is somehow even grayer than usual, like this city truly siphons all colour and joy from the universe.

Barbara promised herself that she would never come back here. When she left this place, her only mission was to find life wherever it lay - to take in everything possible that her anemic soul was so desperately missing.

One frivolous, stage-bound bender of stardom and reckless romance later, she was still left ravenously empty. A hungry, fumbling child in the body of an adult whose face is known around the world but whose nights are spent utterly alone.

Now, throat sore, legs paralyzed and heart bled dry in the wreckage of her failed escape, she’s faced with the unyielding question of how it all went wrong.

She would much rather focus on the where and when of it all - but now that harsh reality is also careening ever closer.

The valet slows to a stop before the imposing, black gate of Wayne Manor, base of operations for the Robin Academy. Lightning flashes over the dark, looming building, illuminating the shuttered windows and excessive gargoyles. Rain trickles down over peeling wood and cracked stone, like the house itself is mourning its former occupants.

Barbara knows that a metallic statue stands in the back garden by the unused fountain, weeping onto the plaque's inscription which solemnly marks a grave. She knows they will mark another today, though this knowledge hasn’t seemed to make its way down to her heart quite yet.

There are no tears in her eyes today, even as she knows there should be. Maybe she has simply spent them all already - it would not be so hard to believe.

She told herself she would never come back here. Somehow, this moment feels no different than the first day she arrived here on her own. Her father was always the one to escort her here for lessons. He never missed a day while he was able.

His last words to her were a request - one which she detested at the time.

“I want you to stay with Bruce, my darling,” Jim Gordan choked out, petting her curls and tucking them fondly behind her ear. “He will take care of you… much better than I ever could.”

She protested, tears falling freely, then. She hugged him tight and cried out in vain for him not to give up so soon. She needed him - far more than Bruce. 

There was no universe where anyone could care for her better than her beloved father.

Even after everything, despite all the agony and bittersweet heartache that wills her to say otherwise, Barbara still believes that she was right. The bitter, hardened parts of her have always wanted to blame Bruce, but the grieving child within her knows that she can’t hold him to fault.

They were all their own undoing, and yet who can truly be to blame? They were only children. A mosaic of misfit kids in super-suits with dreams too big for their hands, just doing their best to be a team and a family in a world so ruthlessly unkind.

If that is where it all went wrong, then maybe they always were just doomed from the start.

1987  

~ Bruce ~

“Dick! Get down from there, you’re going to bring the whole thing down on your brother’s head!” Bruce ordered, waving an exasperated hand.

The sight of his children laughing and goofing around with dangerous decor and impossible physics didn’t seem to get any less alarming, even knowing they had powers. His son pursed his lips, but released the swinging, golden arms of the chandelier and dropped the considerable distance to the landing. His sweaty bangs stuck to his forehead even as he tried to sweep them away.

“What? I’m not gonna let it crush him!” he argued, standing tall and holding up his arms to prove that his superior height would prevent the massive light fixture from touching Tim’s head.

But Tim shoved him, seeming to realize Bruce’s point for himself. “You can’t catch crap if you’re falling with it, idiot! Geez, just ‘cause I talk to the dead doesn’t mean I wanna join ‘em!”

Blue light flashed in the corner of Bruce’s eye and he snapped his head towards the kitchen. “Jason! You better not be sneaking any of Alfred’s pastries in there! You know the rules!”

With another couple flashes, his son was sitting before him on the banister, innocently picking his nails. “Why would you assume I’d do such a thing, Dad? Can’t a man just non-suspiciously blink around his own manor in peace?”

Bruce raised a brow, eyes narrowed. Dick and Tim burst out laughing.

“Nah, how many did you stuff in your pockets?” Tim pressed, trying and failing to grab Jason before he blinked away.

He reappeared precariously balanced with one foot on the railing, shrugging his baggy sweater off one shoulder. “I didn’t snag shit, ‘n I’m offended you doubt me!”

“Liar!” Tim declared, the same moment that Bruce muttered: “Language.”

“Oh, we gotta get Barbara–” Dick turned abruptly, face lighting up with an urgent excitement. “Dad, is Babs coming today? She can get the truth outta him!”

Whirling on his brother, Jason teetered backwards over the edge of the railing - giving Bruce minor heart palpitations - before thankfully blinking away. But the relief of seeing the boy remove himself from danger was instantly tarnished when he reappeared mid-tumble in front of Dick. 

“Bullshit–”

“Language.”

“She can brainwash me to say anything she wants!” Jason continued, stopping his fall by shoving against his brother’s shoulder. “That doesn’t prove fucking anything!”

“ Jason, ” Bruce gritted testily, staring his son down until he shrugged acceptance.

“Whatever,” the boy grumbled, crossing his arms. “I’m right, though.”

“Are not–”

“To answer your question, Dick,” Bruce cut in again, massaging his temple in a futile attempt to ease a growing headache. “Yes, Barbara is coming today. That’s what I was trying to call you kids for, though apparently Stephanie is the only one who listens. It’s time for training.”

“Yes!” Dick exclaimed, leaping to an impressive height as Tim groaned and Jason whooped in celebration, blinking away to what Bruce assumed were the training grounds.

“Can’t I just hang out with Cass?” Tim whined, throwing his head back like the idea of ‘training’ was making him physically ill.

“Sure you can,” Bruce replied flatly, hiding a grin at his son’s hopeful expression. “She’s helping me keep track of everyone’s progress today, so I’m sure she’d appreciate the help tempering Damian.”

Tim lip instantly curled into a sneer and he slumped over in defeat, wordlessly shuffling on towards the training grounds. Letting out a soft chuckle to himself, Bruce slowly followed behind his children.

1997 (Present) 

~ Dick ~

It hurts to walk these halls again, hearing the floorboards creak and groan like they can no longer bear his weight. The quiet has gotten no less unbearable even after so many years of enduring it.

Dick has hoped and dreamt so many times that they’d all come back here someday, but never in his deepest nightmares did he imagine it like this. He wanders aimlessly, his feet hoping to somehow bring him far enough away from the inevitable that he won’t ever have to face it. 

Let him reminisce a little longer. Just a little longer; he’s not ready. How can he be ready? There’s no preparing for this. All those years and all the training they endured, but they were never prepared for this.

It’s impossible to deny how much he has grown, watching his shadow fall over their childhood bedrooms and instantly dwarfing them, just like Bruce’s used to when he’d peek in through their doors at night. Dick tries not to choke up when he realizes that he may be the tallest now.

Will they look to him now? What is he supposed to say? Dick can never hope to fill the impossible void left behind. He’s never been strong enough.

Soon his siblings will join him, all together again in the manor they once called home. Except there will be vital pieces missing. Empty spaces that they will all pretend not to notice, and missing years between them that they’ll act only mildly curious about.

God, he can’t wait to see them. But at the same time, he is absolutely dreading it.

How different must they all be now? Will he even recognize his family?

Does he possess the will to look them in the eye? Will he break at the sight of them, or could he manage a grief-stained smile?

He wonders if Tim got those tattoos like he wanted. He wonders if Cass ever got back into ballet or if she kept up with her violin lessons. He wonders if she and Damian still resent him for leaving. He wonders how Barbara is coping with the divorce and custody battles with that jackass she got so swept away by. He wonders if she ever found what it was that she was looking for.

He wonders if Bruce ever stayed up late, just waiting for him to call. He wonders if his careless, selfish actions led his father to believe that his own son truly hated him.

“Master Dick?” a soft voice snaps him from his haze, and Dick whirls around with that wobbly smile twisting onto his face.

The man is wearing the same suit vest and bow-tie as always, but an alarming amount of creases are visible in his white button-down. Despite everything, he still seems to stare down his nose at Dick, as if he’s still taller.

“Alfred! So good to see you!” he greets, swiftly crossing the distance to pull the butler into an embrace.

Alfred accepts it briskly, nodding to him. “Quite so, sir. I see you found your own entry through the windows, unannounced. How nostalgic of you.”

Letting out an apologetic laugh, Dick scratches the back of his head. “Ahh, yeah… Old habits, I guess?”

The butler blinks back, unimpressed. “Quite.”

That stubborn lump in the back of his throat swells, but he chokes it down. Something fragile in his chest is threatening to crack if Dick doesn’t choose his words carefully, and he is absolutely lost on what to do if it shatters.

He has to say something. He’s had the luxury of cowardice for far too long, and look where that left them all.

“I’m… sorry I didn’t call,” he manages, avoiding the man’s studious gaze by fiddling with his thumbs.

“There is no need for apologies, Master Dick,” Alfred replies near-automatically. “I do hope you spent far more of your energy on maintaining contact with the actual members of your family.”

Those words twist like a hunting knife in Dick’s chest and he grimaces, head hanging low. A million responses - protests, apologies, defenses - all rush to the tip of his tongue, but he bites them down.

What could he truly say to change the reality they all can plainly see? It’s no use defending himself or correcting Alfred’s - or anyone’s - perception of his own words and actions up to this point.

He has hopelessly failed in every possible way as a leader, as a brother, and as a son.

Being the first child brought to Bruce’s home, and the first to train to control his powers, Dick was the one who forced Bruce’s hand and the whole reason that any of them ever learned to fight. He was the reason that any of them took on hero personas, the reason that any of them were trained and allowed to fight criminals, and it was entirely his own responsibility that any of his siblings were ever in danger. 

Bruce promised to keep them safe, but Dick was the one who failed to protect them. He was the beginning of the Robin Academy, and he was its end.

He let that anger curdle and fester, but never corrected its course. Not before it was far too late. 

Even after that, he couldn’t even accept enough responsibility to at least stick around for his youngest siblings. No, instead he ran off to keep going at his fruitless effort to fight off crime; this time wearing a new name and without any family at his side.

What did it get him? Not a damn thing.

Honestly, who is he to ask Barbara if she ‘found what she was looking for’? Her answer can’t possibly be any worse than his own.

He left them all to drown, just to sink himself in the storm. And now he’s crawling back to find the bodies washed up to shore.

“…Master Dick?” Alfred prompts, once again shaking him from his spiralling mind.

“Hm?”

The butler nods meaningfully towards the end of the hall. His face seems to sag deeper, the creases of his wrinkles catching far more shadow. He looks older, and so, so tired.

“I believe our remaining guests will be arriving shortly. Perhaps we should await them?”

The suggestion pierces him, tearing through his dread and self-depreciation and shining light onto the practical path ahead. One foot after the other, and all that. For the sake of his family now, on this day, he can’t keep dwelling on the past. The only way to go is forward, so he better get moving.

He’s not Jason, after all.

Maybe that’s what it was. The temptation to remain before they fell apart. Maybe the power to live in infinite procrastination is exactly what has kept their brother so long. Dick can’t deny that he, too, would be weak to the concept.

He has no other choice but to be here and now. If he can’t step up even now, then he doesn’t deserve an ounce of sympathy, even from himself.

With a deep breath, he follows Alfred down the winding stairs to face the rest of his family.

1983

~Bruce~

Richard Grayson was never meant to be the first. 

When Bruce started tracking down the miracle-born children, his priority was surviving kids without loving families to support them. He had his sights set on a couple leads in Mexico and Taiwan, following foster care reports and local legends to track down the most at-risk kids. 

But when he heard that the infamous Flying Graysons were coming to Gotham City, Bruce couldn’t resist the temptation to see them in person. He wouldn’t dream of pulling a child away from a loving family, but perhaps the Graysons would be grateful for some extra support. 

At the very least, there was no doubt much that he could learn from them. Their experience would be invaluable to his research.

Unfortunately, he never got the chance to speak with them. He watched their show, in absolute awe of the impossible flexibility, strength, and surreal limitations of their young, miracle-son, but they didn’t make it to the end. He watched John and Mary Grayson fall to their deaths, along with the rest of Gotham and their 8 year old child.

Gotham PD suspected foul play. The tragedy once again made national news - the Spectacular Flying Graysons survived an act of God, delivering heaven-sent life on the big stage, only to leave that life behind by a simple performance accident. 

The camera bulbs flashed their blinding glare all over the grief-stricken crime scene, flashing Bruce back a dozen years to the crack of a gun - one that stripped away his everything and left him alone in a spotlight for the world to mourn.

Dick Grayson was the first that Bruce took home. 

He was a brilliant, diligent kid, and never one to be half-assed about anything. When Dick decided he would do something, there was no force in the universe strong or clever enough to stop him. Unfortunately, one of these missions that he imposed on himself was becoming a superhero with the sole focus of avenging his parents.

Bruce did absolutely everything he could to dissuade, or even distract the boy from this task. He hoped that bringing in the other children, giving Dick more than just his own desires to think about, would help lessen this obsession. 

Instead, in a series of unfortunate circumstances that Alfred referred to as ‘entirely to be expected’, it only seemed to add fuel to a wildfire.

The second child - Jason Todd, age 6, recently recovered from the streets after his twelfth escape from the St. Innocence orphanage - was instantly the perfect case-in-point for Bruce’s butler. Jason was a beam of light and won the hearts of everyone in the manor from day one, but he was also an enormous pain in the ass. 

On top of the wealth of bad influences he had grown up around, he was eagerly ambitious with the reckless abandon and stubbornness to match. And worst of all, his strange power allowed him the ability to blink through space - crossing impossible distances, through any barriers - to whichever place he set his mind on. 

In other words, he was the physical manifestation of Dick’s unstoppable resolve, with just the troublesome attitude to fully enable it.

Within days, the boys were inseparable and emphatically referring to one another as brothers. Within weeks, Bruce was already catching them sneaking out to go on ‘missions’ together.

Sometimes he still asks himself if he should have seen the signs then and there. He still wonders if things would have gone differently if he had just called off the project and focused all of his time and energy into his first two sons. Would he have changed a thing?

Oftentimes, he still thinks about the days when he first met each of his kids. 

Stephanie’s almond eyes looked up at him like he was the sun, clearly used to the dirty looks she had been receiving from every figure in her life before then. Her tattered, blonde locks scattered in every direction, testifying to her crude independence and shameful lack of care.

Tim flashed a toothy grin from the doorstep, practically bouncing on his toes with his fist still raised to knock. His clothes were far too warm for the climate and dwarfed his puny frame, making the curious boy look even more out of place.

Damian hadn’t even opened his eyes yet, but he wriggled in Bruce’s arms until he pulled the tiny bundle close to his racing chest. Bruce still wishes he’d had just one more chance to see Talia before her father sent a caravan to inform him about her son’s tragic birth. 

Even though it had already happened once, somehow Bruce never imagined this phenomenon coming so close to home. He still has no idea how these miracle conceptions work, let alone how to predict anything about them. Is it at all possible that this child is his blood, too?

Alfred laughed at him when he panicked about not knowing how to care for the infant. His butler commented something along the lines of: “Maybe you should have considered this before establishing yourself as the head of a super-powered orphanage, sir.”

Of course he refused to respect the vast difference between raising a kid and caring for a baby. These things just cannot be compared.

He had begun to fear he would never meet Cassandra. Even though she was one of the first children he set his sights on, she was nearly the last to take her place in the manor. She held herself so tightly, blanketed by her dark, dusty hair, that he easily could’ve missed her among the rubble if not for her shaking. Bruce will never forget the terror on her face when he finally found her - such incomprehensibly haunted depths had no place in the eyes of a child so small.

Each one of his children left Bruce forever changed the moment they entered his life. With every addition, he was both shown how infinitely expansive love and pride can be, and taught more and more how miserably out of his depth he truly was.

1997 (Present) 

~ Tim ~

It’s been minutes now, or maybe hours, standing before that damned gate. Tim still can’t bring himself to step inside. 

Smoke sputters and swirls from the sizzling cigarette in his mouth as he tilts his head back carelessly towards the sky. Steph can judge him all she wants, but it’s not like Wayne Manor is going anywhere. 

The rainfall streaks down his face, dragging his dripping, night-black bangs over his closed eyes. It’s most definitely smearing his day-old liner to a hopeless degree, but he thinks it suits the dreary vibe. 

He sighs as the dying spark is snuffed from his cig, letting it fall and smearing the damp waste into the asphalt. Stephanie glares at him from under her violet hood, arms crossed as she leans impatiently against a stone column next to the gate’s entrance.

“D’ya really wanna be this fucked up for this, Tim?” she asks, pulling a sneer.

He laughs, reaching into his inner jacket to pull out his flask before swiftly unscrewing the cap. 

“On the contrary! I’m still waayy too sober for any of this!” he replies cheerily, ignoring her heavy eye roll as he takes a long, indulgent swig.

“Careful,” she grumbles back. “Any more, and I might just leave you, too.”

Tim sputters, stopping the drink short, the liquor searing his throat. 

“Whaaat? Hey, don’t say that! I know my dear sister would never abandon me!” he gushes, dripping with playful sarcasm as he stumbles closer, reaching out as if to hug her.

She narrows her gaze, jaw squaring sternly. “Go. Inside.”

He wilts with a heavy huff, shoulders sagging. “Uuughh, fiiiine! I’ll go in!”

Pouting in a totally-not-childish manner, Tim slaps down his keycard and pushes through the gate before it’s barely opened up. He tries to stomp, but more or less drunkenly swaggers into the manor, leaving a damp trail down the hall that Stephanie dutifully follows after.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, familiar faces turn to meet him and he thanks the heavens he’s not sober.

Despite being obvious natural beauties flattered by any fit, neither figure is comfortable in stiff-necked black on black and it shows. The sight of a tie tucked neatly into his eldest brother’s collar is sickeningly reminiscent of one particular figure that he does not need invoked right now. At least Barbara opted for onyx earrings and a charcoal scarf to add in a little personality and flavour.

“Tim!” Dick exclaims, a strange expression twisting over his face as he takes him in. 

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his brother leans back from Barbara's wheelchair in the front hall. Their gazes both flicker up and down, reading an unspoken story. 

“You look like shit,” Barbara chimes in, filling in the blanks.

Shaking out a laugh, Tim spreads his arms wide and saunters towards his siblings. “Oh, god, do I! We can’t all be supermodels, you.. fucking… shitheads!”

They humour him with their own chuckles, reaching out to meet his embrace. He bends down to Barbara’s level, hugging her tight as one arm hooks around Dick and forces his oversized form to contort with them.

Dick gags, retreating slightly without breaking the embrace. “Holy cannoli, Timmy! What have you put in your body?”

“Better question is ‘what haven’t I?’, Dick-nips!” he replies, flashing a grin as he tries to pull away.

But Barbara halts him, her smirking expression the total opposite to their brother’s frazzled concern.

“Don’t think you’re gonna get away without sharing,” she says, gently knocking their foreheads together while holding out her other hand expectantly.

Tim only hesitates a moment, mildly confused why she hasn’t just compelled him to obey. But then he grins, fishing out the flask and handing it over, feeling two matching glares of disapproval baring into him. He turns back and briefly sticks his tongue out at Steph over his shoulder. 

As Barbara takes a swig, Tim catches sight of another figure standing politely to the side.

“Oh, hey, Alfred! Didn’t see you there!” he greets, tripping around Babs’ chair to approach their beloved butler.

“My apologies for not greeting you at the door, Master Tim,” he replies with a short bow. “I was caught up with your siblings.”

Pausing awkwardly, Tim leans back in his step. “Hey, what’re you on about? You know you don’t need to sweat that stuff with us!”

“Even so.” Dipping his head again, Alfred’s lip quirks up just the slightest amount. “It is good to see you again, Master Tim. Though I do wish it were under better circumstances.”

A stiff silence falls, just a touch too long for comfort. Tim breaks it with a dragged-out hum as he sways closer, opening his arms again.

“Eyyy, c’mere, you solemn sod, you!” he drawls, slowly wrapping his arms around the incredibly stiff and uncomfortable butler. “We missed you, too~!”

“Oh my god, leave the poor man alone, Tim,” Steph groans, slipping past them with a shake of her head.

“Who asked?” he hisses after her, sticking his tongue out over Alfred’s shoulder.

“I don’t believe I asked a thing, Master Tim,” Alfred deadpans, awkwardly patting his soaked back with four fingers.

“Exactly!” Tim declares triumphantly, ignoring the bird Stephanie flips back at him in favour of looking their butler in the eye. “Thank you, Alfred! I knew I could count on you.”

He releases the man with a few pats on the shoulders and turns his attention back on Barbara and his flask. Retrieving it from her possession, he leans on her wheelchair with a sigh.

“So… are the others here yet? When are we getting this show on the road?”

Dick’s expression abruptly darkens, his fists clenching. Luckily, Babs meets his energy with a dry laugh.

“Knowing us, they could definitely already be here,” she replies, carding back the auburn curls from her face.

Studying her from this close, she is paler than he remembers. Her skin is less freckled and far more sunken. Tim wouldn’t take back his ‘supermodel’ comment, but it’s agonizingly clear that his sister has lived horrors and exhaustion to rival his own.

Pushing upright, he raises an authoritative finger. “Perfect! First one to find Damian gets twenty bucks!” he declares, spinning around and stumbling swiftly down the hall.

Nothing but half-hearted chuckles follow after him, and as soon as he turns a corner, he slows with a sigh.

“God, d’ya never take anything seriously?” Steph bemoans him, kicking one dangling leg where she sits above in the rafters, perfectly perched to look down on him.

“You know it!” he snarks, raising his flask like a toast.

She rolls her eyes to heaven - and ought to worry they’ll get stuck like that - before flipping back to hang from her legs with a sigh. Her hood falls, revealing her dark roots and letting her straw-blonde ponytail dangle free.

Unable to help himself, Tim draws a sharp breath through his teeth, shaking his head gravely. “Man, Steph, your roots could really use a touch-up…”

She doesn’t even glare at him, just stares straight forward. “You’ll never get tired of that one, will you?”

He cackles, waving a hand in surrender. “Ah, c’mon! Take a joke!”

“Try telling one, first.”

“Psshh!” he grumbles in defeat, stepping away before halting as his eyes lock onto the far wall where Stephanie gazes.

Even through the slight blurring and wobbling of his vision, Tim recognizes the devastating likeness of Jason Todd Wayne, beautifully painted over a massive canvas. 

The visage masterfully seems to capture their brother in time - he leers at 15-audacious-years-old, his black hair swooped up to one side, ruddy brown irises sparkling mischievously, a cheeky, toothy grin flashing bright white within bronze-tanned skin, and his favourite red hoodie half-sliding down his shoulders. Tim idly wonders if Cass made it, and whether Bruce even knew it was hung. 

This could very well be a picture-perfect recreation of one moment 7 years ago, the last time she ever saw him.

He whistles through his teeth, wandering closer with small, hesitant steps.

“Damn, Steph… they sure nailed his smugness, eh? Like, you can feel it oozing out of his painted eyes!” He gestures wildly at the piece, as if he’s some amateur art critic.

“His nose is wrong, though,” Steph muses. “It healed crooked after that West Side gang bust.”

“Ha! Oh, yeah, that’s right!” Tim laughs, turning back to her upside-down gaze. “He took a fist straight to the face just to stop it hitting Bruce! God, Dad was so pissed!”

“He tried banning Jay for a month.”

“How long’d’it last? Three days?” he asks, shaking his head.

“Two.”

“‘Course,” Tim snorts, crossing his arms to match Stephanie as they stare wistfully at the image of their brother. 

Silence passes for several seconds as he struggles to find something lighter to say.

Finally, he sighs. “…Yeah, I miss him… You think he’ll come home today?”

Steph raises a brow. “What, y’think Alfred somehow got in contact now, just to send him his invitation?” she retorts, dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh, shut it! It’s called wishful thinking, learn a little whimsy!” he huffs, waving a dismissive hand. 

She opens her mouth to reply, but another voice cuts her short.

“From a brief surveillance of your current state, Timothy, most would argue that you’re in dire need of reality, rather than whimsy.”

“Oh, you can barely tell Alfred raised you!” Tim shoots back, whirling on his little brother with immediate heat.

Damian glares back smugly from the shadows, absently flipping a dagger in impossible directions. He’s dressed blacker than Bruce, with the slicked-back hair to match. He’s aggravatingly tall now, but still just a little shit.

“I’m unsure how that’s meant to be insulting,” the little shit in question replies cooly. “Is your mind too simple for complex dialogue, now? Have you eroded it so quickly?”

“My mind is sharper than ever, gremlin! Why else would I drain my damn pockets to take the edge off?”

Damian curls his lip, a familiar sneer of judgment that is a million times more infuriating from him, even if Tim is more than used to receiving it.

“-Tt- I would recommend attempting restraint on these indulgences. If you continue standing around babbling to yourself, it won’t be long before you’re dragged off to Arkham,” the demon-spawn says, turning away and disappearing down the hall.

Tim turns to Steph, hand on his heart in exaggerated offense. “How terribly rude! Not even a ‘hello’!”

She narrows her eyes. “He’s right, you know.”

“Oh, can it! I’m the sanest one here!” he snaps, storming past her as he takes another long swig.

“That’s what they all say!” Damian’s voice echoes back from around the corner.

Tim flips two birds mid-sip, one down the hall and the other over his shoulder at his sister’s laugh. Then he lights up in realization.

“Hey, wait! Someone owes me twenty!” he cries, excitedly breaking into a dubious sprint.

His footsteps fade as Stephanie lingers, righting herself to stare properly at her brother's portrait for just a little longer. The brushstrokes are palpably Cassandra - pristine and careful, yet impressionist and dreamlike. 

And Tim was right about his eyes. Their brother’s heart and soul were captured expertly in them, almost as if she were the summoner of the damned.

Maybe a little wishful thinking was okay. Maybe they could all hope that today, Jason might finally come home.

Chapter Text

1997 (Present)

~ Cass ~

None of this feels real. Not yet.

Cassandra doesn’t think her ears have stopped ringing since she picked up Alfred’s call. It’s been days now, or maybe weeks, but she could just as well believe it was only hours.

Her violin case remains on the dusty floor of her cramped kitchen where she dropped it, and it will be there until whatever inconceivable future point in time in which she finds her way back there. She’d barely arrived home from lessons when she heard the telephone echoing through the stairwell. She pulled it from the hook on the fifth ring, and now that echo lives embedded in her mind. 

It’s like a storm siren, crying over and over just to make her understand the requiem is no dream. But she’s still not waking up.

Almost as if her subconscious believes that reality can be infinitely delayed. If she never silences the ring, she never has to hear the news. It’s almost funny. Try as she might to play grown-up, she’s still a silly little girl inside, isn’t she?

She is still sitting by the counter under that flickering, midnight kitchen light, stubbornly - childishly - spreading peanut butter and jam onto yet another slice of bread. Staring for hours at the motionless door, patiently guarding the snack that will inevitably be left for Alfred to throw away in the morning. 

He’s not coming back. None of them are. 

The rain has stopped, only lingering in the slow, methodical drops sliding down from her umbrella. But the sun has not shown its face. Cass secretly hopes it never does again. It doesn’t deserve to shine here, in Gotham, anymore. Not without him.

Thunder rumbles distantly, making her jump. Scattered droplets whip at her face with a sudden burst of wind, wetting her bangs and trapping her ends in the corners of her mouth. She shivers, fumbling around in the dampness of her jacket pocket for a small, white bottle. 

It takes her purpled, shaking hands several attempts to unscrew the cap and deposit two pills into her mouth. Once she swallows, her lungs empty with bitter relief. The cold still bites, but her chest no longer threatens to crack under the raucous pressure of her heart. She can breathe without agony, and blink without losing time.

A dozen cars streak by the lonely street where she stands, splitting puddles into waves. The last time Cass looked at the back of the manor like this, it was to say a sad goodbye. She truly thought it was what she needed back then, but now it’s hard to imagine how anything could have seemed more important than home.

Empty as it was, they had each other. Now she’ll never have him again, and he had none of them as he passed.

She shakes her head, clutching herself as tightly as possible to mimic another’s comfort. Her ribs are squeezing again, but she can’t keep putting this off.

It’s high time she faces this now. No more hiding.

Gasping for breath, she forces one foot before the other. They stumble to catch her, somehow finding the strength to go on. She swallows stinging, fists balling at her waist.

It’s time to greet what remains of her family.

1987

~ Bruce ~

“So, tell me, Cassie,” Bruce pipes up, hands folding behind his back as he stands before a line of children who all jump to attention. “Do your siblings seem ready to begin?”

At his side, Cassandra preens, eyes scanning over her jittery, suited-up family with mock-scrutiny. Barbara stands tallest, showing off her new Robin uniform with easy pride. They stand just right at the center of these training grounds so that all six matching red ‘R’s across each of their chests catch a noon sunbeam in a neat, glittering row.

“Hmmm…” She taps a considerate finger on her lip, earning a few impatient, desperate glares from her brothers - especially little Damian, who is clearly struggling to stand still against Alfred’s leg. “I think… they’re ready!”

A few cheerful smiles are aimed her way in response, and Jason claps his hands, rubbing them together in anticipation.

“Hell yeah, we are!”

Letting that one slide, Bruce reaches down and pets Cassandra’s head, tousling her bangs. “Well, I suppose we should get started, then, shouldn’t we?”

“Me first!” Jason, Dick and Stephanie all exclaim in unison.

“No! I go first!” Damian whines, wriggling around Alfred’s grasp.

“Master Damian, with dignity, please,” the butler softly chastises the boy, who balls his fists and bunches his face in a frown to comply.

Struggling to stifle a smile, Bruce lets out a short sigh. “What have I told you kids about patience?”

While the others stiffen with realization, Barbara raises her chin smugly. “While restless songbirds squabble for scraps, the patient robin finds a feast!” she recites, basking in Steph and Jason’s dirty looks.

“Very good, Barbara,” he praises, nodding to her. “Why am I not surprised you picked up on our lessons sooner than my own children?” he teases, raising a brow at Jason sticking his tongue out.

At least Dick appears considerably chastised, while Steph is not-so-subtly miming a talking motion with her hand and Tim is staring into the middle distance like he’d rather be anywhere else. 

“You’ll be leading us in our training session today,” Bruce continues, turning back to his side. “And Cassie, would you help Alfred record Damian’s progress for today? I wouldn’t want to hold him up from his nap.”

His daughter beams up at him, nodding eagerly. Pinching her cheek warmly, he sends her on her way.

“Alright,” he breathes, straightening back to attention. “So, who will volunteer as Barbara’s training partner for today?”

“I will!” Dick cries at the same time that Jason declares, “Not me!”

Tim elbows him with a snicker. “You just don’t wanna get caught with those cookies!”

“Cookies? What cookies?” Steph demands, stepping out of line to confront her brothers. “I swear, Jay, you better not be sneaking any snacks without me!”

“Children, focus,” Bruce cuts in, raising a hand to silence the bickering.

They begrudgingly comply, and he motions for Dick to step forward. He stands across from Barbara, both in readied stances. They stare holes into each other, smirking as they wait for Bruce’s signal to begin.

“Now!” he says, barely getting the word out before scuffling steps scrape the floor.

Barbara flinches back from Dick’s aggressive rush, words tumbling out desperately as her eyes flash amber. “I heard a rumour you– ack!” 

She’s cut off as her attempt to dodge is countered with a quick kick, sweeping her off her feet and knocking the wind from her lungs. She groans, deflating on her back, and Dick scrambles over her with sudden concern.

“Babs! Are you okay? I’m sor–”

In a swift uppercut, she slams her palm into his windpipe, releasing all her breath in one rush, “Iheardarumouryoupinnedyourselfdown!”

Before Dick could react, his eyes flood with milky fog and he goes rigid, robotically following her command and contorting himself into a pretzel to pin his own body to the ground. Just to seal the deal, Barbara commands him to stay down, dusting her hands off. Then she hops to her feet, turning chipperly towards Bruce.

“I win!” she brags with a flick of her curls.

“Yeah, whatever you say, cheater,” Jason retorts, rolling his eyes. “Your opponent’s not gonna be worried about hurtin’ ya in a real fight.”

Bruce doesn’t get a chance to interject before her head is snapping his direction, glaring in challenge. “I heard a rumour you pissed off!” 

But Jason sees her power coming and disappears in a blue flash before her command can complete, shouting back from across the training grounds where he reappears. 

“Ha! Too slow!”

“Jokes on you!” she barks, lifting her hands like a megaphone. “I got what I wanted anyway!”

“Fuck!”

“Language, Jason!” Bruce reprimands tiredly, rubbing his forehead. “And Barbara, stop abusing your powers on your peers. We’re meant to be training your discipline, not fooling around.”

Crossing her arms, she turns away, muttering under her breath. “Why’s it only ‘abusing’ when I do it?”

“Uh, because you can literally control us to do whatever you want?” Tim incredulously supplies, earning another glare.

Raising another hand for silence, Bruce cuts in before they can get going again. “Barbara, how long is Dick going to be pinned on the ground for?”

The distracted girl startles suddenly, her gaze trailing curiously towards the contorted lump that is her sparring partner, still planted stiffly on the ground. Some muffled sounds spill into the floorboards, indicating a certain returned awareness from Dick, but the boy remains unmoving. 

“Oh, oops–” she says, cringing. “I guess I forgot to say a limit, so… in theory, he’ll stay forever.”

“M’ll, c’n mm speed’is up, pl’se?” Dick’s muffled request snaps both Bruce and Barbara from their curious speculation, the latter bursting into laughter.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” she wheezes, her eyes flashing amber again as she keels over next to him, helping him roll over. “I heard a rumour you’re free!”

As soon as the white washes out of his eyes, Dick propels himself to his feet in one leap, frowning down at her with his hands on his hips. She grins guiltily back at him.

“I’m with Jason on this one,” he declares grouchily, sticking a hand out to help her up. “Tricking me like that is dirty.”

She takes it and pulls off the ground, shrugging sheepishly. “Sorry… But it’s not like I can gouge your eyes out in a spar, so I’m really just evening the playing field–”

Dick’s face twists up in contemplation, staring back at her as he keeps a hold of her hand for several moments. “...Fair enough.”

“Barbara,” Bruce says, reclaiming her attention. “Have you noticed any strain when you rumour multiple opponents in a short span like this?”

Pursing her lips for a short moment, she shakes her head. “No, it’s only hard to catch more than one with the same rumour. More than three still pushes too far.”

He nods. “Side effects?”

“Headaches and nausea for two, migraines and bloody noses for three, all of the above and I pass out before I finish if I try four or more,” she rattles off, scratching the back of her head to hide from the concerned stares turning her way.

“Eyy, twinsies!” Jason exclaims, smacking her back. “Do your drawbacks also scale up if you push it more than once?”

“Yep…” Barbara sighs, accepting the aggressive, power-hangover solidarity. “But still, rumouring people one at a time is no problem.”

“See?” Tim hisses to Stephanie, jerking a thumb in Barbara’s direction. “Terrifying.”

“Noted. Now, Tim, do I hear you volunteering as Barbara’s next training partner?” Bruce asks innocently, smothering a smirk as his son jumps back.

“Uhh, heck no! I’m not fighting her!” he protests, cringing away from her menacing smile like it’s going to burn him.

“Very well, she’s demonstrated herself enough already. Who would you prefer to pair with?”

“I’ll do it!” Jason and Stephanie offer eagerly, turning on their brother with malicious intent as he squawks indignantly, fists balling.

“I’m not fighting anyone! My power is literally useless for that, you guys just wanna kick my ass!”

“Language, Tim. And I never said you were sparring,” Bruce corrects, ignoring the look on Jason’s face that clearly disagrees with that precedent.

Crossing his arms with a huff, Tim grumbles at the ground. “And I never said I wanted to train at all… I came here to cure my curse, not practice it.”

“Oh, come on, you baby!” Steph groans, shaking him by the shoulders. “I hate my power, too, n’ you don’t see me complaining!”

Grabbing her hands and shoving them back at her, he snaps, “Don’t even start! Your power makes you a badass, kraken warrior! Mine makes me see dead people! This is not even the same ballpark!”

“See, Tim, it’s this kind of limiting mindset that I believe is holding you back from truly discovering the extent of your powers,” Bruce cuts in, shamelessly quoting one of those entrepreneurial, motivational books that were drilled into his head as a young CEO. 

“Your power can be so much more to you than an inconvenience or a curse. You just have to see that potential for yourself.”

His son squints up at him suspiciously and Bruce begins to sweat, realizing just a touch too late the very real possibility that Tim has raided Wayne Enterprises’ bookshelves. But the boy rolls his eyes a moment later, deflating heavily and tossing his arms.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right!” he drawls out, dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe I can traumatize the criminals into going straight!”

A few of the kids snort, and Bruce allows himself the barest smile as he replies. “There you are, son. That’s the spirit.”

But before he can continue with their lessons, all his thoughts are brought to a screeching halt by the sound of a scream.

“Dami, caref– aaahhh!” Cassandra’s voice abruptly twists shrill in distress, causing Bruce’s heart to leap to his throat and his body to move on its own.

Cassie.

His lungs catch. He can’t breathe.

Not Cassie.

The scene is a blur of panic and confusion, blue flashes and a single, scarlet streak. 

Cass is wailing, holding her arm. A metal rod clatters to the ground, splattering her blood with it. Damian stares at his sister with blank shock, stumbling back with Alfred’s grip. Within moments, Bruce is pulling her into his embrace and she clings back, curling into his chest.

She’s hurt, she’s distressed, she’s crying - she’s allowing him to hold her. She’s clutching his shirt, whimpering against his thundering heart, and her breathing is already settling.

Damian is crying now, sobbing apologies as Alfred and Dick comfort him, gently instructing him to be more careful. Cassie hears him, shaking out of it to twist around in Bruce’s arms.

Jason tries to check her scratch as she calls back to little Dami, “I’m okay!” she assures him. “It’s not your fault!”

It’s just a scratch. Damian just got a little carried away. Jason blinks away and blinks back with a bandage for her arm. She wipes her face, clearing the snot and tears as he applies it. She smiles at her brothers to show them she’s okay.

She’s okay. Cassie is okay.

Slowly - impossibly - Bruce begins to breathe again.

1997 (Present) 

~ Damian ~

Flexing his fists repetitively, Damian storms down the dark hall, his feet shuffling absently over the beaten floorboards. His steps echo hollowly through the quiet of the manor, only striking more heat into the flush of his face.

After the infuriating spat he just endured, the disgruntled teen just itches to move toward some clear objective. But despite his conviction, his mind is too scrambled to find any conclusive location. The same thoughts repeat rhythmically, interrupting any coherent train of thought.

Father is not dead.

Pennyworth can tell him day in and day out that this is the case, but Damian won’t believe it until Timothy summons Father’s ghost to tell it to them all himself.

It’s just impossible. Nonsensical.  

He stops short, spotting the old, tattered, circus poster that marks their childhood wreckroom in the corner of his eye. At the sight of it, he tuts and abruptly flings the knife tucked under his palm. It slips recklessly from his grasp and he instinctively corrects its course, glaring into the shredded face of the ringmaster as he wills the blade to plant directly between his paper eyes. 

The reverberation of the metal meeting its target seems to shake through Damian’s bones, and he inhales just as sharply. 

Father was no fool. He was trained to work alone, far more than any of them had been. He may not have been born with unnatural powers like the rest of them, but he still was just as, if not more, formidable.

So how could it be possible that Bruce Wayne - the Batman - was done in by simple criminals in a routine patrol? How could Father meet his end to nothing more than ill-fated circumstance while the five of his wards who dispersed out to their own reckless, unfettered lives still remain standing?

Marching off again, Damian reaches out his power to call the blade back to him, muttering all the way. And just for good measure, he makes sure to twist and leave the ringmaster with an irreparable scar. The knife slides back into his palm, a comfortable weight to tighten his grip around.

It doesn’t add up. It does not make sense, and Damian is going to prove it.

The body was burned beyond recognition - a pitifully convenient excuse for avoiding conclusive evidence. Even his teeth were too battered by the supposed fight that not even the dental records could be matched. It is just beyond ridiculous to believe that Father could have ever allowed himself to be reduced to such a state. It simply isn’t feasible.

The stench of blood dripping from his sister’s gut and jaw replays - the moment that wholly shattered his perception of all things that once seemed invincible .

Someone must be plotting this grand ruse - it is the only reasonable explanation, and whichever filthy villain is responsible for tricking Damian’s whole family into reuniting for their father’s hoax of a funeral will have hell to pay when he’s through with them.

But even after pilfering through every nook and cranny of the Batcave below and every hidden hatch of Bruce’s study above, Damian still has only scattered pieces of a jumbled puzzle. Nothing seems to fit together - half of the crooks responsible were locked away on the night of the attack, and none of their histories appear to align with a single thing that Father was working on. 

Each lead he follows seems to be dry and shriveled before Damian even has the chance to consider it. He could really use another set of eyes on this, but if Pennyworth’s response was anything to go by, the rest of Damian’s family seem idiotically intent on uncritically believing the ridiculous notion that their Father is simply dead.

Pennyworth truly thinks it’s a far greater priority that they hold a funeral and bury that imposter’s corpse than investigate what truly happened to Bruce Wayne.

His feet halt before the half-open, dark mahogany door at the end of the hall. Someone else has been in here - in Father’s bedchambers. The lamp on his nightstand is still on and the drawer was left open, so it certainly wasn’t Pennyworth. 

Could it have been Richard? Maybe Gordon? He’s heard their voices drifting from the lobby just minutes ago, but he is certain that they’ve already been here for almost as long as he has. Richard seems sentimental enough to aimlessly go through Father’s personal things, but the most likely culprit to leave the scene this sloppy would have to be Timothy.

With a short huff, he slams the drawer shut and switches off the lamp. His teeth are still grinding, replaying that grandiose reunion with his insufferable brother. 

Damian had hope that, at the very least, Timothy would be of aid on his investigation. He is the only Wayne aside from Damian himself who actually seemed to absorb any of their father’s detective skills, after all. 

But to his bitter disappointment, not even an unprecedented event like this was enough to shake Timothy from his self-destructive addiction spiral.

Turning on his heel, Damian shakes his head. He tosses the knife absently as he hesitates in place, making it spin midair like a top for several moments between each toss. He just can’t stand it - the wasting years drawn pathetically over Timothy’s pale, sunken face. 

His fool of a brother has been letting fear and escapism cripple his capability and potential for the entirety of these past 7 years, allowing more and more, harder and harder substances to eat away at his stubborn, fixated, brilliant mind - just to push away the burdens of his own power.

It started escalating after Jason disappeared, then completely metastasized after Stephanie. 

It happened to all of them, didn’t it? But none of them let themselves go quite like Timothy did. He was already sliding down that road - it only took one push to send him tumbling.

His unique, morbid power and efficient, sober mind could be an invaluable asset to this investigation. Assist Damian in uncovering the truth to actually find and rescue their father, but Timothy would rather squander every careful lesson that Father ever taught him just to hide from the possibility of being forced to grieve again. It’s almost as if the defeatist, heedless idiot would rather join their family’s dead than ever risk the pain of facing them alive.

Knuckles whitening over the still-reverberating knife, Damian stills himself. All this pointless dawdling and reflection is getting him nowhere. He needs a solid trail to follow, and he certainly won't find it wandering in circles.

Perhaps he won’t convince his family to lend their aid, but it would behoove him to try. Richard has always been thick-skulled and blinded by emotion, but his work is thorough and efficient, and who’s to say he won’t see reason? Surely, as a decorated Commissioner, Gordon’s father must have taught her to entertain every possible thread before accepting the easy scenario.

This could just work out much easier than expected. With renewed determination, Damian heads toward the stairwell, listening to Richard and Gordon’s muted conversation gradually grow clearer.

“That is such bullshit!” Richard suddenly exclaims, just as Damian catches a glimpse of him tossing his hands with exasperation. “I can’t believe him! And the judge just letting him– I’m so sorry, Babs…”

“It is, but– Honestly, Dick, this is my fault…” Gordon falters, turning away so her face is shrouded in shadow.

Damian freezes at the tremble in her voice, awkwardly reconsidering himself from the top of the balcony. Not only would this be rather impolite to interrupt, but it already feels like he’s heard far more than was permitted.

He is vaguely aware that Gordon and her nondescript ex-husband barely lasted two years before calling it quits - far longer than the 6 months that Damian had predicted for them at the wedding. However, he isn’t privy to much beyond that, and given the emotional turbulence of the conversation, the topic would appear to be in regards to her young daughter, Elianna.

“What? What are you saying, you—”

“Because I used my power on her! It was so careless and stupid, I promised myself I would never do that, but now—”

“No, that is ludicrous, Barbara!” Richard snaps over her, not unkindly. “You have done everything you possibly can to make up for that mistake! I mean, how long has it been, now? Over a year since you stopped using it all together?”

Damian startles, blinking a few times to process. Was his brother implying…?

“That’s because it was a wake up call, Dick!” Gordon retorts, confirming his suspicions instantly. “If I was willing— If I was capable of using it on her, then there’s no universe where I can be trusted with it.”

Leaning back onto his heels, Damian stares in disbelief down at Barbara Gordon, hands stiffly gripping the railing. He has never heard her talk this way - guilt-ridden, self-effacing, resentful over the powers she possesses. She almost sounds like Timothy, and he despises it.

“But, Barbara, that’s exactly my point! You did wake up!” Richard insists valiantly, leaning closer when she clearly fights against meeting his eyes. 

“You woke up immediately, and never used it again! Even when it could have saved your life! If that’s not enough to give you a second chance- if that doesn’t prove you’re at least safe enough for a phone call—”

“I don’t need to live through it again, Dick!” Gordon cuts in sharply, abruptly silencing him.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he intends to apologize or say something more, but she waves at him dismissively. 

“Besides, I’d hate to be impolite and keep ignoring someone who’s so obviously waiting to join in,” she adds pointedly, smoothly craning her head up and over until her sharp, hazel gaze is burning into Damien’s.

Cursing himself for being sloppy, Damian gives her a curt nod and swings over the railing, dropping down to their level. Richard, at least, is shocked to see him, so he hasn’t completely lost his touch. But allowing himself to be so easily detected as he was is simply shameful.

“Greetings, Gordon. Richard,” he mutters, staring down at his feet.

“How long have you been there?” his brother replies, his tone and posture shifting with clear, irritable discomfort.

“Why?” Damian retorts instantly, raising a brow in challenge. “Wondering how rusty your skills have gotten?”

“It’s rude to eavesdrop, Dami,” Gordon pipes up before Richard can, the ghost of a smile tugging onto her face. “Where are those manners Alfred taught you?”

“Your conversation was a little too loud to be considered private,” he counters easily, raising his chin. “Besides, Father refers to the practice as ‘gathering intel’, and he seems to value it highly.”

At his words, both their faces fall grave. Their eyes drop to the floor, the light vanishing from them in an instant. Damian’s fists clench instinctively at his sides, a liquid heat racing through his veins. Traitors.

So much for ‘easier than expected’. He should have known his family would still be so predictable. 

“-Tt- Stop looking so sorry! It is blatantly obvious that Father is not truly dead, and you’re both just embarrassing yourselves,” he blurts before he can stop himself, shaking his head and pinning his arms tight across his chest.

The light returns to both of their eyes in a horrified fury, as if he is the ridiculous, disrespectful fool for not playing into this shabby ruse.

“Damian…” Richard starts, trailing off like he can’t even fathom the argument.

But the teen doesn’t waver, glaring straight through their insultingly blank expressions. “What? I’m right, and the fact that you’re somehow already so certain that I’m not is only adding to your embarrassment.”

Anger eclipses shock on Gordon’s face first, twisting her lip into a snarl as her chipped, indigo nails dig into the arm rests of her chair. “I can’t believe you right now! Are you really doing this today? ”

“I fail to see the significance of this day in regards to my actions, considering we are gathering for a funeral for a man who is still alive, ” he spits back through clenched teeth.

“Damien, enough! ” Richard abruptly hollers, throat hoarse and cracking as he practically vibrates with intensity. 

The force of his demand is unexpected and brash enough to give Damien pause for a moment, falling quiet as the echo ripples through their empty home. 

Through tense, heaving breaths, his brother raises one head to massage his forehead, while holding the other palm out. “Just- stop! You- you can’t just pretend– God, you're worse than Tim…”

“How dare you—” Damian gasps, instantly prepared to go to blows over the disrespect of being compared to Timothy of all people, but Richard doesn’t let him say another word.

“No, stop it! That’s enough! The last thing any of us need today is to be forced down some stupid spiral of false hope just because you can’t accept—”

Somewhere after the word ‘stupid’ was uttered from his brother’s lips, the rush of boiling blood completely drowns out Damian’s thoughts and he finds himself screaming words he can barely even hear the echo of.

“The only stupid conclusion would be to blindly accept that such a trivial and improbable event could so easily result in Father’s death! I am not the one who is blind—”

“Oh my god, Damian!” Gordon snaps, cutting his speech short but only accelerating the heat, rush and hammering of his heart. “ Think just a little before you open your dumbass fucking mouth!”

“Did you see the body, Gordon?” he retorts, dribbling with venomous sarcasm. “Look at it yourself! Look at it and tell me that is our Father!

“What are you even saying?” Richard cuts in instead, throwing his arms recklessly. “I think Alfred knows how to identify his—”

“That body was brutalized, Richard!” Damian didn’t intend to shout, but his voice peaks before he can control it, and the shock just sends him tumbling on at the same level. “Burned, lacerated and beaten beyond recognition! Does that sound like The Batman to you? Does that sound like something Father would allow to happen to him?”

His toe suddenly crunches under the wheel of Gordon’s chair and he glares back into her seething eyes as she shrieks, “ Damien Wayne, he was murdered!”

Wrenching his foot free, he pulls back with a stubborn snarl. “If you truly believe that, then you didn’t know Father!”

Something flings at his face and he instinctively flinches to catch it, but is only met with the harsh whip of a scarf across his cheek.

“Fuck you!” 

His ears instantly ring from the sheer force of her voice and he blinks back, dazed. They are family - they’re no strangers to screaming or fights. Most traded insults from these passionate shouting matches are weightless and trivial, no matter their intensity at the time. Just like a spar, they lack any true malice or depth after the fact, and are just as easily forgotten.

But this is not a simple spat - this is ugly. This is exactly the unravelling that Damien feared would occur if he dared hold discussion on this issue, and now he’s done it, hasn’t he?

Gordon’s darkened, tear-stained expression now sears a cold fire into him like she truly despises him. Nothing more leaves her lips as she jolts back, turning roughly away and disappears down the hall.

Damian’s mouth opens and closes half-heartedly, failing to conjure any words to chase her with. Now only Richard lingers, shrouded in shadow as he stares silently at the ground. His brother’s fists remain bunched up around the edges of his suit jacket, showing impressive restraint by not tearing the material to hopeless shreds.

He should say something to him. He should make some attempt to repair, but by the time he wrenches his jaws free from each other, Richard is already speaking.  

“...If you really can’t believe Dad can be weak…” he murmurs darkly, lifting his head just enough to meet Damian’s gaze. “If you can’t imagine that he could be targeted and injured and killed , then I don’t think you knew him at all. ”

A sharp creaking echoes from the opposite hall and cuts through any response Damian could’ve conjured. They both snap to the sound and Damian feels his body freeze stiff in unison with his older brother when he catches sight of their intruder.

Cass is slumping heavily against the wall behind them, a hand covering her mouth like she’s trying to hold something back from spilling out. Her layered clothes hang off of her like weights and her raven hair is much shorter than last he saw it, but it’s almost hard to tell with the unfortunate state that it’s in. 

Her eyes are watering and filled with hurt and horror, and Damian curses himself - she definitely heard far too much of that argument.

“Cass, I–” Richard stammers out in a rush, always the first to offer amendments even when he’s furthest from the one at fault. “I didn’t– hear you coming…” he trails off awkwardly, faltering in his approach.

Teeth sinking into his lip, Damian drops his eyes to the floor. Why is he being such a coward? He should be apologizing for forcing her to hear any of that. He should be in Richard’s place, running to her side and comforting her, assuring her that none of it meant anything. He should be sharing his findings with her and showing her the truth. She must be desperate for any kind of proof that their father is still alive.

But he can’t seem to swallow the lump in his throat long enough to meet her eyes.

“You cut your hair,” Richard remarks with a wavering smile, opening his arms to invite an embrace.

She stares back at him hollowly, barely pushing off the wall. Her breaths heave in and out for several moments as she says nothing, until finally she latches onto their brother with all her might. He clutches her back with a comfortable amount of his own.

Damian remains rooted in place, flexing his fizzling hands through the thick, crackling silence.

1992

~ Tim ~

Endless flakes of pure white sailed down onto the open courtyard, dusting innocently over every grief-struck surface like it was trying to hide the evidence.

It was utterly failing. The imprints of an unceremonious end to an unjust funeral still littered every inch of the snow.

Tim lingered alone before the glossy black, half-sized casket, watching the flurries dust over it the same way they seeped icily into his scalp. Stephanie’s picture stared back at him from its small, golden frame atop her resting place. She wasn’t smiling. 

It would have been difficult to find a photo of her like that, but this was the one that was chosen.

Squeezing the blue from his fists, Tim drew a long, frigid breath. He’d hoped that foregoing his winter wear would’ve granted him a bit more freedom from the relentless intensity of sobriety, but the numbness was only skin-deep.

His mind wasn’t dulled in the least, nor were his heart and soul. They were all swirling and storming and full of entirely too much. Too much terror and sorrow, too much confusion and pain - too many voices to even keep count.

Familiar whispers, haunting cries, and the nauseating loop of his family screaming and shouting that still seemed to echo in the empty air. Tim was barely listening when they started, and even after replaying the whole scene a dozen times, he still couldn’t understand what truly happened.

He’d lost track through Bruce’s speech, unable to accept the resignation in his father’s voice. But the words that reawakened him were something about the academy having been a failure. That was when the shouting had started.

It was Dick and Barbara who had led the charge, and even Damian had jumped in to scream at their father for the injustice of declaring their failure. They had all argued, they may have fought - then Cassie ran away and everything fell apart. 

They’d all scattered, leaving Tim to ponder if this day would mark the end of the Robin Academy as well. He still didn’t know the answer, but it hardly mattered to him as much as the mission he had come to do.

His power had been nothing but a burdensome curse for his entire life and it had yet to grant him a single thing in return. But today, just this once, it was going to serve him.

Tim would gladly suffer the torture of sobriety for the rest of his days if it meant that he never had to truly lose her.

His breaths became ragged and harsh as he focused all of his will through his hands towards the image of his sister and the soul he knew was still faintly tethered to the body in the casket. Surely this time, he had enough. This time it would work - he just couldn’t lose another.

With everything in him, he blocked out all the ghastly begging and cried out for his sister. He felt his power reach beyond the veil, grasping through darkness for some thinning, fading line. So many souls reached back, shrieking hungrily for his anchor, but he fought them off. 

There was only one hand he would take (or maybe two), and he could feel that he was so, so close. She was right there, she had to be. He just had to reach a little further, he couldn’t care less how deathly the frost was becoming. 

He had to reach her, he would pull her back now or he would cross over and meet her on the other—

“…Tim?”

His lungs inflated with a gasp, his glowing, frost-bitten fist locking onto her tether. He spun around to the echo of her voice and something between a laugh and a sob shook free.

There she was - still sporting the red ‘R’ peeking out from the folds of her violet cloak, alongside the black pants and combat boots of her hero suit. The more he took her in, the more he realized the eerie details. 

Her mask was gone - they’d torn it off to check her breathing. Her roots were dark - the new dye bottles she’d been planning to use were still in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Only, the most discerning eye could make out the deep stains that darken the inside back of her cloak - she couldn’t have used her power if she’d had full body armour like the rest of them. The cloak was meant to protect her, but how did none of them see this coming?

But none of that meant a thing to him any longer, because she was back.

“Oh my god, Steph!” Tim wheezed, slipping and stumbling on the snow as he hurried over to her. “I did it! You’re here, you’re back! I did it!”

“You did,” she replied, raising a patronizing brow. “I heard you calling right away. What took you so damn long?”

“Hey! I could say the same to you!” he shot back, still chuckling in disbelief. “You sure took your sweet time answering! I nearly froze to death!”

“I think that’s more ‘cause you’re standing in the snow with no coat on, genius!”

“Nah, that’s unrelated.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her arms with a mock-disapproving sigh. Her eyes scanned the empty courtyard, watching the snow fall over the tracks. None of the flakes seemed to touch her. Tim pretended not to notice.

“Where is everyone?”

He laughed - something dry and humourless. “Ah, you know… sheltering indoors, lest they fall ill from the cold! Weaklings, all of them.”

“What? None of ‘em stuck around for you to…” Turning back, Stephanie’s gaze burned into him for several moments before it dropped down to the casket. 

She blinked in shock. “Wait… is this my funeral?” her voice was strained with emotion, but Tim couldn’t read which one.

He shrugged, tossing his hands. “Well, yeah, Steph. You didn’t think you were just taking a nap, did you?”

He tried to keep his voice light, but it settled into snark. She whirled on him again, rage flashing over her, but not focused on any target. 

“That’s— You- why- why didn’t anyone wait for you?” she sputtered, scowling at nothing. 

Tim’s heart began racing the more she ranted and the nausea threatened to expel even the bile from his empty stomach. Their voices still echoed, in perfect rhythm with all those years ago - the first time he tried. The first time he failed.

“I knew you’d call, so I— What, they were just gonna bury me n’ forget it? Nobody waited to see me?” Steph cried, her voice twisting and breaking as her stomping feet failed to add imprints to the snow.

The pure hurt that spewed out from her pierced him like a lance, and he choked on it in his rush to assure her.

“That’s not— I didn’t tell them!” He hacked and coughed, gripping his jaw like squeezing hard enough could seal away the sickness that was rising from his core.

“Whaddya mean y—”

“I didn’t tell anyone I was trying again!” he snapped, overpowering her emotion with a spark of his own before backing down into snark again. “I couldn’t— it’s too much pressure, obviously! You know I can’t perform under pressure, and with all their teary, hopeful eyes on me the whole time— I mean, come on, there’s just no way I’d have managed it.”

“Oh, that’s some bullshit, Tim!” she snapped back, hands clasping to her hips. “First of all, you literally can’t exist without a cheering crowd—”

“Hey, I resent that! When have you ever cheered me on?”

“—And secondly, are you tellin’ me you had a whole damn funeral n’ not a single person asked if you could speak to me?”

There it was again, reflected on her face and etched into every corner of his mind. 

Desperate grief, shattered hope, hollow disappointment, and empty rage. Three years before, another picture frame propped above an empty, half-sized casket. Seven pairs of hopeless eyes faded duller and duller as they watched him try and fail and try and fail to bring their brother back. Even just for one last time. 

Again and again and again.

No one had asked him this time. Tim could have pretended it was for his sake, but he wasn’t so naive. They hadn’t dared to hope in him again.

“Steph…” he muttered, slicking the snow into his bangs as he shoved them back from his face. “My power… is a fluke. Of course they didn’t ask me after Jason! I don’t even know why it worked this time, I mean— maybe I needed a body, or—”

“Or maybe Jason just isn’t dead?” Steph retorted, rolling her eyes like she’d just made the most obvious declaration in the world.

Silence fell for a thick moment as Tim blinked once, then twice.

“Wait…” His chest was abruptly squeezing tight, pulling his voice down to a croak. “Are- are you saying you didn’t see him over there?”

She faltered, stiffening as she stared at him strangely. “Wh- Tim, I- I didn’t cross over! I told you, I was waiting for you!”

A headache crept into his temple as he shook through the confusion. Of course one death had instantly made his sister a better expert in his own power, that just described his life perfectly. 

“Wait, what? Where did I pull you from then?” he questioned, and she shrugged.

“I dunno, somewhere in between, I guess! But Tim, the moment you called, it was like a beacon,” she explained, suddenly fervent. “There were hundreds of others waiting with me, n’ every single one of ‘em flew in like moths to a flame. I had to shove through ‘em all!”

A shiver ran down Tim’s spine at her words, and he clutched at his arm in discomfort. “I felt them… they were grabbing for my tether like zombies hungry for brains…”

She shrugged again. “Well, they’re probably all souls with unfinished business, right? Maybe that’s why they’re always botherin’ you.”

Tim crossed his arms with a huff. “Well, if they want my help, they can learn to be nicer about it!”

“But Tim, you see what I mean, don’t you?” Steph insisted, moving closer to meet his eyes. “Your power was impossible to miss! I bet any ghost anywhere in the world could see it!”

Cringing, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Terrifying. What’s your point?”

She rolled her eyes again, like he was an idiot for missing the obvious answer in her nonsense.

“Oh my god, Tim— Do you really think Jason would leave us behind without even waiting for you?” she replied, not even pretending like it was a real question.

Something fragile that was long-buried deep within him finally formed a crack, and he swayed back from her like her words were a shot. His throat was hoarse and his eyes stung with a grief that he’d never truly given space. Somehow hope was always more painful, wasn’t it?

“Oh…” he muttered, soft and cracking. “Oh my god…”

“…I’m sorry, y’know?” Steph said suddenly, startling Tim from one raw emotion to the next. “I’m sorry none of us trusted you.”

He laughed, the tears trickling free over his numbing, flushed cheeks. “Ah, it’s okay… I didn’t trust myself, either. I still don’t know if I do…”

Could Tim truly have the chance of having his whole family back one day? That kind of hope was a dangerous thing, but Tim was never one to shy away from living dangerously.

He turned away to avoid seeing Stephanie’s face twist with pity, but found himself staring straight into her unsmiling photograph. Idly, he wondered if Bruce chose it just to make sure it looked nothing like Jason’s.

Jason - their brother who, despite all these years of mourning, could maybe, just maybe, actually still be alive.

Chapter Text

1997 (Present)

~ Barbara ~

Straining to reach up to the wall-mounted phone, Barbara struggles to control her ashen breathing. Each time she has to stretch as high as her aching back will allow to dial the numbers one by one, teeth grinding further and further with each agonizing pause.

Her hands tremble as she cranks the last number into the dial before circling the metal rungs all the way around. A vicious ring instantly splits the quiet air, destroying her feeble progress as it ripples up the stairs, down the left hall, and through the vacant living room. 

Through each agonizing ring, one hand clutches the rattling phone tight enough to hear it crack, while the other taps a neurotic pattern into the intricately-carved post at the bottom of the stairwell. If her legs could still move, she is sure she’d be tapping them, too.

Tears still sting in her eyes and bile clings to her throat as she whispers a continuous prayer to someone who she swears used to love her.

“Please, please, pick up…”

At last, the ring is silenced by a loud, rustling click, and a familiar voice answers in a pleasant tone that he only uses when he doesn’t yet know that it’s her on the other side.

“Johnson residence, Jamie speaking.”

Her first attempt to reply seems to vanish before passing her lips, so she softly clears her throat. Her nails dig into the seam of the receiver, undoubtedly chipping further.

Please, please, please. She just wants to hear her voice.

“Hello? Who is this?” her ex-husband’s voice crackles through the speaker again.

Finally, she manages to croak, “…James. It’s me.”

“Oh.” His tone instantly hardens, the slightest sigh tingeing his words. “What do you want?”

Biting back a sob, Barbara squeezes her eyes shut and draws a deep, shuddering breath. Her shrink’s advice repeats over and over in her head: This, too, shall pass. 

Take a breath when you want to scream. Breathe it out slow before you speak.

Trust is a difficult thing to repair - it will not come easy, and it will not feel fair. You must be slow and steady through the process.

“…I’m… I’m here at— for Bruce’s funeral…” she chokes out, fighting to stay level.

Another sigh blows through the speaker and she rapidly feels herself losing that fragile balance.

“Okay,” he replies curtly, making her desperately swallow stinging bile.

“I’m- it’s— Please, James, I- I just miss her so much, and I—“

“Barbara, you don’t get to use this against me,” he cuts in, abruptly cold and rigid.

One nail cracks in the renewed pressure of her grip as blood rushes to her ears. Her mouth is dry as a desert while she stumbles to respond.

“I- I’m not, I—“ she tries, but he steamrolls her again in that same empty, exhausted tone.

“You know what our arrangement is. I know you’re grieving, and I’m sorry for your loss, but you can’t just call me and expect—“

“James, please!” she blurts out, unable to hold back the sob this time. “I’ve done everything the court ordered! I’m seeing the shrink, I’m making the reports, I haven’t missed a day—“

“Your last session report was due yesterday,” he retorts callously, his words striking fire through her rib cage and twisting like a knife.

“Of course I didn’t do them yesterday, James! I just learned my father died!” she snaps, fully losing control of her volume.

She realizes her mistake as her own shriek echoes back to her ears in the chilling beat of silence that follows. Her stomach plummets as she hears another sigh.

“See? You’re doing it again.”

“I’m not—“ Stars sparkle around her as she gasps a drowning breath, trying feebly to claw back some semblance of composure. “I’m not ‘using it against you’, I’m just— James, I’m pleading with you!”

“I’m not comfortable talking to you when you’re like this,” he replies, and icy desperation hits her spine like the shot that took her legs.

“No, Jamie, please! I swear I won’t use it, please, just don’t hang up!” she begs him shamelessly, knowing full well that she’s only digging herself deeper, but having no idea how to climb her way out.

She hears no response beyond the buzzing of the receiver and continues bargaining with the inevitable..

“Please, Jamie, I miss my daughter! Please just let me hear her!”

“You know I’m not allowing that,” he bites back, sending her vision spinning. 

“No, wait, please! You don’t have to let me talk to her, please— I just want to hear my baby’s voice…”

“Don’t call here again.”

Her heart sinks like a stone at the finality she knew was coming, but ice and magma still seethe through her like a wintry eruption.

“Jamie–” she cries one last time as the line cuts dead, flooding her ears with the harsh tone of defeat. “Fuck!”

She swings the phone with all her fury at its hook, letting the sharp clang of the metallic impact harmonize her screams of rage. 

“Damn it!”

Lurching over in her chair, Barbara clutches the landline on the wall with both hands and slams her head against the dial. But the rattling of her skull has a far less satisfying reverb, so she just slumps down into pitiful sobs.

So many questions plague her mind, but they all seem to boil down to: Why?

Why can’t she ever just keep her cool? Why can’t the man who once swore he’d love her unto death show her even the smallest sliver of kindness? Why does everyone she loves always seem to vanish from her life? 

Why did she have to be born like this? Why did both of her fathers lie to her when they told her that her power could ever be something good?

“Barbara…?” a soft, hesitant voice crashes through her spiral and jerks her back into the present.

Shooting up off the wall, Barbara twists around her chair to find Cassandra standing uncertainly in the hall behind her. A rapid onset of emotions supernova into a migraine and Barbara empties her lungs. She lifts an arm, half-heartedly massaging her temple with her middle finger.

“Oh— Hey…” she awkwardly greets, hardly bothering to wipe her eyes.

Her sister stares back, unmoving. “…Hey.”

Turning her head into her hand, Barbara draws a deep, shuddering breath, and blows it out through her fingers. She is not ready for any part of today.

“I’m… sorry for interrupting,” Cass murmurs, clearly reluctant to be speaking despite obviously having a good reason.

In one quick motion, Barbara forces herself to turn her chair around, still not looking at Cass to avoid shattering this already leaking dam. “It’s fine. What is it?”

In the corner of her eye, Cass seems to shrink in on herself. Barbara realizes her sister’s next words just before she utters them and curses the lump in her throat.

“…Alfred sent me to find you.” She pauses to swallow. “It’s… time.”

Folding her hands like a prayer, a whimpering sigh escapes Barbara’s throat as she fights back another wave of sobs.

Why?

Her eyes burn holes into the chandelier through furious, blurring blinks. Her heart aches with some unimaginable, inescapable rotting and she can scarcely breathe. It’s all far too much to bear. 

She just wanted to hear her daughter.

The heavy silence is once again broken by Cass’ tentative voice. “…Are you ready?”

And… it’s not her sister’s fault. But Barbara has no strength left for careful breaths and composure.

“Of course I’m not ready!” she snaps, slamming both fists into her armrests. 

 “God, I can’t fucking do this again…” She keels over with a drawn-out groan, hands reaching up and clawing down her face.

“Sorry,” Cass mumbles out immediately, tucking into herself with palpable guilt. “Dumb question, I’m sorry…”

A flash of rage colours Barbara’s cheeks at the undeserved apology and she sucks air sharply through her teeth. Why is this always how things go?

“Don’t–” She swallows a scream, pinching her brow and squeezing her eyes closed. “Stop apologizing. This isn’t about you. It’s not always about you, okay?”

A sliver of childish bitterness slips into her tone on the last few words, but it drowns under horror and regret the moment she meets Cass’ gaze. Her sister’s expression is twisted with badly disguised hurt, and her eyes are hauntingly hollowed.

She did it again.

“Fuck— I’m sorry, Cass, I—“ Barbara sobs out, her fragile dam officially sundered. “That wasn't- I didn’t mean- That wasn’t at you, that wasn’t for you! I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay,” she replies flatly. “I know, you… I mean… I can’t imagine having to do this twice.”

Looking up through startled blinks, Barbara’s brow furrows in confusion. Cass is staring blankly at her feet, still rooted in place several feet away and uncomfortably motionless.

“….Do what twice?” Barbara asks, her stomach turning.

“Lose your father,” Cass responds with the same lifeless tone, sending chills of regret through Barbara’s body.

“Oh, Cass…” she whimpers, opening her shaking arms in desperate invitation. “Please, come here.”

A little surprisingly, her sister crosses the distance without hesitation, collapsing into her embrace. She’s limp and silent against Barbara’s shuddering sobs, but she melts into the hug all the same.

“It’s not a competition,” Barbara murmurs once her own crying has settled, squeezing tighter around Cass’ slender frame. “But if it was, Cassie, by god - I’d say you’re winning.”

Her sister stiffens against her, but says nothing. Barbara rubs circles in her back and doubles down.

“I know you were so close with all of them,” she continues hoarsely, rubbing deeper as she feels Cass start to shake. “And it’s just so… cruel that we lost all three this way.”

Nails dig through the fabric of Barbara’s shirt as her sister trembles harder. Still, no words or tears seem to escape her.

Barbara nestles her chin into the crook of Cass’ neck, reaching one hand to card through her sister’s short but still thick, messy hair. Cass’ breath seems to shudder and squeeze at the touch, her nails biting deeper.

“I’m so sorry, Cass,” Barbara chokes out, shutting her eyes and letting her tears soak into her sister’s shoulder. “I know I’m not Bruce, or Jason, or Steph… But I’m here, okay?”

Still, Cass only continues to hold her grip in silence. Barbara almost pulls away just to look her in the eye and see whatever it is that she’s thinking, but her sister’s fragile croak reaches her ear just before.

“…Do you think Damian could be right?”

It’s so soft and far too broken to be called hopeful. It floods Barbara with all that festering, venomous rage all over again.

She clutches Cass tighter, pausing her hand in her hair. Rather than truly answering, Barbara lets out a long, agonized sigh.

“…I think he needs himself to be.”

Shrinking into herself, Cass nods into her shoulder. Barbara internally sighs relief that the question wasn’t too sincere. She cannot handle this argument a second time.

But her relief is choked by shock when Cass speaks again.

“…What about Tim?”

Barbara blinks, trying to crane her neck around to catch a glimpse of her sister’s face. Cass stays glued to her, not returning the notion.

“Tim? What do you mean?” she asks hesitantly, uncomfortably aware of how fast both of their hearts are beating.

“I mean…” Cass shifts, wrapping her arms tighter and still refusing to show her face. “…what he said about Jason.”

Silence stretches for several beats as Barbara stiffens. The gears turn over and over in her brain, grinding rust as they struggle to process. They are both so fragile right now, and the last thing she wants to do is say the wrong thing and hurt her sister again. But she just can’t comprehend what she’s looking for.

Finally, she manages a shaky chuckle. “Tim… says a lot of things.”

Cass doesn’t return the laugh. Instead, she starts to pick idly at the back of Barbara’s shirt, like she’s working up the courage.

“…I mean, he was saying… Jason might…” she starts, clearly wavering despite how hollow her voice comes out. “…That maybe Jason might come home.”

Breath catching in her throat, Barbara clutches her sister’s hair like an apology. She doesn’t even know if Cassandra is expecting an answer at all, but just hearing the question from her lips is enough to send her spiralling all over again.

Why?

It’s just not fair - haven’t they known enough grief by now? Why is none of it allowed even to rest?

She sinks her teeth deep into her tongue, not daring to open her mouth for fear she might scream. The taste of iron floods her mouth but she removes none of the pressure.

Why?

Of course they all want nothing more than for their idiot, kid brother to return - that sort of dream would be one to never wake up from. But they’re not children anymore, and this naivety is supposed to end some day, isn’t it? Isn’t it?  

How will any of them ever move on if they all keep clinging onto ghosts that Tim can’t even see?

Thankfully before any of this bubbling chaos can escape her, another voice breaks the silence to answer.

“Now, I, for one, can’t say anything for certain on whether or not Master Jason will return today,” Alfred begins softly, seeming to materialize in the same hall that Cass appeared from. “But I have taken the liberty to prepare a peanut butter and jam sandwich to his liking, just in case.”

Barbara swallows salt and bile as Cass practically springs out of her lap to rush to their butler’s embrace. He accepts her warmly, his eyes pinching shut as he wraps his arms securely around her. 

It’s a funny feeling, watching two people who normally lean away from touch - despite being so obviously starved of it - simply melting into each other’s comfort so easily. Just like Alfred’s answer, they seem to just know exactly what it is that the other needs.

It feels quite silly, now, that Barbara thought of their hope as childish and naive. She’d have to be a fool to see Alfred that way.

But… how is she meant to see it, then? The only conclusion that her mind can come to is that there must be some real, logical chance that what they’re hoping for could be right.

1990

~ Cass ~

“I guess I just don’t get it,” Cass declared, adjusting her back against the side of the bed as Jason pulled himself closer across the mattress. “Why is this such a big deal?”

With a dramatized sigh, her brother gathered up sections of her long, silky hair into his hands and started weaving them into a small braid. “Just think about it, Cassie! Think of all the fuckin’ badass shit we could pull off!”

The ceiling fan whirled steadily on, circulating the soft breeze from the open window all throughout Cass’ cozy bedroom. She craned her head back, trying to meet his upside-down gaze. 

“You can literally teleport all over the place all the time. I’d call that badass already,” she pointed out bluntly, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from her tone.

But he shook his head, reaching the end of her braid and holding a hand out for an elastic. “Not as badass as fuckin’ jumpin’ through time! I could do way more than just stop bad guys! We could fuckin’ change history n’ shit!”

Passing over the elastic, she pulled a face at her brother. “And what does Dad think of that?” she asked, fairly certain of the answer.

Snatching the hair tie with a grumble, Jason pulled a face back at her and fastened the braid with no small amount of sass.

“Dad is a fuckin’ hypocrite,” he finally replied.

Snorting, Cass pushed off the floor with her hands, pulling her legs criss-cross as she twisted around to face him. She raised an incredulous brow up at him, grumpily sprawled over her butterfly-patterned comforter.

“Oh yeah?” she prompted, fighting a grin. “How so?”

He rolled his eyes, fists bunching up the covers. “Fuckin’ everything he says ‘s a con- contra- fuckin—“

“Contradiction.”

“Exactly!” he fumed, quietly gesturing his thanks. “He’s always fuckin’ tellin’ us we gotta test our limits n’ find our full potential! Not close our minds to possibilities, right?”

She hummed agreement, resting her chin on the edge of the bed as he ranted.

“But he just fuckin’ refuses to see this one!” he continued, clearly becoming restless in his bubbling frustration. “Every time I bring it up, he’s all ‘nah, it’s too dangerous, Jason’, ‘we don’t know what’ll happen, Jason’, ‘stop asking about time travel, Jason, I already told you you’re not ready’! Well, how can I ever be ready if I never fuckin’ try?”

“Well… Dad also says all the time that his main priority is keeping us safe,” Cass countered, not lifting her head. “And it sounds like he doesn’t think this is a worthwhile risk.”

“But that’s what I’m saying! You don’t get it!” Jason snapped, jaw squaring. “How could this not be fuckin’ worth it?”

Something squeezed Cass’ chest with rigid force and she swallowed down her heartbeat. Her blood was starting to boil and she ground her teeth, digging her nails into the edge of the blanket.

“Oh, I dunno, Jay,” she gritted, letting the bitter sarcasm lay thick. “You could die or something.”

“We could always die, that’s a stupid argument!” he shot back dismissively, sending another pulse of heat through Cass’ ears. “The point is, I’m totally fuckin’ wastin’ my power if I just keep only usin’ it to blink around the room n’ beat up crooks! I could actually do shit that fuckin’ means something!”

“Oh, really? Literally being a superhero isn’t enough for you?” she spat, glaring daggers as her chest cracked with the force of her breath. “You’re saving lives every day!”

“No but that’s— what I’m sayin’ is— Ugh, you don’t get it, Cass!” he huffed, shoving his bangs out of his face in obvious frustration.

That’s where she lost it. She sprung to her feet, fists whitened and shaking at her sides as hot tears stung her eyes.

“Oh, right, how stupid of me! Of course I don’t ‘get it’!” she seethed, not the slightest bit tempered by the shock and guilt flashing over her brother’s face.

In fact, part of her reveled in watching him squirm as she dug in deeper. “Dad told me I could change the world just as much as you guys, even without any powers. Do you think he’s a hypocrite for that, too?”

She turned sharply away from him, her heart only racing faster at the deafening sound of him scrambling after her.

“Cass- wait, Cassie, that’s not what I meant!” his voice rang out almost like a whine as his fingers caught onto her sleeve.

Her arm whipped out on pure instinct, smacking him away as she shot back another piercing glare. He looked sorry, but he was still angry, too. It was getting rather hard to hear or think or see straight - or breathe. She needed to get out of here and take her medication. She needed Bruce.

“Cassie, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that! I just—”

“You just what?” she found herself snapping, the room suddenly doing somersaults around her. “You just think you have to do better? You have to do more for everyone ‘cause you can?”

A strange expression pinched Jason’s face as he stared back at her. He lifted his arms in something like a helpless gesture, the corners of his mouth twitching hesitantly upward. Like he thought she was crazy.

“C’mon, Cass…” he almost chuckled, shrugging. “Of course I do.”

For just a moment, she was weightless. That single beat could’ve lasted a lifetime, floating through shock and disbelief. But it was clouded over with heavy rage before she even knew what had happened.

“Fine, then! Go ahead and try it, dummy!” she shouted, the echo of her words still ringing in her ears for years and years to come. “Throw yourself to the end of time - see if I care!”

She spun around, the braid her brother had carefully crafted for her whipping into the wetness of her eye. She stumbled into the hall and slammed the bedroom door behind her, flinching at the sound before she sprinted off towards the stairwell for her dad. 

Each of her pounding footsteps seemed to crescendo through the silence of the manor alongside her bursting heartbeat as no second set hurried to follow her.

1997 (Present)

~ Tim ~

Tim has never been much of a singer, but silence has a cruel way of crushing a blissful vibe. So, to circumvent this problem, Tim hums a random, half-remembered tune under his breath as he searches through Bruce’s office cabinets for some good whiskey. He knows exactly where to look for the bottle, so he snags that one without issue and proceeds to throw open the next few cabinet doors in his hunt for a glass. 

He was flawlessly avoiding confrontation with any of the infinite elephants in the room right up until he finds himself staring straight into large, bold text cheerfully declaring: “World’s Best Dad” on an ugly, out-of-place mug in the center of the shelf.

Deep under miles of self-imposed numbness, a sharp twinge of emotion twists and tangles at Tim’s core harsh enough to make him twitch. Somehow, a laugh is what blurts from his lips as he clumsily massages his forehead.

“Ah, son of a… whore…” he groans, breath still shaking with laughter.

“Whore is still a swear, Tim,” Steph quips, her tone far from light or teasing.

“Yeah, okay, Alfred, ” he shoots back, snatching one of the identical, unmarked whiskey glasses lined neatly behind the mug.

“I didn’t tell you not to say it, you just hesitated for no reason.”

Wobbling his head and pulling a mocking face, Tim pours himself a generous glass and swishes it in one hand. “M’kay, whore. Piss off, how ‘bout?”

He grins bright and sassy when he says it, ignoring her raised brow in favour of throwing back a heavy sip of the good stuff. 

His eyes are still closed in savouring when she replies, “Damn, okay.” So he chokes in shock at the sudden sensation of frigid cold and a harsh pull against their tether.

“Hey, hey! Hey!” Choking and spilling thousands of dollars in dribbles, Tim scrambles to grip onto the now-apparated tether and pull his little shit of a sister back to him.

She cocks her head at him, crossing her arms - and thankfully releasing the tether, too. “What? I thought I was ‘pissing off’?” she replies, flat and innocent.

Glaring, Tim scratches at the icy itch still lingering in his chest, feebly attempting to warm it back up. It is far from effective. He didn’t even know she could do that.

“That’s not funny,” he grumbles, downing another swig of whiskey.

“I think it’s hilarious,” she deadpans.

He blinks at her. She imitates it back.

“...This’s ‘cause I called you a whore, isn’t it?”

Stephanie raises her brows in a way that heavily indicates a yes, but another head pokes into the room from behind her before she can confirm.

“What exactly did I just walk in on?” Dick chuckles, peeking around the room like he’s afraid he might discover some half-naked rendezvous hiding in their father’s office.

Taking another sip and leaning on the desk, Tim waves dismissively. “You know how the spirits get me talking,” he replies.

His brother gives him a funny look, eyes flicking up and down. “Which spirits we talkin’?” he asks slowly, instantly explaining the strange manner.

Tim raises a cheers in response, but is unsure if the answer is a relief to Dick or not. Based on the way his brother’s face pinches and his shoulders set back, it’s leaning towards not.

“...It’s probably time to set it down, then, don’t you think?”

There it is.

The way he asks is careful, tension only brimming through a tight smile. Dick has always hated conflict, but he’s just too big-brother to ever mind his own business. Tim pushes a sigh out, looking away. Unfortunately, Steph’s critical gaze is waiting for him where he turns and he rolls his eyes, exasperated.

“God, all of you n’ your nagging,” he laughs, setting the glass down with exaggerated petulance. “Can’t a man drink his sorrows away in peace?”

“Tim…” Dick begins uncomfortably, but he halts when Tim raises a hand.

“We really- we really don’t need to do this,” he sighs, baring his teeth in some half-hearted attempt at a grin. 

His brother practically flinches at the statement and it only stokes Tim’s rising irritation. He’s both too sober and far too wasted to deal with any of this. So before Dick can push any further, he pushes off the desk and staggers for the exit that his brother is currently blocking.

“Wait–” Raising his arms in a startle, Dick moves to keep Tim from squeezing past. “Tim, hold on, I just–”

“Look, I know your saviour complex is going nuts right now,” he snarks back, practically falling against his brother in an attempt to shoulder check him. “But really, Dickie, you’re not about to fix me with a big brother pep talk, ‘kay?”

A fragile shock washes over Dick’s face and a worm of guilt wriggles into Tim’s gut, festering larger when Steph’s voice rings out.

“Tim! Don’t be an asshole,” she scolds, her disappointment palpable.

The guilt all but vanishes, however, when Dick’s expression reddens with rage and his hands clasp onto Tim’s shoulders. 

He proceeds to shake him like a ragdoll, shouting in his face, “Oh, excuse me for giving a damn about my brother’s health and safety! Am I just supposed to look the other way while you actively race to kill yourself?!”

Reflexively, Tim’s hands fly up and he shoves out of his brother’s grasp, stumbling back against the doorframe. If he were a little more sober, he might’ve held his tongue - but they were miles past that point by now.

“If that’s what you’re worried about, you should be filling my damn glass.” 

He regrets blurting the words as soon as they’ve left his lips, but still turns and slips out of the room before Dick can conjure any reply. The man hurries after him, of course, but Tim just keeps moving in a mindless attempt to escape this growing headache. 

The universe seems to take this as a challenge and plants in his path the one person that could possibly qualify as the fire to his frying pan. His legs are abruptly swept from under him and for a moment, Tim thought that Dick had had the audacity to lift him off the ground like a cat by the scruff - but the reality was a million times more infuriating.

“Greetings, Timothy,” his little shit of a brother sneers, oozing with arrogance as he holds Tim above the carpet by his collar. “Sobering up, I see.”

Instantly flailing indignantly, he aims a clumsy kick for the back of Damian’s kneecaps. The demon-spawn dodges easily, of course, but Tim uses the opportunity to regain his own footing and pull away.

He scoffs, glowering down at his dumb, smug, little face. “I’d kill you right now, but I’d never risk being afflicted by your ghastly company,” he bites, poking a finger at his forehead.

Sidestepping the poke, Damian levels him with a hard look. “Funny you mention that,” he remarks humourlessly. “Considering the occasion that we are all gathering for, do you happen to find yourself with any new company at this time?”

An icy jolt rips through Tim’s chest as soon as he realizes what his little brother is getting at, and he almost steps back from the shock. He can feel Steph stiffening with him, pulsing through the tether that he is once again uncomfortably aware of.

Before he can process anything, Dick is cutting in with some loaded intensity.

“ Damian, ” he grits out warningly, stepping closer to the both of them. “Do not start this again.”

“Why is this an unreasonable question?” Damian shoots right back, squaring himself in challenge. “We are here for Father’s funeral ceremony, are we not? Would it not be a comforting process for obtaining closure if Timothy were to summon his spirit for us to speak with?”

The rush of blood starts to fill Tim’s ears and he presses his thumb as hard as he can into a button on one of his pants’ pockets. Dick is fumbling for a response, his face is turning bright red and twisted. Damian’s eyes are turning back, searing into Tim with some kind of stubborn expectation. 

How is this still happening? He could’ve sworn he did everything possible to prevent it. He can’t listen to this. He can’t be here.

“Don’t pretend that’s why you’re asking!” Dick finally blurts, making Tim’s heart skip a beat. “You know you’re being unreasonable, so stop– picking at people’s wounds like they’re– nothing! ”

Wounds, huh? Something cracks again at his brother’s words, and Tim finds himself unable to do anything but laugh. So that’s how his family chooses to talk about this particular elephant in the room, then. Tim’s supposed ‘failure’ to summon Jason for them is an old wound of his that they need to be sensitive about.

His laughter has drawn their attention, but he can’t find it in himself to brush it off. Dick has that stunned, cautious confusion all over his face, while Damian is staring him down like he’s searching for state secrets or something.

“ -Tt- I don’t know, Richard. He doesn’t seem terribly wounded to me,” the little shit replies, maintaining direct eye-contact as he tilts his chin mockingly.

Tim’s grin widens, not reaching his eyes.

“Damian, that is enough, ” Dick snaps, a vein in his forehead on the verge of popping as he steps dangerously close, dropping to a whisper. “Alfred is gathering the others for the ceremony right now, so you better get your act together before they’re forced to put up with any more of your–”

“Ah, there you are.” 

All three heads whip towards the lounge room at the sound of Alfred’s soft, solemn voice. The butler’s eyes are sagging, but his shoulders are held straight back, flanked on either side by Barbara slumped in her chair and Cass hunched almost a head shorter. Tim can’t take his eyes off of Cassie - she looks more like a ghost than Stephanie. Even when she was little, spending most days just shut up in her room, he’s never seen her so pale and thin.

Both Dick and Damien seem to straighten out at their arrival, stepping apart and lowering their heads in submission. It’s not surprising from Dick, but Tim can only conclude that his little hell-spawn of a brother must also be deeply concerned about Cassie for him to fall in line so easily.

As they shuffle out for the ceremony, Tim slips around his siblings to walk closer to her, not missing the troubled gazes that Steph also throws her way. They all pull out umbrellas and prepare to step outside, but he opts to decline his own. Instead, he ducks beneath Cassie’s as she opens it up, sloshing robotically onto the muddy courtyard. 

As he brushes next to her, he catches sight of her free hand rapidly flexing in and out under her sleeve, nails digging deeper and deeper into her bruising palm. She doesn’t even seem to notice him even as he presses into her space, her eyes locked on nothing straight ahead. 

With a soft sigh, Tim slips his hand into hers, wrapping his icy fingers around her sizzling knuckles. She startles at the touch, acknowledging his presence for the first time with a wild look. A moment later, she squeezes back with the force to break bone.

Rain spatters over their umbrellas, drumming a steady chorus and swamping over the grass. A trench is building around the base of Stephanie’s looming, memorial statue from the droplets which weep freely down her bronze-carved features - unlike her ghost, who remains ever untouched by the elements. Tim can’t help thinking that they should’ve picked a better day, but then again, he doubts any of them could stand around their father’s ashes in the sunshine.

Alfred steps forward, and in the corner of Tim’s eye, he catches Damian glaring murderously at the urn in their butler’s arms. His stomach sinks like a stone. Squeezing Cassie’s hand somehow tighter, he turns to Steph with a look of desperate pleading. He doesn’t know what exactly he wants from her, but from the way she’s staring back at him, she doesn’t seem to have it.

Why are the drugs never enough? He can’t be here. He can’t do this again.

“...Would anyone like to say a few words?” Alfred asks, his normally infinitely-composed voice creaking out thin and waspy.

Air catches in Tim’s lungs in the silence and he’s almost tempted to pray. After a hesitant beat, Dick goes to step forward, but he’s superseded by Damian firmly marching past. 

“I will speak about Father,” he declares, deceptively calm in the face of five pairs of sharp, bulging eyes.

Exchanging a heavy look with Steph, Tim barely holds back a long, low whistle. Here we go.

“Damian,” Dick hisses, his hand clamping over the teen’s stiff shoulder to hold him in place. “What are you doing?”

Eyes narrowing, Damian pointedly shoves off his brother’s grip. “Speaking for Father,” he replies, slow and thick with challenge.

“It’s alright, Master Dick,” Alfred cuts in hesitantly. “Let the young master say his piece.”

A burst of pain shoots up Tim’s arm as Cassie’s grip clenches with new vigor. He can’t help but agree. It seems like the rest of their siblings are also on the same page, but no one seems brave enough to voice it in fear of sparking the inevitable.

So Damian holds his head high as Dick backs down, their gazes fixated on each other like mountain lions in a standoff. Poor Alfred just swallows hard, nodding for him to begin as his trembling hand clutches the base of the urn.

With a few strides, their young brother turns to face them all, his umbrella shadowing his unreadable expression. Tim is already so prepared to sock the brat in his oh-so-punchable face, but he restrains himself for now.

“All of us owe so much to Father,” Damian starts, and Tim can practically feel the others’ hackles raising. “Our lives, our safety, control over ourselves and our powers, and so much more. None of us would be here without him.”

His echo is swallowed by the rushing rain, thunder crackling faintly in the distance. Tim tries to sink into the noise instead, staring anywhere but at the faces of his family. He can’t be here.

“It was his sacred vow,” Alfred rasps, heavy emotion tugging at the words. “To give you kids the lives you all deserved. He gave it everything he had…”

It’s hard to tell if it’s him or Cass who flinches, but the jolting sensation rattles through both of their arms regardless. Her breath is becoming harsh and ragged, and Tim chooses to focus on that rather than the cold nausea seeping through his gut.

“He gave us so much,” Damian is continuing, nodding emphatically. “His greatest gift to us all was his guidance. He made sure to equip us with countless wise words and expert sense. As long as we remember and follow his teachings, there can be no doubt that we will overcome any obstacle.”

“Oh, this little cretin…” Steph groans, echoing Tim’s thoughts exactly.

Despite everything, the brat had been doing surprisingly well up until this point. But he just couldn’t help himself from making a dig like that.

“Thank you, Master Damian,” Alfred steps in, a final warning. “I’m sure Master Bruce would’ve appreciated the sentiment.”

“ -Tt- ” the smartass huffs instantly, his tone sharpening like a blade. “Yes, I’m sure he would. ”

Tim raises his eyes to heaven, but finds only the disappointing underside of Cass’ umbrella. He feels the splash of Dick’s footsteps on his boots before the fumbling man manages to find his voice.

“Okay, Damian, that’s enough,” he orders testily.

Mud streaks over the grass with the print of Damian’s foot as he turns to the eldest, almost like he means to literally root himself in place. Thunder cracks overhead in perfect dramatic timing and Tim wishes the lightning would just strike him now.

“What? Have I offended you somehow? I haven’t even spoken out of turn!” the brat protests, lashing at the tension like his very own lightning bolt.

“Oh, sorry, is that a high standard for you?” Barbara snaps back with equal charge.

In Tim’s ear, Stephanie mumbles, “To be fair, it really is…” Because she’s only ever pretending to have any sense of decorum.

Naturally, he snorts at the hilariously accurate observation and, of course, the brat snaps his head to the sound immediately, his eyes positively broiling for a fight.

“I understand if my demeanor might be upsetting to some of you, but I fail to see what could possibly be so funny, Timothy,” he bites out, every word sharper than the blades he hides beneath his clothes.

Feeling Cass twitch against him, Tim forces himself to compose a little. He almost lets go of her hand to approach his brothers, but her grip is still far too rigid for him to find any freedom, so he gives it up.

“Nothing, Demon,” he replies, flashing one of Dick’s trademark passive-aggressive, thin-lipped smiles. “None of this is funny, and yet you keep babbling on like it’s a comedy show.”

“Alright–” Alfred tries to cut in again, but the brat barrels over him, practically exploding like a firecracker.

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“Oh, like hell you didn’t!” Barbara instantly shouts, erasing any attempt at restoring the tenuous peace of the ceremony.

“I was speaking for Father! Am I not allowed to do even that?”

“You knew what you were doing, you little–”

“Sir, Miss Barbara, please–”

“What exactly was I doing? Encouraging you all to use your senses? ”

“Damian, do not start with this right now!” Dick finally steps back in, interposing between the brat and Barbara and grabbing onto his jacket sleeve.

With an audible smack, Damian bats his brother’s hand off and points a scolding finger to his face. “Don’t you put your hands on me like I’m your misbehaving toddler, Grayson!”

Everyone in the courtyard seems to flinch at the abrupt callousness, especially Dick, himself. It’s not surprising that it hit him hardest - Damian has always been especially fond of formalities, and particularly all of the various ways to use them for doling out his respect or lack thereof. 

As a result, Damian refuses to admit enough closeness to any of them enough to use a nickname, and he will switch to surnames if he wants to show particularly cold disdain. The brat only ever called their oldest brother ‘Grayson’ a handful of times in his life, and most were as a very petty, young child. 

Personally, Tim’s shocked he ever graduated to ‘Timothy’, but he mostly thinks it’s because Damian realized that it bothers him far more than ‘Drake’ ever did. All of that to say - the little shit just crossed the line, and Tim has had enough.

“Maybe quit acting like a toddler, then, pea-brain!” he taunts, immediately stealing all the little shit’s ire back to himself.

“Shut up!”

The instant Damian’s glare turns on him, Tim folds over and yelps in pain as a sharp sting splits through his ear. The petty bastard made the backing of Tim’s piercing twist and bite into his skin as a retort to being called a toddler.

“Case in point!” Tim huffs, gesturing wildly with one hand as the other cradles his injured ear. “Playing dirty with your powers when you’re called out for the little brat you are!”

Both Dick and Alfred jump in to scold the kid for abusing his powers, but Damian ignores them completely in favour of marching straight up to Tim with a ravenous scowl. 

He pokes an accusing finger into his ribs, snarling out, “Why don’t you retaliate with your own powers, then? If you want to see me chastised, Timothy, then why don’t you summon Father to do so himself?”

“ Damian! ” It’s unclear who exactly shouts it, especially since Tim is having a hard time hearing much of anything at this point, but the brat seems unfazed regardless. 

Before he can consider otherwise, Tim’s fist is wrapped around that pointing finger with enough rage and force to break it. “Quit acting like you’re proving anything! I am deliberately too fucked up for any of that bullshit and you know it!”

Inhaling sharply, the little shit’s jaw flaps open to spew out more insufferable blabbering, but Alfred’s cracking bellow rings out in its place.

“Boys! That’s enough!”

In the rain-spattered echo, Tim feels his own stomach lurching violently as he watches Damian go rigid. It isn’t Alfred’s voice or tone that shook them, but the specific choice of phrase. Just as Damian is fond of formalities, Alfred Pennyworth was his teacher. 

Their butler has never once addressed them without ‘Miss’ or ‘Master’, and is always careful to still chastise them as ‘sirs’. The one who would always snap at their childish antics and call them ‘boys’ was the man in the urn.

Worst of all, Alfred seems to have realized this as well, and is now covering his mouth with a pale, trembling hand as his eyes threaten to water. An aching heat clutches Tim’s ribcage at the sight and he leans forward until he’s nose-to-nose with his stun-locked little brother.

“Happy now?” he practically growls, smiling icily. “Anything else you want off your chest?”

The shock vanishes from the demon-brat’s gaze at once, overtaken by cold steel as he raises his chin. “Fine, have it your way. I shall leave you all to your mourning. ”

Reeling back at the audacity, Tim prepares to take his punchable face up on the offer and catches Dick clearly pondering the same. But before either of them can process reality enough to act, Damian is whirling on Alfred.

“I do just have one question,” he declares, his tone twisting venomously as he drops his narrowed eyes to the urn in their butler’s arms. “Since when did Father want to be cremated? ”

At that point is when Tim loses track. The last thing he hears clearly is Steph softly cursing before the yelling starts and everything is drowned out by a pounding headache and that incessant ring. He definitely throws a few punches, but they probably all miss. 

It’s mainly Dick and the brat going at it while Alfred retreats back into the manor. The rain just keeps on pouring. At some point, Tim is sure he watches the droplets falling backwards, but that might just be the good stuff kicking in.

Once again, it’s Steph who brings him back to himself, but not by the same means. He watches in slow motion as Dick lunges with a heavy swing, fist flying true for Damian’s kisser. He watches the little bastard duck and slide out of the way, tripping their eldest brother and sending his full momentum soaring past - straight into Stephanie’s memorial statue.

Under the full force of Dick’s enhanced strength, the stone base breaks off and the hefty, bronze statue rockets across the pathway of the courtyard, crashing hard into the cobblestone. The head of their sister’s statue instantly severs on impact, rolling and clattering over the path as if to emphasize the weight of their transgression.

If Damian looked even the slightest bit less absolutely horrified and remorseful in that moment, Tim is certain that the brat would shortly be joining her.

Instead, silence suffocates the courtyard like a thick blanket. Even the wind and rain seem to hold their breath, though the thunder always knows the most cinematic time to strike. They all just stare in shock as the statue head slowly spins to a final stop, indiscernible emotions brewing like the storm above their heads.

Despite the sliver of bittersweet satisfaction in seeing regret infinitely deepen in the demon-brat’s eyes, Tim was fully aiming to rip him a new one. He had his sharp tongue locked and loaded, but just before he could pull the trigger, Steph had to ruin it.

Right in his ear, she murmurs, “...So, no head?”

Instantly, Tim is forced to clamp both hands over his mouth in a desperate attempt to smother a laugh. Oh, he is going to kill her again.

To make matters worse, the very next person to break out of the shock is Cassie. She abruptly lurches over, a strangled sob ripping from her throat as her bangs fall over her eyes. 

Everyone else seems to jolt at the sound, instinctively moving towards her - including Damian. Honestly, Tim didn’t think the kid could look more sorry. The expression on his face is pitiful, and it’s almost enough to consider forgiving him for making their little sister cry. Almost.

“Cassandra, I- I’m–” the brat falters, his hand reaching uselessly.

His feeble apology is swiftly swallowed by a brilliant flash and deafening boom. Cass’ hands clamp over her ears as she flings herself forward into Barbara’s waiting lap and everyone else swings drunkenly towards the source. 

For a moment, Tim is convinced that the sky is responding to his request to be struck down and nearly voices some constructive criticism. After all, the lightning will have to do a little better than that if it actually intends to fry his body to ash. The blinding light fails to fade as a typical thunderous bolt would, however, and prompts him to further investigation.

But surely Tim cannot trust his eyes, because right now they’re telling him that the rain is falling backwards in a sphere around what looks like a tear through reality itself. The more that he blinks through the scalding, bright blue, the more that thin air seems to warp and split, like a baby bird cracking out of a fucked up egg. 

Yeah, this is definitely the good stuff.

“What… the hell is that? ” Dick sputters, gently pushing Barbara and Cass further back from the electric light, behind his outstretched arm.

“I was hoping it was a bad trip,” Tim wheezes, hurriedly backing twice the distance.

The strange lightning-egg continues to crackle and swirl, some sort of shadowy image beginning to emerge from the bulging center. It looks almost like a hand.

“ Tim… ” Ice seems to clutch his wrist as Steph’s sudden whisper, like her ghostly hand is actually making contact. “Is that…?”

Water splashes as Damian takes a resolute step forward, flicking his wrist with a subtle hiss of metal as he sends a dagger straight for the shadowy figure pushing through the egg. Despite everything, Tim finds himself blurting out some partial cry of protest, but it’s far too late to make a difference.

The rest happens in a split second. The dagger flies, the lightning flashes, thunder roars, the blade meets its mark. Blood and rain stream down, the reaching arm folds with a flinch, a grunt of pain swiftly cracks familiar as a shockingly small figure tumbles ass-over-tea-kettle into the mud.

“Fuck, shit– piss! ” the figure cusses through garbled, pained hissing as they rise to hands and knees, blood and mud dripping down one arm.

Even through the streaks of grit and scarlet, the grimacing face staring up at them is unmistakable - hardly a hair out of place from the painted image hanging within the manor. Well, there are a few.

This can’t be possible. Tim’s eyes are welling with emotion even though he’s yet to be given substantial evidence to believe them. Because that is their long lost brother - after seven impossibly long years, Jason Todd Wayne has finally come home.

Chapter Text

1990

~ Jason ~

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

It quickly became hard to remember, but Jason had blinked into the warehouse with a wealth of confidence, absolutely sure of himself. The boy had a lot to prove and no doubts in his mind that he would do so flawlessly.

He took out those pathetic henchmen no problem, not even getting the chance to test out his ultimate weapon. But it didn’t matter, because the real show was about to begin. In all honesty, Jason hardly expected the psychopath to actually respond to his taunt - let alone actually show up in the flesh.

The first thing he remembered feeling was a thrill. He’d bounced on his toes and shook out his fists, preparing himself to finally pull out the big guns. He knew Bruce would be pissed - Cassie, too. But he would win them over by serving them Joker on a silver platter. That was his first thought.

Of course Joker had been waiting for him, but Jason could win back his advantage. All he had to do now was rewind. He’d practiced spatial travel since his birth and had been running the numbers for months - no matter what Bruce said, Jason was confident that he could make a jump through time just as easily. 

He’d squared up to make his first jump, but Joker didn’t let him get that far. Instead, he was forced to blink out of a bullet’s path - again and again and again. 

This wouldn’t have been such an issue, but every dodge seemed to be a closer and closer call. Even blinking out of the warehouse didn’t spare him, as he was instantly ambushed by a dozen henchmen that he’d somehow missed before. He should’ve picked somewhere with more cover.

The first bullet graze sent his adrenaline surging, and the ragged breathing started wearing at his spatial accuracy. The next hit wasn’t a graze.

All of Jason’s confidence had evaporated by this point, fully replaced by frigid, primal terror as he scrambled on the floor, clutching his gushing ankle. All he could hear was his own heartbeat and the echo of Joker’s laugh as the bastard sauntered towards him.

Jason tried to blink away, but he barely jumped an inch before his vision blurred with white-hot pain. Terror clawed him somehow deeper as he realized he’d hit his limit. The next thing to hit him was a crowbar.

That sickening laugh faded in and out of Jason’s ears with a sharp, blaring ring. He tasted copper and felt cold concrete against his cheek. The flickering warehouse light cast a shadow beside him and he watched that crowbar rise up high again.

He was going to die.

The thought was sobering in the midst of endless, blinding fear. It was more than a realization - it was a wake-up call. He couldn’t let himself die here. He couldn’t let his own stupid, reckless actions kill him just like everyone always told him they would. Cass would never forgive him if he left her like this. Bruce would never forgive himself, and Dick– No, there was no way that Jason could let this happen.

Desperation blazed through his fingers as they curled into fists, squeezing with all his might as if he could turn his whitened knuckles into praying hands. He had to make it work this time. If his spatial travel was at its limit, then he would just have to take a different route. Through groggy vision and a vicious, pounding headache, Jason reached out not for a place, but for a time. 

The destination hardly mattered, as long as it was anywhere but here. He felt his power grasping for this new axis, slowly pulling his body through what felt like molasses and smoke. Then his stomach abruptly flipped with the nauseating jolt of falling backwards through time. 

The fall felt infinite, yet rapidly gaining momentum towards some imminent demise. Despite having hardly a clue what was truly happening, Jason was distinctly aware of time - hours, days, years, decades - slipping through his fingers in the blur. He quickly surpassed the day of his own birth, then his father’s, then Alfred’s. 

The further back he fell, the less distinguished it became. He was losing it - he was losing himself to the cosmos. If he didn’t pump the breaks fast, he was never going to see his family again.

At the thought of them, Jason snapped back to himself, metaphysically gripping with both hands onto whatever minuscule thread still connected him to the reality he once knew. He felt the timeline stretch and pull like a rubber band at increasing tension, but the important part was that his fall was slowing.

Shocks of dizzying agony pulsed through his body with greater and greater force, flooding his vision with blinding colour, his ears with a consuming ring, and the rest of his senses with blood. He held firm, despite the endless barrage and the weakness creeping through. He only thought of his family.

He had to make it back to them. Even if it killed him, he had to make it back home.

His power pulled at his limbs and spirit like a medieval torture device, threatening to completely tear him apart. He felt his grip on himself slipping, and burning panic hardened to an ironclad stubbornness he had always known.

No matter the agony, no matter the cost, he would not let go.

The forces against him were unfathomable - far too much for any part of him to comprehend. A cold infinity seeped into his veins like a sickness the longer he held onto resistance, stretching him well beyond his mortal limits. 

Then, all at once, it broke. The rubber band of time snapped on him with a ravaging force that sent him back the way he came. As all of the tension built up by his fall was mercilessly redoubled against him, Jason felt something deeper than his bones shatter within him.

The last thing he thought of was his family. The last thing he remembered was pain. The last thing he tasted was ash.

When he finally managed to raise his head again, the world he knew was gone. All around was nothing but smoke and rubble, stretching as far as his bleary eyes could see. But despite the cracks splintering the asphalt, Jason knew the streets of Gotham like the back of his hand. 

It took hours just to push onto his hands and knees, but as soon as he had, he started crawling down the path he’d walked countless times, both in and out of the Robin uniform. Leaving a gruesome trail of bloody handprints, Jason painstakingly made the long journey all the way to the gates of Wayne manor - only to find them crumpled in the ruins along with everything and everyone else.

Jason had snapped through time and thrown himself to the end of the world - and he had no idea how to get back.

1997 (Present)

~ Jason ~

Grunting in the effort, Jason carefully unscrews the bolts securing the inner casing around his briefcase’s prize. It’s taking all of his body weight just to keep the protective plate wrenched open enough to access the case’s inner workings, so he has to maintain laser focus. 

As soon as the casing pops free, he blows a harsh breath out and wipes his brow with one gloved hand, pushing the sweaty, white-streaked bangs from his face. The prize revealed appears unremarkable - two glowing gears resembling film reels, one small and one smaller. But appearances are often deceiving. 

He scratches at his prickling scruff with the metal end of the screwdriver for a moment before setting it down and picking up his next tools. He sighs at the sight of his supplies on the sewer floor, steeling himself. 

A screwdriver, two paperclips and a leather belt are certainly not the ideal tools for a job as sophisticated as manually calibrating a Commission briefcase to open up a precise portal through time and space, but Jason has to take what he could get. 

Besides, he once did it with absolutely nothing and only crippled his mind, body and power for life - how much worse could it turn out this time?

“Your calculations are off,” his ever-encouraging companion mutters, not looking up from her nails where she lays sprawled over the concrete ledge.

“Didn’t ask,” Jason retorts, sticking the belt between his teeth as he reaches in, slowly twisting the end of one paperclip into both the major and minor time dilator.

Sparks fizzle up his fingers and he bites into the belt, blinking through bright spots and static. He presses his knee deeper against the pried-open plate of the briefcase, careful to hold the minor gear in place as he wrenches at the major dial. He can’t check his progress this way, but he’s run the numbers a million and one times. He’ll get it right.

“Run ‘em a billion more times, you’ll still be wrong~” she hums in a sing-song tease, and hisses his frustration.

“Nobody asked, go fuck yourself~” he sings back before clamping down hard on the belt as his finger jams.

Flashes of white, unfathomable nothing, lurching nausea and the putrid taste of copper swirl through his senses as he’s forced to pause and breathe it down. His fingers tingle numb as they struggle to keep hold of the clips, and a steady bleed dribbles down his chin.

“Try not to bleed all over the dilators, genius.”

“Shit—” Reeling back, Jason watches in horror as his blood splatters over the delicate wiring and framework of the briefcase core, just barely missing the integral dilators.

He’s forced to release the clips - cursing as his progress is instantly splintered - and cover his gushing nose with both hands. The damp, dark tunnel around him spins ruthlessly as he fights to draw deep, revolting breaths.

“Sure picked a shitty time to try this, huh?” she chuckles, on cue. “Maybe we leave it for now. Try again another day.”

The suggestion would be sensible, if it wasn’t for the fact that this whole plan is entirely a one-chance kind of deal. It’s already too late to back down now, and Jason has no interest in delaying things another single second. He is going home.

Instead, in response he only mutters, “Language,” prompting her to break off into a peel of snorting laughter, rolling over until her head is resting on his unoccupied leg.

“Ah, Jay– You’re a riot…” she sighs, flicking a mass of raven hair over the filthy ground and smiling up at him through her straight, feathery bangs.

Unlike the others, her childish image hasn’t changed a bit in all these years. He wonders how different she’ll truly be. Her body was the only one he never found, so he has no point of reference. He wonders if that’s why his mind still carries her with him, even with the meds. He wonders if she’ll follow him, even when he reunites with her for real.

Her finger pokes his forehead, snapping him into focus. “You’ll never get there if you keep wasting time spacing out,” she chides, rolling her eyes.

God, she just feels so real sometimes…

“I’m not real, Jaybird! You’re losing your mind~” she chirps back as he shoves her off his lap, repositioning to try again.

“We both know damn well I lost it the first time, Cassie,” he corrects, opting this go around to wrap the belt over his face to block the blood flow. “Means fuck-all at this point.”

His sister giggles, sitting up to lean on his shoulder as he gets to work. “Of course! Always the hero, Jason. You’ll sacrifice anything and everything to save the world.”

Her tone is biting mockery, and it takes all his willpower to keep his gaze on the gradually cracking dial, his teeth grinding leather with similar force. She’s just trying to get under his skin, now. She’s well aware of who this is for.

“Oh, am I?” she taunts, voice ringing abruptly hollow. “Last I remember, I told you to get lost at the end of time if you were ever stupid enough to abandon me.”

The dial clicks as he wrenches it another notch, a sharp bolt of dizzying, electric pain shooting up his arm as a reward for his progress. He turns to his sister with a snarl, wiping the excess blood off onto his shoulder.

“No need to remind me. But this ain't for the fuckin’ world, it’s for our family,” he reminds her, straightening the belt in his jaw as best he can.

She shrugs as he turns back to the dilators. “How convenient. I suppose we are part of the world you’re saving.”

He chooses to ignore her in favour of pulling the major dial to another notch. It’s hard to say if it’s a relief or a concern that the notches are getting easier to reach, but it’s not like he has any other options. They certainly aren't getting less painful.

“It’s telling you you’re being stupid,” Cassie supplies helpfully.

Fluorescent lights and black dots are beginning to take over the majority of his vision, but he’s almost there. He’s 98 percent sure the words don’t actually leave his mouth, but he can’t help snapping at his sister to quit nagging him like she actually doesn’t want him to go home.

She chuckles in his ear, and he can feel her eyes on him. “Tell me, Jay… what’s more important to you? Us or the world?”

“You,” he mutters without hesitation, cursing as another shock pulses and floods his mind with prickling static.

His teeth slip and cut deep into his tongue, but he pulls the dial to the last notch - now all that’s left is to activate it. He can’t seal the case to do it properly or the calibration will be reset, so he’ll have to use his power to force the portal open. Turning his head, he spits out a mouthful of blood and swallows the salty aftertaste. He’s about to enter a whole new world of pain once more.

“But we’re worth it, right?”

Raising his head, Jason comes nose to nose with Cassie’s uncanny expression. Her face is untouched by the static, perfectly clear despite all articles distorting his vision. Her lips are curved slightly upward, but there is no smile in her dark, piercing eyes.

“‘Course ya fuckin’ are,” he grits, lungs wheezing from the struggle of keeping up with his racing heart.

She raises a brow, grin stretching too far. “If it came down to it, Jason… would you trade the world for us?”

Her voice echoes through the sewer, layering with unnatural bass. Raising his own brow, he cocks his head at her mockingly.

“Would you?” he asks flatly, hardly in the mood for these games.

Shrugging, she flashes her teeth. “You’ll have to ask me yourself.” 

With a grunt, he pinches her nose, wiping his face on the back of his sleeve before turning back to the briefcase. She giggles as he cracks his neck, wrapping both hands around the sparking device’s cosmic battery. 

One deep breath in, one shaken prayer out. Here we fuckin’ go.

“Everybody strap in, we’re back for round two of this cosmic rollercoaster ride!” Cassie’s sarcastically chipper voice announces as soon as he starts calling on his power to reach through time and space.

“Keep your sanity inside your skull at all times, lest you be swept away in the—”

The rest of her unhelpful banter is mercifully lost to the explosive ring that quickly swallows his ears and thoughts. Pain. Copper. Static. Epileptic flashes burn into his eyelids and lightning seems to blaze through his bones. He holds strong.

He reaches - this time not into blind darkness, but for a door. He grasps it, and tears an opening through time. Lifting his chin, he finds the portal split open before him, revealing the foggy image of a familiar place.

He just has to crawl through it. Fumbling, Jason tries to drag himself the mere inches closer, reaching one arm for the portal while the other keeps hold of the briefcase’s battery. He can’t stand up without allowing the plate to snap closed, so he’ll have to just drag the dubiously-hot-wired case across the floor with him.

Electric agony lances down his arm as soon as his fingers breach the portal, but he only pushes harder. The belt was lost, so his teeth only grind into each other as he fights the impossible force threatening to repel him, carving deeper and deeper into it until his wrist and elbow have passed through. 

But the fog begins to clear and he catches a glimpse of the rainy courtyard of Wayne manor, and it is all the motivation he needs. All of this resistance was expected - he can take it if it means seeing his family again.

What he did not expect was the sudden sensation of cold metal slicing down his outstretched forearm until it sheared straight past his shoulder. The graze knocks him off balance, causing his knee to slip off of the plate and release it full force into the wrist that still grips the cosmic battery. 

Instinct takes over as his entire hand is simultaneously lacerated, burned and crushed, and he blinks forward - into the portal, leaving the briefcase behind.

Time travel is a bitch. One split second shatters into a million lifetimes and the only thing they share is absolute agony. Jason’s short tumble stretches out into a seemingly endless somersault through sickening emptiness, and by the time his head hits the grass he’s grateful for the impact - regardless of how jarring.

“Fuck, shit— Piss! ”

Hucking spit and bile onto drowning earth, he unceremoniously tumbles back into the material world. Through a nauseas daze, he tastes mud and copper and stares up at swirling, gushing rain. The cold pattering on his skin mixed with the burning of his hand is what shakes him out of it - a vehement reminder of his present and palatable existence.

He made it. The realization is alight in every fiber of his being, still too distant and surreal with the piercing ring flooding his head.

He finally jumped through time again. But did it work?

“…Jason…?” A familiar voice just barely greets his muffled ears - it’s rough and too deep and too worn, but he’d know it anywhere.

With a desperate grunt, Jason tries to push himself up onto one elbow, just enough to see them. He just wants to see them real and alive again.

“As if you could tell the living from the dead,” Cassie snickers in his ear as he struggles, because of course she’s still with him.

He ignores her in favour of blinking away black dots, peering through the blur in a manic search for his older brother. He finds a dozen figures staring back at him instead - though at least half of them could be his double-vision.

“Nah, I think we’re all fake and you died in the portal,” Cassie hums, leaning over and poking his forehead, causing a harsh spike of pain and nausea that has him spitting up again.

Then why are they blurry, and you’re clear? He counters internally, unable to conjure any audible response beyond incoherent cursing.

Rain soaks his scalp. His throat stings, his hand burns. His nails dig into the mud as he clutches fistfuls of grass. Something is definitely fractured below and maybe above his knuckles - he only grips harder, the pain keeping him awake.

“Yes, bury yourself in the ground! That’ll teach you what’s real, Jay!” the ghost taunts, her voice rattling along with all the other unbearable noise crowding his skull.

“Fuck off!”

“So, is anyone else seeing a tiny Jason, or is this the good stuff kicking in?” a new voice chuckles nervously, and Jason feels his emotions boomerang.

Tim. His brother is standing there alive, but he scarcely looks different from his corpse. Jason shakes away Cassie’s taunt and tries to stumble to his feet, but he catches on the sudden looseness of his clothes. With a double-take, Jason abruptly processes what Tim said as he looks down and takes in his own appearance.

Shit.

“I told you~” Cassie jabs in a haughty, sing-song voice.

“Shit!” Jason breathes in dismay.

His calculations were off. In the fall through the cosmos, his body somehow rewound back to the age he’d been during the first cataclysmic jump through time. He’s wound up fifteen again!

But what about the timeline? Panic bursts anew as he runs the calculations over. How far back did he land? How much time is left? Is he too late?

“What day is it?” he demands, still blinking through raindrops and violent warping as he attempts to address his family. “N’ gimme the fuckin’ calendar date, if you say ‘Wednesday’, I swear to god—”

“November 3rd, 1997,” the low, soft and real voice of Cassandra answers, just as flat and direct as he remembers.

“Thank you, Cassie! You were always the only one with any sense around here, that’s why you’re the favourite—”

Wait. He freezes solid, thoughts catching up to him. That’s…

Fuck. Jason clutches his bangs with a shaken gasp, folding over on himself. That’s too late! He’s supposed to have more time, he was supposed to come back way before then! This means he has barely two weeks! It means he wasn’t there when…

“How are you here?” Barbara asks, the real question hanging in the air, unspoken - where have you been?

“Hmm… that’s funny!” Cassie observes, once again appearing crystal clear at his shoulder while the others are still lost in warping and shadow. “They don’t believe you’re real, either!”

“Shut up, I’m tryna think! Fuck, that’s not enough time, I need— don’t even fuckin’ think about it!” Jason snaps, shooting ghost-Cassie a glare before she dares say ‘I told you so’ again.

“We thought you were dead…” Dick whispers, and that aching, mournful sound finally shakes Jason into action.

“Well, drink it in! I’m still fuckin’ kickin’,” he replies, rolling up his sleeves and kicking off his oversized shoes in frustration. “N’ we don’t have any more time to lose!”

“Evidently, in our brother’s time away, he appears to have left his sanity behind,” the snotty voice of Damian interjects.

Pointing a finger without looking in his direction, Jason retorts, “Fuck you, short-stack! I managed without it perfectly fine for eight years! You, on the other hand, are covered in mud in the pissing rain!”

“Who are you calling short?! Stand up, fool! You appear to not have aged a day, and I might just be taller than you!”

Head snapping up with a horrified gasp, Jason swiftly scrambles to his feet to challenge this unspeakable claim. In two strides, he stands before his youngest brother and is instantly hit with a violent barrage of emotions - the little squirt is maybe a half-inch taller than him now.

Damian stares back with his chin lifted in smug victory and the ghost of a smile, though fire and guarded tension still dance in the black abyss of his eyes. His brother still wears his umber hair in a simple spike, but his tan has darkened and his features have shed some of their baby fat. He’s still a young adolescent, but the demon-spawn is far from the squeaky eight year old that Jason had left behind.

“Isn’t he so much more insufferable without all that dust and debris covering him?” the voice that wears Cassie’s face chirps, and Jason’s eye twitches.

In an instant, petty rage and suffocating emotion build up in his chest until he is all but compelled to grab his little brother by the shoulders and yank him into a headlock. The brat yelps at the sudden move, his grappling only assisting Jason in pushing him further down.

“No, not allowed! Baby brothers hafta stay shorter, one way or another!” he grunts, wincing as a fist knocks harshly into his still-ringing ear.

“Release me, you oaf!”

“Not til ya fuckin’ shrink, bitch!”

“Is this really the first thing you’re doing…?” Barbara’s voice sighs, soundly oddly fond despite herself.

“Of course it is,” Steph retorts, almost proud.

“I swear to god, Todd!”

“Damn, you become a poet while I was gone?”

With a sharp hiss from the brat, Jason abruptly finds his feet swept out from under him by a heavy weight - likely whatever nearby hunk of metal that Damian had managed to summon to escape his capture. 

Falling backward with the child pinned to his chest, Jason finds himself instinctively blinking up, leaving Damian to splat to the ground alone. He manages to blink just far enough above to right himself and land with one boot planted atop his little brother’s ribs.

Luckily he only has to swallow down a slight tinge of nausea, and his pounding headache is hardly worse for wear. The time jump had not stolen his blinking this time.

“Nice try, gremlin,” Jason quips, ignoring Damian’s infuriated wriggling and cussing in Arabic.

Glancing over to see what he was tripped with, he freezes solid - Jason is staring straight into the muddied, metal-crafted face of seventeen year old Stephanie Brown Wayne. 

The air abandons his lungs and doesn’t seem keen to return. Tears sting his eyes and muddle his barely-returned vision as his legs grow impossibly weak.

He knew. Of course he knew - all the meticulous, careful research he had to compile to save his family, of course he’d learned of her death. 

He’d read over and over exactly how it happened. A stupid mission gone wrong, barely two years after he disappeared from their lives. The team caught unaware by a ruthless foe on a routine run. They all thought they were prepared for something like this - they were not. 

Steph was supposed to be the strongest, she was supposed to be unstoppable, invincible. He wasn’t there.  

They all pretended she was unbeatable, just as they all acted like Dick was invulnerable, like Barbara couldn’t be outsmarted, like Tim was safe from the crossfire, like Damian’s instincts could never fail him - but Jason hadn’t been there to protect them anymore. 

He wasn’t there to take the hit when those instincts failed, or jump to any ambush however far out of his family’s reach. He wasn’t there to knock some sense into their leaders when they got too cocky and couldn’t see the outcome. He wasn’t there to blink Tim out of danger when the others were too busy fighting. He wasn’t there to take care of the enemies that began to overwhelm Stephanie’s defenses - he wasn’t there to lighten the load that the others seemed to believe could never get too heavy for her. 

He wasn’t there to save them from themselves. He wasn’t there to save her. He wasn’t there.

He knew this already. He knew.

But he was supposed to stop this, too. He fucked up the formula, he was too hasty - he should’ve taken more time, more care - he was supposed to be here before it happened.  

He’s not supposed to be too late.

The ghost of Cassie says nothing, but she doesn’t have to. Her ‘I told you so’ is already ringing over and over in his mind, cutting deeper with every beat.

Already, he failed to save his family. And now he’s staring at the face of the sister he’ll never get to reunite with.

Not for real.

Ignoring Cassie reminding him that he won’t know the difference, Jason raises his head and truly looks at his family for the first time since arriving. His horror only deepens. 

Dick’s clothes cling to him awkwardly, like they’re barely containing something festering beneath. His shoulders tense under a weight that has tripled since last he saw it. 

How long has his brother carried the world all alone?

Barbara’s lip quivers as she white-knuckles the base of the wheelchair she now sits in. He never learned how she ended up in it, but somehow that hurts him more. Her hair is teased out of a haphazard bun, showing clear signs of picking and pulling from stress. Her eyes are drowning with a desperate ache. He knows she has a daughter now, she’d be almost three. Elianna. 

Has anyone even known her grief in all this time?

Tim stands off to the side, staring at Jason like he’s a ghost. He can hardly blame him. The years have been harsh on his brother, and the smokes, drugs and hauntings have been harsher. Tim reeks with the stench of death and it has aged him well beyond their years apart. 

Did his little brother ever learn to sleep without him? Or did the liquor take his place in drowning out the screams of the damned?

The black clothing and somber expressions that they all wear - Jason knows what they’re gathered here for. He was too late for this, too. He can’t even grant his dad the satisfaction of being right. 

After all the grief he put the man through, he can never pay back even a fraction of what he was so freely given. He can’t ever say thank you. He can’t say sorry. He’ll never get to hold his father and finally tell the man that he loves him. It’s all lost - he’s too late. 

Did he lose hope in Jason’s return? Did his father go to the grave thinking he’d finally see his lost son again? Is the last gift Jason ever gets to give him just another disappointment?

The real Cass stands before him now, slowly closing the distance. Her hair is wet and her eyes are hollowed, staring through rain-pasted bangs. She hates getting wet - why has she dropped her umbrella? Her gaze is boring into his soul like she still doesn’t dare to trust it, but so despairingly wants to. 

Has she hated him for leaving her so suddenly? How many wasted nights did she hope and wait for his return, only for him to show up too late? 

Did anyone seek her out in his place? Or did she spend all these years as the abandoned favourite?

“You’re back,” Cass whispers, a tear escaping her eye as her lips form a wobbly smile. “…You’ve missed a lot.”

Something between a sob and a laugh bursts hysterically from Jason as he clutches himself, shaking his head and scattering raindrops. “That’s a big fucking understatement, Cassie.”

Then he practically lunges at her, grappling her into a crushing hug as his body spasms with sobbing. She clings back somehow tighter, letting out her own shuddering, silent tears.

She’s so quiet. When has she ever been quiet around him? The Cassie he knows never seems to run out of words to say - like she winds tighter and tighter every second that he’s away until, by the time he sees her again, the pressure of those caged-in thoughts just bursts out of her all at once.

But now that he’s been away for way too long, the only thing she seems desperate to share with him is this embrace. He squeezes with new vigor, unable to blame her, but unwilling to let the gaps between them remain unfilled.

“Don’t think for a second I didn’t miss you the most, favourite,” he forces out in a strangled breath, and she lets out a wet laugh.

He made her laugh.

God, Jason will never recover even a fraction of the karmic justice weighed against him for being the colossal fuck-up, but he could start to feel a little worthy of his family again if he’s making his little sister smile.

Another beat passes with only their crying to break it, then in a soft voice which fails to stay light, she asks him the obvious question: “…What took you so long?”

Like that, he breaks again. All language escapes him and he can only hold her tighter.

“It’s like she heard you feeling better about yourself or something,” that voice - not Cassie - taunts him, her giggling clashing with the manic gasping of his lungs.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” Jason blubbers, burying his nose in his sister’s scarf and breathing in the sharp scent of sweat and mildew. “I should’ve been here, I’m too late— I’m sorry, I- I tried, I’ve- All I’ve been fuckin’ doin’ all this time is fightin’ to get back to you! I swear, I have!”

“I don’t understand,” Cass mumbles, hiccuping as her hands find the back of his neck and grips like he might suddenly disappear. “What happened?”

Instinctively, one hand reaches up to her bob and cards through thick, wet, abnormally short strands in a soothing motion. Jason feels her heave a sob at the familiar contact and tries not to miss how long and soft and perfect for braiding her hair used to be.

Not-Cassie winks at him, even though his eyes are closed.

“I fucked up! I tried- I wasn’t supposed to be this late, I—” Head snapping to the side, Jason snarls at the bratty mirage just as she opens her mouth. “I swear to god, bitch, if you say ‘l told you so’ one more fuckin’ time—”

The real Cass stiffens against him, knocking him back to his senses just a hair too late.

“Woah, who are you talking to?” Tim asks, sounding dazed.

Not-Cassie flashes a sly smirk as the rest of Jason’s family gape at him with bewildered concern. Shit.

“And what do you mean by ‘too late’, Todd?” Damian jumps back in, almost accusing. “Seven years too late? How could—”

The brat trails off abruptly, realization dawning in his eyes.

“You tried to jump through time,” Dick breathes out, completing the thought.

As Jason wearily meets his older brother’s gaze, he can see the gears turning at lightning speed, already assessing from one look that he had guessed correctly. A familiar, stern look clouds over his expression next, and Jason grimaces.

“Dad told you it was too early to even think about, let alone attempt!” Dick reprimands, using the Dad Voice and everything.

Jason would tease him for it if it wasn’t so unbelievably painful right now.

“Yes, and he was right, and now I’m too fuckin’ late to even tell him that, Dick!” he snaps over Cass’ shoulder, jaw clenching through waves of nausea. “Thanks, I really needed that fuckin’ reminder, not like it’s been playing 24/7 in my head the last eight years!”

Dick flinches back at the biting words, looking stricken. But Barbara pipes up, nudging the wheels of her chair forward through the mud and muck. 

“Why do you keep saying eight? Did you, like… get trapped in time or something?”

“Or somethin’,” Jason sighs as he gives Cass another squeeze, still too reluctant to let her go. “I… miscalculated. I had no idea what I was gettin’ into. Jumpin’ through time is nothing like blinkin’ through space. I went too far, fuckin’ rubber-banded n’ got stuck at the damn end of the world.”

“End of the- what?” Cass sputters, pulling back just far enough to meet his gaze. “How far did you go?”

He looks back at her gravely. “Unfortunately, not nearly as far as you’d think.”

Tim’s laugh echoes out, cutting through quickly reforming tension. “What, you saying the world’s gonna end tomorrow or something?” 

With a heavy sigh, Jason turns, levelling his brother with a very long look. At Tim’s side, Stephanie leans over and murmurs in his ear: “Or something.”   

For a moment, Jason watches his expression twist around and almost release another laugh before the truth slowly, finally sets in.

“Oh…”

Shoving his irritating bangs back as he shifts Cass into a half-hug, Jason lets out another sigh. This headache is unrelenting and it’s not making this shit any easier. 

“I never wanted to burden you guys with this, but…” the words choke up in his throat, resisting as if by instinct.

Shooting not-Cassie a warning glare, he steels himself for the admission. This shouldn’t be so hard. Their lives are at stake - the whole world is at stake. Is his pride really this stubborn? Why is it still this hard to admit he can’t do this alone?

The gazes of his family all burn into him, anxious and expectant. Cass’ hand steadies his back and she twists forward, trying to meet his eyes again, but he closes them tightly. He can’t. He won’t be strong enough if he can see them seeing through him.

With a sharp, woozy breath, Jason finally releases it all in a stumbling rush. “But I fucked it up again n’ I’m gonna need all the help I can get. We have to stop the apocalypse, I- I won’t get another shot at this.”

“H-hold on,” Barbara stammers, her grip tightening on her armrest and umbrella. “You’re not actually saying the world ends tomorrow.”  

It’s as much a declaration as a plea.

Her image lurches as Jason swallows cotton, shaking his head ever-so-slightly. “No, but it’s not much better.”

“How abysmal we’re your calculations, Todd?!” Damian snaps, and the growl that rumbles from Jason’s belly tastes far better than the bile.

“This ain’t some fuckin’ math equation, demon-spawn!” he retorts, tossing one arm as he sways against Cass recklessly. “It ain’t even rocket science, this shit’s beyond quantum fuckin’ physics!”

Blackness and iridescent bubbles swirl and pound against his skull in their united threat once more, but god, it feels so good to scream.

“I had to reverse-engineer fuckin’ time travel, n’ my only rubric was the first colossal-ass fuck-up that left me with one more goddamn chance! It’s a damn miracle I got back here at all, so I’d say ya should be fuckin’ grateful I gave us two weeks!”

“Two weeks?!” several voices, Cass definitely included, all shriek in unison.

The rattle of them seems to shatter through to Jason’s brain, leaving him to keel over and squeeze the base of his palms into his eyes - with the faint hope that he might pop them out and rid himself of the ability to perceive light and colour. An unearthly groan squeezes low out of his throat, eventually transforming into a long-suffering sigh.

Fuck time-travel.

“Careful, Jay, they’re gonna think you’re dying,” Cassie hums, prodding his temple and sending awful shockwaves through his body.

Her voice is the only thing permeating the incessant ringing, though he might faintly feel hands on him. Based on the way agony violently swerves back and forth between his eyes, someone is definitely shaking him.

“You’re not leaving us again, are you?”

Hissing through his teeth, Jason smacks the hands off of him and pushes onto his knees, one arm sloppily wiping blood and spittle onto his sleeve. He thinks his siblings are talking to him, high-pitched and probably very concerned. It just adds to the aggravating pulsing.

“Okay,” he heaves out, hands planted in the mud as water dribbles freely down his nose and chin. “Further questions are banned til my system’s got a heavy-ass drip of morphine n’ a fistful of ibuprofen. Or at least a damn coffee…”

The end of the world

~ Jason ~

Ash and dust seared every breath as Jason’s stumbling steps brought him closer and closer to the smouldering pyre ahead. Every movement is white-hot agony, and this has to be at least the fifth time he’s scraped himself up off the pavement to continue this unending journey. 

Every time he falls, the smoke is thicker when he rises again. He could be losing hours or maybe days to the darkness - his body is already too weak to tell the difference. What’s a little more hunger and thirst? What can a few more aches do to a boy who’s already shattered?

Yet he keeps on moving. He has to reach that fire. He has to know.

Everything else fades to oblivion in the face of this - all the daunting questions, all the withering odds, every impossible roadblock in the doom of reality - nothing matters until he finds his family.

The sight of the crumpled gate and sundered manor had sent him to the ground again, but he’s back on his feet. He will not despair - not until he knows for sure. If anyone could survive this hell, wouldn’t that be his family?

He won’t crumble yet. He won’t stop moving, crawling, and fighting until he’s dug through every inch of that rubble and seen the truth for himself.

A thousand voices call him an idiot. He agrees with every one. Jason is a reckless, short-sighted, arrogant, selfish, pathetically childish idiot, but more than all of that, he is stubborn. That stubbornness kept him alive and now it keeps him moving.

Staggering past the mangled gate, Jason’s foot slides over something with a ripping sound and he nearly tumbles straight onto jagged rock. Catching himself with it instead, the boy spares a glance down at the thing that made him slip. It’s a newspaper.

With a double-take, Jason drops to his knees and grasps the yellowed, ink-smeared pages and searches the top of them feverishly. A cold horror seizes him when he finds what he’s looking for. 

The paper is dated November 14th, 1997. This ashen future was only seven years forward in time. This realization stung even more harshly than the first, and the questions he’d been holding at bay all seemed to flood him at once. 

What could have caused this destruction? Why hadn’t anyone been able to stop it? Was there anyone left, or was he all alone in this wasteland that was once his home?

When he searches this rubble, how many bodies will he find? Will his own be among them? What will he do if he finds them all?

No. No, he has to stop this. This can’t happen - he won’t let this future come true. Jason may be broken and good as dead and alone, but most of all, he is stubborn. He will fracture time itself and sunder the remains of himself to its whims before he allows this to be his family’s end.

“As if you have the luxury of choosing one or the other,” a sharp, accented voice scolds him, and he flinches.

Snapping his head around, Jason searches the flames and debris for the source of the voice. It sounded like Alfred, but the butler is nowhere to be seen. 

Pulling himself off the ground, he uses the jagged rock to steady his trembling legs. He’s basically sitting on the thing, turning this way and that in a manic search that suddenly feels foolish. Had he imagined the voice? But it sounded so real…

His eyes catch on something and all at once, everything else disappears. His vision is a blackened tunnel pointing to streaks of a dark, ruddy brown interrupting the whites of ash and grays of dust. Those streaks trail from a single, dust-caked arm that peaks out from beneath a mass of stone.

Despite the heavy coatings, Jason instantly makes out the ink lines across the wrist that form the Robin Academy insignia - exactly where Tim had gotten it tattooed.

He wouldn’t have to dig through the rubble to find the bodies of his family. It seems that each of them had died with their eyes facing the bleeding sun, making their corpses quite easy to pick out.

He digs for each of them anyway.

Chapter Text

1997 (Present)

~ Tim ~

Rainwater pools over the floorboards as they all shuffle back in through the courtyard entrance and hurriedly strip off their dripping layers. Tim doesn’t bother losing anything other than the umbrella, too fixated on watching Cass and Dick helping their long-lost brother to a bench and gingerly assisting him with removing his oversized, red sweater. 

As they tug at the blood-stained sleeve, Jason hisses through his teeth. “Fuck! That shit stings–”

Unable to help himself, Tim throws Damian a pointed glare. At the very least, the little shit is grimacing at the knife wound with sufficient guilt and rushing past Babs for the medkit, so he pushes no further for now.

Turning back to the others, Tim once again shakes his head in awe. His brother’s appearance could have been plucked straight out of his memories, scarred only by a few white hairs. Even after so many years, his image is as unchanged as Stephanie’s, and Tim can’t help but find that a little more than mildly disturbing. 

But Jason isn’t dead - he actually came back. And Tim might be older than him now? That part still isn’t making sense, but neither is anything else right now. He’s still not certain that any of this is really happening.

“Holy burn marks, Jason! What did you do to your hand?” Dick exclaims, peering closely at the opposite arm that they’d already managed to free from the sweater.

“I recall,” their brother practically growls, snatching his hand away just as Cass frees his other arm. “I said no questions til I’m generously fuckin’ inebriated.”

“Oh, well if that’s the requirement–” Tim jumps in eagerly, digging into his damp pockets.

“No!” Dick and Steph retort immediately, heads both snapping to him with matching glares.

Deflating dramatically, Tim lifts his hands in surrender and shrugs apologetically toward Jason. He tries not to read too deeply into the way his brother is staring at him, eyes narrowed and thoughtful.

“Doesn’t need stitches,” Cass announces absently, poking around at Jason’s wounded shoulder despite his twitches and hisses of pain. “Just a graze.”

“Yeah, well, I’d fuckin’ hope the demon brat makes his warning shots skin deep,” their brother scoffs, pushing his white-streaked bangs from his eyes with the horrifically burned hand before - predictably - jerking it back with a string of curses.

Oddly, one of those curses is directed behind his left shoulder, as if he’s telling the elegantly-patterned wallpaper to fuck off. Tim stiffens at the sight, glancing at Steph. She raises a brow in question, seeming more confused than anything despite this being the second crystal-clear example. 

Maybe his ghostly sister didn’t catch it, but Tim wouldn’t miss such a chillingly familiar display from a mile away. But the question remained: Who was Jason talking to that the rest of them couldn’t see?

“Just between you n’ me, Timmy,” Jason suddenly grunts out, leaning forward on the bench with a conspiratorial air despite their siblings flanking either side. “What’cha got on ya?”

A wide grin spreads over Tim’s face, uncaring of the sharp looks from his buzzkill brother and sister. It’s especially funny to be trading vices with Jason when he looks fifteen again, but that only makes it more fun. Striding over, he fishes for his flask with one hand while the other searches his pockets for the good stuff. He finds it just as Damian returns with the more conventional medical supplies, which Cass accepts without comment.

“Well, for starters, I’m sure you could use some good ol’ fashioned,” Tim begins, offering the flask, which is snatched eagerly by the less-injured hand this time.

As Jason gulps down the contents - and interrupts Cass attempting to disinfect his cut - Dick steps in and halts Tim from withdrawing the near-empty baggy from his coat.

“We just got him back, Tim,” the hulking man sighs, seeming to shrink in on himself despite looming over. “Do we really wanna send him to another planet already?”

“Our brother is in pain, Dick,” he retorts, flashing teeth. “You’d rather he keep suffering just so we can talk to him sooner?”

Paling slightly, Dick staggers back as if he was burned. “No! I–”

“‘Kay, first off,” Jason cuts in, lifting his arm for Cass to wrap the bandages around. “There ain’t a snowball’s chance in hell that whatever ya got is strong enough to end my suffering. N’ second, I just asked what it is.”

“Ah, well…” Tim trails off, finally revealing the clear, plastic baggy containing less than a handful of varied, white pills. “It’s mostly ecstasy, but I swear I should have an oxy left in here…”

His siblings release a series of long groans and stiff laughs in response, but Jason just shakes his head and holds out his good hand.

“Try for the latter, please. But make it quick.”

“As an alternative,” Damian cuts in abruptly, producing a pill bottle and slapping it into Jason’s waiting hand. “I have procured the ibuprofen which you requested by the handful. While this is also not recommended, I’d wager it’s more favourable to your health than dubious opioids.”

After a considerate moment, Jason flips the bottle upright in his hand and pops the cap off with his teeth. “Why not both?”

He then proceeds to dump a hearty helping into his mouth and dry-swallow the whole batch at once. Tim beams bright at the wide-eyed, bewildered stares. It feels so nice not being the only disappointment in the family.

“I knew you were alive,” he admits proudly.

Indignant, Stephanie aims a swing of her elbow at him. It doesn’t impact, of course, besides feeling ever-so-slightly cold and tingly.

“Only ‘cause I told you!” she huffs, and he resists an eyeroll.

Jason chuckles, shaking his head and staring at the floor. “Yeah, I guess you’re the only one dumb enough to trust Tim, eh, Steph?”

The whole room seems to freeze. Tim shares a poignant look with his ghostly sister and knows she didn’t miss this one - it would appear that none of them missed it this time. The wrong brother is talking to the dead.

For some reason - maybe it’s empathy, maybe it’s just an inherent sense of unquestioning ride-or-die - Tim feels compelled to try and cover for his brother’s slip-up. Jason is still staring at the floor, and seems to be the only one in the room who hasn’t realized what he’s done.

Clearing his throat, Tim forces a laugh. “I know I’m wearing make-up n’ all, JJ, but that doesn’t make me your sister!”

“Huh?” his brother blinks, head snapping up. “What?”

“Jaybird…” Dick breathes, and Tim finds himself wincing. “You were just…”

No, let’s not do this right now… Swallowing hard, Tim opens his mouth to make any kind of diverting comment. Jason’s eyes bulge and he beats him to the punch, however.

“Oh, shit…” he mumbles, looking suddenly nauseous. “Gimme that oxy.”

Chewing his lip, Tim holds the bag back hesitantly. “I don’t know, you might already be–”

He cuts off as his brother abruptly rises from the bench, immediately wobbling unsteadily. Jason reaches out with his good hand, his brown eyes swallowed by pupils and his bronzed skin glossy with sweat. The last thing he lets out is incoherent as he pitches over, straight into Dick’s embrace.

Mouth dry and frigid hands trembling, Tim stares blankly as fifteen year old Jason, for the second time since his return, goes limp in their brother’s arms.

End of the world

~ Jason ~

Each of Jason’s siblings spoke at their own grave. He didn’t invite them to - the act of digging their bodies up just to bury them under the same dirt was haunting enough to endure and he wasn’t actively trying to worsen the trauma - but they didn’t seem too considerate of his desires.

From the way Tim always whined about it, Jason expected the babbling of ghosts to be just a constant moaning about regrets and revenge and guilt-tripping. Somehow, the way they did talk was even more horrifying.

They read his mind, interrupted his thoughts to argue with them, and constantly finished his sentences with the worst possibility imaginable. They laughed, mocked and tormented him just like his family actually would, but every word they uttered had a little extra bite to burrow in right where it hurt.

They seemed to revel in the fact that they weren’t real, using it against him at every opportunity in order to worsen any existential or dissociative spiral. It was nearly impossible to ground himself in reality when the spectres around him would snicker and prod at him until he’d fall over. 

Jason was only certain that his family were in fact ghosts because of how exceptionally fond they were of reminding him about their deaths. They all insulted him for letting it happen.

In some way - though they broke him - it was their words which kept him alive. Because under the weight of all that grief and guilt and blame, Jason just couldn’t let himself surrender. It would be too pathetic, too cowardly, and just a plain betrayal to allow his failure to cripple his action while he still had breath.

As long as he lived another day, Jason would fight for a way to give that life back to his family. It was his only chance at redemption, and redemption was the only thing his breath was worth.

Pure stubbornness didn’t get him any closer to figuring out time-travel, however. For days, weeks, maybe months, he managed to do nothing other than survive. Though, in all honesty, that was quite the feat in itself.

It was in the corner of a half-destroyed convenience store, prying open canned beans amidst the chatter of his family, that Jason’s fate finally changed.

Metal scraped at his knuckles as he wrenched back the cover of his prize - it was a miracle he hadn’t yet croaked from infection.

“Who says you haven’t?” Tim snorted from his left, not bothering to lift his head from where it laid just a bit too far back against a pile of rubble.

“Yeah!” Steph added, sitting up next to him and gesturing with one crooked arm. “We all know Timmy could still talk to us! He’s probably the one who’s actually alive here.”

“I buried him first,” Jason grumbled, scooping the soupy, tan-coloured beans with two dusty, bloodied fingers and lifting them to his mouth.

“Nah, he’s right…” Barbara sighed, wrapping her bloodied arms around Steph in a way that’s too tight and twisting to be affectionate. “It’s much more likely that you’re dying right now, and this has all been a fever-dream.”

Despite himself, Jason had to swallow down a surge of bile at those words. He should’ve been used to their taunting by now, but with how weakly he held onto reality, it was impossible to shake the terror that he was failing them all one final time.

“I thought I taught you better than this, Jason,” Bruce suddenly scolded him, causing his jaw to clench so tight that Jason swore he felt teeth crack.

His father seldom spoke, preferring to loom like a shadow in the corner of his eye. But whenever his voice did echo out, it was always like a thousand knives rattling around Jason’s skull. The worst of torment reserved only for special occasions.

“I know, Dad…” he replied - because he couldn’t help himself from speaking the words he knew were so desperately deserved. “You were right n’ I should’ve listened. I promise I’ll—”

“No, stupid!” Cassie cut in from his right, yanking him by the ear to turn towards the street. “You let your guard down!”

Heart skipping a beat, Jason’s eyes followed his sister’s prompting as he scrambled to a ready stance, raising the can like a grenade. He finds a figure standing a few feet away in the cracked aisle between dilapidated shelves, carrying a large briefcase and casting a shadow towards him from the light of the bleeding sun. 

Not a spectre then - Jason was the only one of his companions whose shadow obeyed the sun.

“Shameful,” Damian tutted from behind - his voice was a strange mix of wisp and gravel, as if Jason’s mind didn’t quite know how to estimate the effects of puberty on his brother.

“I can’t believe you let him get that close, little wing,” Dick joined in, shaking his head as he crouched next to Cassie.

“He even needed Dad to rescue him!”

“Damn, almost like I was a little distracted,” Jason hissed at Tim, shifting his feet to get a better angle at the stranger.

They were a tall fucker, stocky yet lithe, and strapped in some fancy-ass armoured suit of ruddy metal and leather. A smooth mask hid their features, split down the middle with one side a rustic orange and the other a shiny gray. Cold, amber eyes studied him through narrow slits.

“I do hope you don’t throw that can at me, young man,” the stranger said in a deep, careful voice, still barely moving a muscle. “It would just be embarrassing for both of us, not to mention the mess.”

“Ooh, he’s a jokester!” Steph hummed, elbowing Tim’s still-contorted form.

At Jason’s side, Cassie smirked. “Some might even call him… a Joker.”

“Fuck off.”

“There’s a wager going on at Headquarters,” the stranger started again, hands clasping behind their back despite the cumbersome briefcase they held. “Over how long you’ll last out here. You’ve drawn an awful lot of attention with your unexpected arrival, and I can’t say mine was any exception.”

The figure stepped closer and Jason kept his can raised, letting the pathetic threat distract from his other hand, which subtly collected the jagged scrap metal of the discarded lid.

“Boy, this bugger sure likes to talk,” Dick chuckles, and Jason resists a heavy side-eye.

“So, tell me, young man,” the bugger in question continued. “Who are you and how did you get lost here, at the end of the world?”

“Tell him nothing, Master Jason!” Alfred instructed immediately, stepping out in front of them almost protectively. “Even on threat of torture or death, you must never reveal any information to the enemy that they request.”

“Who says Mr. Chatty’s an enemy?” Steph questioned, frowning when Tim raised a hand, his head still bent back.

“Maybe the patently evil monologue?”

“He could be our ticket out of here!”

Grinding his teeth, Jason muttered sharply under his breath, “Would ya shut the fuck up for two seconds?”

The masked stranger continued to stare at him through the silence, seeming unbothered. Ignoring Cassie’s quip of: “Where’s the fun in that?”, Jason raised his chin in challenge, gesturing with the can of beans.

“You first, tin man,” he growled. “Who are ya n’ how the hell’d ya get here? Also what the fuck is ‘Headquarters’?”

“Nice going, Todd,” Damian huffed immediately. “Now he knows you’re a fool.”

Before the boy could respond to that, the stranger was tilting his shiny head in a nod.

“Of course, where are my manners? My name is Slade Wilson, but most simply know me as their Handler. As for how I arrived here…” Pulling his hands from behind his back, Slade held up his bulky, metallic briefcase in his left. “This was my ‘ticket’, as you say.”

“Perfect!” Barbara cheered, turning hungrily towards the case and nearly twisting Stephanie’s head around in the process. “Now is the time to strike!”

Eye twitching, Jason gripped tighter around both the raised can and his scrap metal knife. This could be it - he could finally escape this hell and make it back to save his family. He just needed to… steal this man’s… briefcase?

“No, you can’t just attack him in this state!” Dick protested, waving shredded hands towards the armoured foe. “Look at his stance, he’s clearly the stronger opponent here!”

“Ah, like that’s stopped our Jaybird before…” Cassie smiled up at him icily, and it clutched like a cold fist around his heart.

“And what exactly are we gonna do if ya manage to take ‘em out?” Steph mused, shaking her head at the idiocy. “Some briefcase ain’t helpful if ya dunno what it does.”

“You have already revealed too much with your ignorance!” Alfred lamented. “He’ll never hand over the information you seek without a high cost.”

“Can I get another two fuckin’ seconds?” Jason sputtered, shaking his head ever-so-slightly as he struggled to keep his eyes in focus.

Then, to Slade he barked out, “Ya didn’t answer the third question. What did ya mean by ‘Headquarters’, old timer?”

A short laugh escaped the man’s mask and had Jason’s hackles raised, but Slade just brought his other hand to the side of his briefcase.

“That’s a far more complicated story, which I’m happy to inform you of in time. For now, I’ll simply say that Headquarters is where this briefcase was crafted,” he explained, turning narrowed, curious eyes on Jason with renewed intensity. “And, if you’ll indulge me, it can be your new sanctuary away from this scrap heap you seem to have gotten yourself trapped in.”

Swallowing dryly, Jason tried his best to study the man - get a read on his intentions. But the world was getting so blurry, and he was just so tired.

“See? I told you he’s not our enemy!” Steph crooned proudly.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually trusting the obvious supervillain…”

“Feigning trust may be pertinent to gaining leverage in this situation, Gordon.”

With a swift twitch of his arm, Jason slammed the can of beans against his own temple, crumpling the metal and scattering beans and blood. His eyes remained fixed on the warping image of Slade in spite of the erratic motion, the intensified ringing, and the beans in his hair. The strange man notably didn’t seem to react. 

As soon as the itch left his arm, Jason was grateful that he’d managed to only cut his cheek and palm, rather than the vital temple itself. With a sigh, he let his arm fall limp and prayed the modified peace would last longer than a sentence.

“For now, I’ll tell ya this, then,” he said to Slade, dropping back onto his ass. “Name’s Jason, n’ I have no fuckin’ clue how I got here but I’d like very much to get out.”

A couple thundering heartbeats passed as the two of them stared at each other with only the sharp ring and the faint, muffled impression of Cassie calling him an idiot rolling around his head. 

Then Slade seemed to take him in anew, resting one hand on his bulky belt. “Fascinating… And you’ve truly never seen a device like this before?” He lifted the briefcase again as he asked and Jason shrugged.

“I dunno, man. Do briefcases have some fuckin’ time-travelly, Dr. Who-type shit I don’t know about?”

With a short, amused breath, Slade lowered the case. “They do indeed,” he replied evenly, earning a snort from Jason.

Irritatingly, it was at that moment that the ringing began to die down and was immediately replaced by eager, debating voices.

“See? Man’s got jokes!”

“Nah, he’s just got a few screws loose.”

“What, like Little Wing?”

“Precisely.”

“Okay, ya little shits,” Jason grunted, scratching at one ear. “We’re playin’ the quiet game, startin’ now.”

“Pfft, you wish!”

“Tell me, Jason,” Slade suddenly began, making him jump. “Did the figments you’re speaking with first start harassing you before or after you inexplicably found yourself at the end of the world?”

Freezing solid, Jason only stared back at the stranger for several moments. His tone was casual and easy, if moderately intrigued, and he seemed to already know the answer.

“Busted~” Cassie sung out their universal sentiment, prodding at Jason’s ribs.

With another dry, scratchy swallow, Jason carefully parted his lips. “What… do you know… about that?”

“Oh, Jason. We have much to discuss, dear boy,” Slade replied, shaking his head with a pitying sigh. “You must wonder if you’ve lost your mind. Or perhaps you’re clever enough to have already reached a conclusion on the matter.”

Sneering, he shrugged one shoulder and jerked his head roughly towards his phantom family. “Not sure there’s more than one conclusion to reach. Either somethin fucked up in my crash through time ‘n I switched powers, or I’m fuckin’ nuts. ‘Cuz every day I’m chattin’ with the bodies I buried.”

The man laughed again, nodding. “Yes, you are clever, indeed. Your instincts are correct - You have gone mad, in some sense of the word.”

“Ah,” he deadpanned, sharing a flat look with Cassie. “Alright, glad we cleared that up—”

“If I am understanding correctly, you tore yourself naked and reckless through the open timeline without any protections or even prior exposure,” Slade retorted, seeming a strange mix of impressed and horrified. “No part of your young mind or body could have possibly been prepared for that experience. It is a fluke of nature that you survived.”

“What can I say?” Jason shrugged again, fiddling with his scrap-knife. “I live to defy nature.”

He’d been hiding the weapon for a reason, but suddenly the pitiful edge felt worthless. Exhaustion weighed on him so heavily, and it seemed like Steph had been right about this guy. They were getting crucial information and being offered help, even if the motives were still unclear.

“Indeed, you do. But nature takes its toll nonetheless,” the man replied ominously, stepping closer. 

Despite his logic moments ago, Jason couldn’t help bracing again, shuffling further back from the stranger. Keep his whole body in sight, don’t let him within arm’s reach. The scrap was cutting deep into his palm under the force of his grip, waking tinges of adrenaline.

The hostility didn’t seem to bother Slade, however. The man just crouched down to Jason’s level, allowing his hefty briefcase to rest on the ground without releasing the handle. He seemed incredibly keen on keeping the case close. That made sense, if it really was their only ticket out of this hellhole. 

“These phenomena you’re experiencing are all symptoms of your reckless dive,” he was explaining, making Jason’s eye twitch with the pulse of his headache. 

“In our line of work, we have many names for it. From Hyper-relativity disorder or Post-elastic psychosis, to Quantum Overload, String Syndrome, good-old Cosmic madness, or simply your post-warp break.” Through the slits in his mask, Slade’s eyes squinted up in what Jason assumed must have been a wide grin. “But I just prefer to call it ‘time sickness’.”

“Well, isn’t that nice!” Tim drawled, flapping one arm dramatically. “Your crazy has a handful of lovely little labels.”

Side-eyeing his brother wearily, Jason addressed Slade. “…So… how do I fix it?”

This laugh was far heartier than the others, but lacking any shock or admiration. This time, when the masked stranger shook his head, it would’ve seemed almost bitter if he wasn’t so obviously amused.

“This is not something you can ‘fix’, dear boy,” Slade said finally, straight-forward and unyielding with the devastation. “As I said, you didn’t just hit your limit, you crashed through the barriers of what any being is capable of enduring.”

Lifting two fingers to his own temple, Slade shifted his crouched stance so that he was directly blocking the sun, the amber light haloing the metallic sheen of his mask. His voice seemed to drop an octave as his void-like eyes pierced Jason to his core. 

“Your mind is broken - shattered far beyond ‘fixing’. Nothing is ever going to be the same for you again.”

A thousand frigid shadows slithered over Jason’s every limb, wrapping especially tight around his throat. The whispers of his family suddenly seemed to hiss together, high-pitched and endless like the ringing. Their blood dripped and splattered in the corners of his eye. He felt it coating him, thick and pungent.

“…Oh.”

The shredded whisper somehow managed to reach the stranger’s ears, and he held out an assuring hand.

“Don’t despair, Jason. I could never promise to fix you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make you strong again,” he went on in a passionate, offensively-patronizing tone, leaning closer. 

“Madness cannot be cured, but chaos can be harnessed if it is simply embraced. Bury your former self with the rest and you’ll have the chance to be something greater.”

Tossing his hands, Jason growled, “The fuck’s that gonna do when the bodies I already fuckin’ buried are still here haunting me?”

“As I said, we have extensive experience with this phenomenon,” the prick replied easily, rising to full height again. “We will provide medication for you that will at the very least rid you of your spectres.”

“Pfft!” Cassie snorted, patting his cheek. “Good luck with that, Jay. I’m not going anywhere!”

Spine prickling uneasily, Jason slowly and shakily pulled himself to his feet once more. He and his family were no more certain of whether or not this wasn’t the dumbest move he could possibly make, but it was hardly relevant anymore. 

All he was certain of was that he had a billion new questions and Slade and his time-travel box apparently had the answers.

“‘Kay, so… You’re not gonna hafta stuff me into that thing, are ya?”

1997 (Present)

~ Jason ~

The ringing was a deafening constant, entwining consciousness and unconsciousness with the same siren’s song. Pain was another. Jason never understood the idea of pinching yourself to test if you’re dreaming - as if there is any level of agony that the mind can’t manifest.

Pain that lances his body and explodes in his eyelids with vibrant colour is no test - it’s nothing but a nuisance. An old enemy he knows like a friend. In all honesty, Jason treasures the ringing, as it’s the only thing besides the meds to give him any reprieve from the shadows of his failure.

At the thought, awareness returns with a start as he swallows copper and cotton. The pounding in his temple is sharp but rhythmic, caused by withdrawals not injury. His aches are dulled and manageable but his mind is alarmingly foggy and scrambled. 

The heaviness of his eyes refuse his orders to lift as Jason tries to regain his bearings. He’s so warm, but something cool is on his head and he lays on softness. Rose must be tending to him, but then why are the meds running low? Are they trapped on a mission somewhere? How dire must it be this time that she was unable to reach an outpost to restock?

The ringing is so loud, just how badly did he overdo it? It’s almost like he tried jumping through time again—

“Yeah, n’ what kinda dummy would try something like that, huh?” Cassie’s garbled, mocking voice just barely pierces the ring.

A moment later, firm, calloused fingers that definitely do not belong to Rose slide under the back of his neck and he flinches, an arm flinging forward on instinct. Something knocks away as his palm thumps into a solid sternum. 

Fragmented memories dump over him like a bucket of ice water at the familiar awakening, wiring his jaw shut. The panicked haze of his mind abruptly grants him the strength to pry his eyes open and lurch forward despite surging nausea and burning brightness. He shoves his assailant back with a petulant growl before any of his vision is recovered between blinks, then shuffles into a readied stance, pressing his spine against what he assumes must be the wall.

“Told y’I’d blast your fuckin’ brains out if ya tried that shit again, Wilson,” Jason snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tries to ride out the multi-colour fuckery of waking up in withdrawal.

“Might wanna check who you’re talking to, big brother,” Cassie snickers in his ear, suddenly loud and clear as the ringing fades to a low buzz.

Raising a brow in suspicion, Jason peeks one eye open again to properly inspect his surroundings. As soon as he makes out the visages of the two figures in the room with him, he stiffens and it all rushes back to him with a strange mix of horror and relief.

Dick stares back in concern, one hand half-raised. His olive skin is not pallid or rotting through to the teeth, and his black curls are not pasted to his skull with dark blood. He’s still wearing black, though the outer layers have been shed. 

The funeral - the time jump. Jason made it back.

Beside his eldest brother, a wrinkled, tear-streaked face wears an expression that his ghost would never have reason to imitate - worry, joy, and pure, unadulterated love. Alfred is stumbling over to Jason’s side before he can blink, clasping his hand in both of his own as he leans over the bed.

“Master Jason,” their dear butler declares, his voice trembling with emotion. “Welcome home.”

Tears sting Jason’s eyes immediately at the simple, heartfelt words and he finds himself impulsively grasping the elderly man into a clumsy, vicious embrace.

“Good to be back, Alfred…” he chokes out, shocked by the force of the returned embrace. “Sorry I’m so late…”

Arms tightening just a bit too much for comfort, Alfred replies in a low whisper, “As well you should be. Due to your extended absence, the butler must now do the scolding in his master’s place. You will find me to be far less forgiving than he would have been.”

Stifling a gasp, Jason tries to pull free but the arms around him are too resistant. “What…?” he rasps, chills trickling with the sweat down his spine.

“You didn’t truly think that turning back the clock would be enough to undo your mistakes, did you?” the butler continues, his nails digging deep into Jason’s back, spiking pain in spiderwebs along the nerves. 

Biting his tongue, Jason fights the urge to fling the frail man back - he can’t risk hurting him, no matter the pain or torment inflicted. He can’t risk any of them by losing control.

“You still failed us,” the voice of Alfred is still saying, growing louder and subtly deeper in pitch. “Our bodies are still buried in that rubble.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason gasps, releasing his hold on the body that he’s not even certain is actually there. “I’m so sorry, please let go…”

“Jason?” Dick’s voice is coaxing him now, echoing like it’s very far away. “Hey, Jaybird, can you hear me? It’s Dick. It’s your big brother.”

“Sorry…” he whispers again, tilting his chin up to quell the tears and try to pull himself together. “I’m just… not really here right now…”

His fingers curl into bedsheets, feebly trying to ground to whatever sliver of reality he can grasp. Dick is fervently trying to assist, leaning a weight against Jason’s thigh as his soft voice rambles on and on.

“That’s okay. Just breathe, Little Wing. I’ve got you. You’re in your bedroom - the one you grew up in.”

Slowly, the familiar log ceiling comes into focus and Jason is overwhelmed by the inexplicable comfort that such a simple sight provides him. His brother keeps talking, a soothing song guiding him from the deepest shadows of his mind.

“We never touched it, you know? It’s exactly the same as you left it. ‘Cept Cass spent a lot of time in here and definitely cleaned up a bit. Oh, and Alfred made your favourite!” The bed shifts as Dick picks something up with a clink of porcelain. “Still a sucker for a good PB n’ J?”

The tantalizing scent hits his nose and travels straight to Jason’s rumbling stomach before he’s even managed to snap his chin down and take in the plate presented to him. A wide grin breaks over his face as he eagerly snatches up both halves of the classic sandwich.

“Alfred, I owe you my life,” he deadpans, nodding to the hopefully-material figure standing behind Dick as he devours the sandwich in record time.

“I prefer it the other way around,” the butler replies, dipping his bald head - which is not bloodied or showing an ivory skull - and offering up a second sandwich and a tall glass of water.

Taking the offerings graciously, Jason slams them both down with equally blinding speed, then finally allows himself to focus on assessment. 

The image of his childhood bedroom may be swirling, but he can make out the details on his plentiful posters of comic book heroes covering every inch of the upper half of the wainscoted walls. He can make out the numbers on the dartboard hanging by the door despite the pounding headache, and there’s only a dull ache pulsing from his bandaged hand regardless of the definite fracture. 

There are thankfully no phantom arms around him anymore, but a quick headcount gives him two Alfreds, one Dick, one incorrigible Cassie, and the return of the gut-wrenching shadow of Bruce in the far corner. Based on his estimations, this is a heavy escalation of symptoms, but that should’ve been expected after taking such a reckless dive through time again. 

Slade would be shaking his head, clicking his tongue in that infuriatingly smug, ‘you’re still such a foolish child’ way that he always does if the bastard could see Jason now. But he can’t - because the jump worked.

“A shame, ‘cause he’s right,” Cassie adds oh so helpfully, grinning too wide.

Still, this is a concerning development. Jason needs to be sharper than this if he hopes to save his family. They’ve lost enough time as it is.

“How long was I out?” he asks finally, feeling for his weapons that dutifully remain hidden on his person.

“A few hours,” Dick replies, and Jason glares at him.

“Is that three, five, six n’ a half?” he snarks, waving the non-wrapped hand.

“It has been four hours and forty-five minutes, give or take, Master Jason.”

“Thank you, Alfred! We’re givin’ you a raise.”

Only two new spectres at this level of withdrawal is actually pretty decent for his calculations, though the progression doesn’t bode well for the time ahead. Jason was pretty well banking on being able to manage this cold-turkey, but if they only have two weeks and he’s already losing touch…

“You’re fucked?” Cassie chirps, plastering a delightfully dramatized expression of surprise. “My, whoever could’ve told you that?”

“Language, young lady,” not-Alfred scolds her - because even as a corrupted corpse, he will not stand for a foul tongue.

“How was I supposed to know you wanted it exact? I just didn’t want you to think it’d been days or something!” Dick is saying, just loud enough for Jason to still hear him over the others.

“Didya forget we’re on a tight fuckin’ timeline here, Dickhead? Every second counts when you’re tryna save the world!”

“Okay, so now are we allowing questions?” his brother shoots back, standing up from the bed to face him head on. “‘Cause I’m going to need a very detailed explanation, Jason!”

As his voice raises in pitch and intensity, Dick’s accent lays thick on his words, just as it was when they were boys. Jason immediately has to fight the urge to cuss his brother out in Spanish - mostly because Dick would respond in kind and Jason’s Romanian is rusty and his brain is far too fried for a conversation in mixed languages right now.

“Depends,” he grunts, sticking an arm out expectantly. “Is there an oxy or a coffee in my hand?”

“Miss Cassandra went to fetch some coffee shortly before you awoke, Master Jason,” Alfred supplies, then his tone flattens to say: “And Master Timothy left his paraphernalia in the nightstand for you, ‘just in case’.”

“Ah, bless’m both,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Guess we’ll save the drugs if caffeine is on the way.”

“This guy thinks caffeine will be enough,” Cassie chortles, sticking a thumb at him while turning to not-Alfred.

The phantom butler just clicks his tongue and murmurs something about the drugs not being enough either, but Dick’s real and louder voice overtakes it.

“Oh, so now you’re waiting for Cassie before explaining anything?” his brother huffs, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “What happened to us being on a ‘tight timeline’?”

“I already told ya, Dickhead! I got trapped at the end of the world and I saw—” Jason falters, his voice betraying him as the images he should be more than used to by now flash before his eyes again. “I- It was— Alfred, could ya… give us a moment alone?”

A slight shock passes over both expressions for a moment, then the butler bows.

“Of course, sir.”

“N’ make sure Cassie doesn’t hear?” Jason adds weakly, staring down at the sheets as he bunches them up in one fist.

“Nah, you’re never getting rid of me, Jay!” the other Cassie quips - in a mix of Mandarin and Russian just to fuck with him.

Shut up! He manages to bite his tongue and keep himself from retorting aloud, drawing in a long, sharp breath as Alfred crosses the room and closes the door behind him. 

There’s a shift in Dick’s posture, less of an easing and more of a redistribution of tension. He’s still fully wired, but his hefty shoulders seem to be trying to shrink in on themselves as opposed to standing rigid and combative. The vibrating intensity in his shifting feet has also transformed back from aggravated impatience to spiraling neurosis.

“Don’t look at me like that, Dick,” Jason sighs, turning pointedly away. “I’m the last one we need to be worried about.”

“Well, that sounds like a load of crap,” his brother deadpans instantly, stepping back into his eyeline and planting his hands on his hips.

The image is too much like… Jason tries to shut it away, but even with his eyes closed, he can still feel the shadow looming in the corner of the bedroom.

“How many more times will you fail me, Jason?”

“God, can ya just fuckin’ listen?” he snaps, one hand curling into his eyes. “I’m the one who survived! I saw- I saw the rubble of the damn apocalypse. A world that ended on November 14th, 1997. N’ I have no fuckin’ clue how to stop it.”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Dick says suddenly, and Jason’s head snaps up to look at him.

His big brother is standing tall again - fists clenched, chin raised and eyes burning with an unwavering determination. Jason is both astounded and bitterly amused that he could find such fiery confidence so easily.

“Dick, I just said—”

“Yeah, you don’t know how yet, but now you have us!” the idiot replies with a wave of his hand. “Not even Batman could save the world alone, Jason.”

Both brothers seem to flinch at the phrase, but Dick barrels on, resting one knee on the bed to put himself at eye-level with Jason as he rants with aching passion.

“This is what we’ve trained for! What else could our powers be for besides saving the world? We can figure this out, as a team. This time, the world has us.”

“It had you,” Jason blurts before he can stop himself, instantly choking on the silence that follows.

He can’t look at his brother’s face, but he can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he processes the weight of the statement.

“…What?”

“You were there,” Jason forces himself to croak, still not looking up. “All of ya… I found all of ya…”

“Oh, Jay… ” Dick croons, completely missing the point.

Shoulders drawing up to his neck, Jason continues through gritted teeth, “Y’all fought for the world, I could tell! That’s the only thing- the only clue I have- the only thing I fuckin’ know is that ya fought, n’ that’s why I have this!”

Digging into his pants pocket, he whips out the small sphere that represents his one lead in an ocean of hopelessness - a glass eye. Dick frowns as it’s held shakily just an inch from his nose, eyes flickering incredulously between it and Jason.

“…An eye?”

“This—” He swallows thickly, curling the pathetic, precious sphere into his palm. “Belongs to the motherfucker who’s gonna end the world in two weeks. Whoever they are, I know all of ya were fightin’ ‘em…”

Looking away, Jason’s eyes squeeze shut on that cursed, fallible instinct - the one that somehow still believes he can shut away the images which branded his mind so deeply that they resurrected as zombified tormentors. He’ll never escape the truth, so he may as well make sure his still-living brother understands it.

“I found it in the fist of your corpse,” Jason forces out, just barely swallowing back a lurch of bile as he lets his hand drop.

“Ooh, look, Jay! He’s turning just as pale!” Cassie urges, elbowing his ribs despite him pointedly ignoring her. “You should let him hug you now! I wonder how many bones he could break?”

“That would be a fascinating experiment,” not-Alfred chimes in. “To see just how precisely and intensely your own mind could inflict pain without the capability of causing any physical damage.”

“The trick’s if you can remember your ribs are fine even as you feel them caving in—”

“Jason,” Dick speaks suddenly through the noise, an arm reaching out. “Can I hug you?”

“Ha!” Cassie shrieks.

“No—” Jason blurts, voice cracking as he fails to hide a flinch. “Sorry, not- not— I’m fine, okay?”

He waves a hand dismissively to try and hide the slip-up. “I might look fifteen, but I’m not a fuckin’ kid anymore. M’almost older than ya, now, actually. N’ you’re still missin’ the point.”

“No, I got your point, Jay,” his brother replies, accepting the rejection gracefully. “We all tried and failed before, so you think I’m being too optimistic. You need us to take this seriously - I am. You want me to understand the stakes - I do.”

Jason opens his mouth to comment, but Dick silences him with a look.

“I don’t think I’m being naive when I say we’ll figure this out, because this time is different from before.” His brother steps forward, stilling his hand just before it lays on Jason’s shoulder as he locks their eyes again. “This time we have a warning, we have a lead, and we have you.”

Lowering his head, Jason lets out a long, heavy sigh. 

He turns the glass eye over and over in his hand, and through the chorus of voices reminding him that it couldn’t possibly ever be, he breathes out the prayer:

“I hope it’s enough.”

Chapter Text

1997 (Present)

~ Cass ~

As the minutes ticked by, Cassandra’s hands gradually tightened around the steaming coffee mug. The thrill of hearing Jason is awake tangles violently with the frustration of being told to wait and give him privacy. 

She longs to step a little closer to her brother’s door, but Alfred would clock her intentions immediately. It’s not that she doesn’t respect Jason’s wishes, but it’s just been so long - it’s not fair for them to be separated again so quickly. 

The tension has wound so tight inside that she’s started shaking, and Alfred quietly offered to hold the mug.

“I won’t spill it,” she retorts, hugging it close almost protectively. “I’m not completely useless.”

“I never thought you would, Miss Cassandra,” the butler replies evenly, his hands remaining outstretched. “I’m simply offering to free your hands for a moment, in case you have need of your medication.”

Stiffening with a jolt, Cass’ eyes seem to lose focus as a rush floods her ears. How long has it been now since she took her meds? The last she can recall was right after Alfred broke the news. She’d blacked out for a while and… may have taken a handful.

But, no - that wasn’t right. She’d taken two just before entering the manor. That was… merely hours ago. Half a day, at most.

Perhaps it shouldn’t be so surprising that in all this emotional turbulence, her symptoms keep escalating so severely. 

“I may overdose if I take more,” she sighs, shaking her head with whitened, trembling knuckles pressed against searing ceramic.

Concern alights Alfred’s expression as his arms retract, but Cass stares into the steaming, swirling black instead. Jason never used to drink coffee, so she just made it the way Bruce always preferred. Though, if she’s not careful now, it may end up filled with salt.

Luckily before the sting in her eyes can swell much larger, Jason’s barking voice breaks through the door just moments before he does. She rushes towards him on instinct, though it’s redundant since he makes a beeline straight for her. The stark, white streaks in his bangs are tousled around by a restless sleep and he wears an oversized, white tank and heavily rolled-up black slacks, but aside from that, her brother could’ve been plucked straight out of her memories. 

Well, that and the scars. His arms and torso are covered in them - thick, dark marks and old, pale lines standing out against the bronze tan of his skin. And as his eyes light up, locking onto the mug in her hands, she catches glittering flecks of an almost greenish hue within the deep brown, reminding her of Damian’s gaze.

“Ah, Cassie!” he sighs in satisfaction, hands folding over hers to claim the coffee from her. “Have I mentioned you’re the favourite?”

Sniffing as if insulted, she looks down her nose at him guzzling the drink down. It’s strange to be taller than him. Cass isn’t used to being taller than anyone.

His eye twitches as he stares at her strangely between generous slurps, one hand reaching out towards her hair. Something twists inside as he does, and she finds herself oddly relieved when he just flicks at a lock.

“Ya cut it,” he observes, taking a long, final gulp.

Hands glued to her sides, she blinks dumbly. “Yeah.”

“It suits you.” He smiles a little as he says it, and Cass tries to treasure the compliment.

She tries not to think about the night she cut it. She tries to accept the relief that it was - the weight lifted, the lightness in her chest. She does like it this way. It feels more like herself, as the person she is now. But the truth is unavoidable that—

“Much harder to braid now, though.”

The sting returns to her eyes in an instant as he voices it. He says it so casually, but she can hear the tinges of loss and regret. A million quiet, precious memories flash through her, striking her gut with guilt and grief. 

As a child, her hair had been a dark, sheltering curtain of which she had no means or skill to care for. At first, Bruce was the only one she trusted to touch it. He’d brush it until it was smooth and straight, blanketing each side of her face.

But she’d needed it tucked back for ballet. Those lessons hadn’t lasted too long, but it prompted Bruce to learn how to braid. Cass remembers well that it was shortly after quitting ballet when Jason began dropping by her room every day. His excuse had been teaching himself to braid - though from the start, his skill had far exceeded their father. 

She remembers teasing him when he claimed his skill would ‘win over all the ladies’. She remembers wearing her hair back more and more, and leaving her room in kind. Bruce kept her safe, whereas Jason brought her out of her shell. 

Then there was Stephanie. She’d stepped into their brother’s place after he disappeared, visiting her room for hours every day. Even when Cass had no words to speak, her sister would just sit beside her on the bed - sometimes rambling on, sometimes just joining her in silence. 

One day, Steph had asked if Cassandra could teach her to braid. Apparently, her hair had been dyed a dozen colours and chopped several different lengths to hide her identity in her homeland, but like Cass, still no one had taught her to care for it.

So much love and trust had been shown and shared through Cassandra’s hair. Each memory is a precious part of her that she carried, but it had started to strain on her neck like a curse.

Bruce had still tried her best to care for her, but grief had twisted those memories to thorns. His hands in her hair felt like only a reminder of all she had lost. The weight of her locks were crushing - she couldn’t bear to hope and wait any longer for love that was never coming home.

She’d cut it the night she left, a year ago. And after Alfred’s call, it had finally seemed for the best - everyone who’d ever loved her that way was gone.

That’s what makes it such a bittersweet agony to so suddenly reunite with the brother she’d given up on.

Biting down on her trembling lip, Cass bows her head and speaks at last. “…I didn’t think you’d come back.”

A hand closes around her fist in an instant as her brother nods somberly. “N’ I don’t blame ya. We both know I was gone way too fuckin’ long for apologies.”

With a strangled breath, Cass opens her mouth to argue, but his other hand lands decisively on her head, smoothing down her bangs just like he used to.

“Now, we got a fuckload of time to make up for n’ none to lose!” he declares, eyes sweeping the halls. “Where’re the others?”

“Right here,” Damian’s voice abruptly echoes from the far hall, seeming to startle no one.

“Babs and Tim are in the sitting room,” Dick supplies, but Alfred jumps in.

“Actually, I believe Master Timothy recently retired to the upper west wing for a bath.”

Waving the hand he’d patted Cass’ head with, Jason begins stalking towards the sitting room. “That’s fine. Timmy can sober up ‘til we have some dead bastards to interrogate.”

“Wait, what? ” Dick exclaims, racing after him.

Following numbly, Cass picks out the sounds of the two brothers’ hushed whispers. It’s mostly Dick demanding answers and Jason replying cryptically, but as they approach the archway of the sitting room, she hears her eldest brother’s voice drop low and serious.

“I’m sorry to ask this, Jason, but… how sure are you that these things you saw…” he hesitates, but loses no conviction. “Are you sure they were… real?”

Shock nearly falters her step, but Cass manages to hide her reaction and pretend not to hear as Jason turns and replies, voice equally low.

“Ya sure that you’re real, Richard?”

In the corner of her eye, she catches Dick’s jaw clench, eyes narrowing for a moment, then unclench.

Jason shrugs in response, murmuring: “I’m exactly that sure.”

A dozen questions swirl through Cass’ mind as she nonchalantly walks behind them into the room, but she holds her tongue. Surely they’ll answer them now.

As they enter, Barbara looks up from a book and quickly tosses it aside. Next to the crackling fireplace, her exhaustion and anxiety is illuminated with an orange glow. She’s wiped her make-up clean, but tear-tracks still streak her face just as boldly. Her hands also shake as she hurriedly maneuvers her wheelchair closer, only halting when she catches sight of Damian slipping in after them.

“Are you ready to explain yourself?” she demands, attention solely fixed on Jason as her neurosis bleeds out hostile. “If the world is really ending, then I need to be with my daughter!”

“I’d prefer that we save her n’ her future, personally,” Jason replies, meeting her brashness head-on. “I’d still like the chance to be her favourite bad influence.”

Their sister blinks, suddenly glassy-eyed, then fervently nods. “In my ex’s eyes, I’d be hard to beat,” she confesses, wiping a tear. “But I believe in you. Now how do we do it?”

At the desperate, determined query, Jason and Dick share a brief glance before the former pulls out a strange sphere from his pocket. As he holds it up to the firelight, Cass realizes it’s a glass eye with an ice-blue iris.

“This is all we have so far,” Jason explains, his head and shoulder abruptly twitching as if he’d heard a loud noise. “It belongs to whichever bastard’s gonna try n’ cause the apocalypse.”

“Perfect!” Barbara breathes, her posture winding tight with hope. “Then we track the serial number to find our culprit!”

“And stop them before they end the world,” Damian chimes in, stepping around the others to peer at the eye.

“Yes, but it might not be so simple,” Dick cautions, hunching over with a palpable hesitation.

He keeps glancing at Jason again, who is now twitching far more erratically, and Cassandra swallows dry. Just what did the two of them discuss? Why have they so clearly decided that the rest of them are too fragile to handle it, even now when everything is at stake?

“Obviously our foe is capable of unbelievable destruction if they’re about to cause an apocalypse in two weeks, so we can’t treat this like any other mission,” their eldest brother continues, embracing his former role as leader without reservation.

“The simplest route would be to catch them unaware and Rumour them,” Damian suggests, levelling Barbara with a pointed look that she returns with a scowl.

“I think we need to learn everything we can about them before coming up with a plan,” she counters firmly, and Dick raises two pacifying hands.

“I agree. We need to strategize - we can’t afford to be underprepared when we might only have one shot at this.”

Through the deliberating, Jason starts to mumble under his breath so quietly that only Cass seems to hear.

“I won’t fail… I won’t, I—” He grasps one ear as if in pain. “Stop, let me fuckin’— I’m tryin’ to fix it!”

As he suddenly raises volume, everyone’s attention switches back to him in alarm. Cass is already reaching for him, but she stops herself at his flinching.

“Jason?” Dick turns, also holding his hands back deliberately. “What’s going on?”

“It’s too damn noisy in here!” he snaps, but it doesn’t seem directed at their brother. “My head’s a fuckin’ jackhammer, goddamn… Keep goin’, I’ll- I’ll live,” he concludes, waving one hand as the other continues clutching his ear.

They all seem equally hesitant, sharing troubled glances as Jason heaves in clearly-pained breaths.

“Jaybird, it’s okay,” Dick says finally, slouching closer to his level. “You can rest some more - we can handle this part. We’ll need you at full strength for the fight, won’t we?”

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ rest more, Dickhead!” he retorts, smearing the base of his bandaged palm across his own forehead in aggravation. “That won’t help, it— I can’t sleep this off, I just need to pull it together! I— shit… ”

Cass watches his face drop, paling slightly as he stares out at nothing. Then, before anyone can ask, his eyes squeeze shut with a grimace as he groans and pulls both hands down his face.

Through his fingers, she hears his muffled voice lament: “The fuck would I embrace this shit, Wilson?”

Blood prickles from the corner of Cass’ lip as it catches in her teeth and she staggers back, feeling utterly helpless. What is she supposed to do to help or comfort her brother when she doesn’t even understand the half of his pain?

His eyes are glazed and bloodshot when he looks up again, but he’s backing away with a newfound determination. Dick and Alfred scramble after him, but he waves them away.

“Keep- keep talkin’, I’ll be right back,” he assures them, though it is anything but assuring.

A dozen protests fill the air and Cassandra wishes she could join them, but her words are gone - stolen by terror and helplessness. She just stares at him wide-eyed and pleading, unable to do a thing to stop her brother from leaving her again.

Except, then he turns to her. They lock eyes for a long, poignant moment, and he speaks a firm promise for her ears alone.

“I’ll come back.”

Then before she can respond, he blinks away in a flash of blue.

Headquarters (8 years ago)

~ Jason ~

Cotton and static seemed to barrage every inch of the boy’s brain as he strained and strained his power. Frustration drove him to grind his teeth and push on in spite of the overwhelming coppery taste that urged him to quit. 

It had already been nearly six months of taking pills and training the same damn routine with Slade, and he’d mercifully been spared the worst of his ‘time-sickness’ symptoms - most notably, unbloodied, little Cassie was the only spectre that remained. And yet, even with all that assistance, Jason still hadn’t even recovered a basic blink. If he ever managed to activate his power, the jump would scatter erratically and practically glitch him around until he blacked out or collapsed.

It was so infuriating to have such pitiful control. He’d originally mastered his spacial travel by twelve years old - there was just no excuse for his useless, broken body to be this incompetent. He had to recover! If he couldn’t even do this, then how the hell would he ever save his family?

The familiar, stubborn grit of his goal had a fresh pulse of power racing down Jason’s arms and he held stance, trying with all his might to push himself through space. A blue light flickered brighter, warping the air around him and his vision nauseatingly along with it.

Just as he finally felt the weightless jolt of the blink, aiming true with his fists ironclad around the reins of control, a snicker cut through the static and ring.

“Don’t overshoot it, now!” Cassie warned, and Jason immediately felt the reins slip from his grasp.

The instant that control tore away, his phantasmal body seemed to split into pieces, dragging him helplessly in several different directions at once. Agony ripped through him as he scattered, blinking in fragments around the small, square training room until the static erupted like fire.

The first thing he felt aside from pain was cold on his knees and palms. Blood gushed from his nose and splattered over his knuckles, painting splotches to match the black ones overtaking his vision.

“Oopsies! Is it naptime again?” Cassie taunted him, laying her head down in front of his hands with eyes wide and full of faux-innocence.

“Fuck you,” he spat out through dry-heaves.

Swift, thundering steps drew his attention, but Jason couldn’t manage to raise his head. Cassie’s smile stretched out ominously as she glanced up at the man casting the steadily-approaching shadow.

“I guess Mr. Step-Dad gets to decide,” she hummed, just before a rag was clamped roughly over Jason’s bleeding nose.

Leading with the grip around the cloth, Slade dragged the boy’s feeble body off the floor and shoved him back until he was propped up against the wall, still held up almost solely by his nose. Jason’s legs felt like jelly and he could barely see through the swirling, but he fought to stay upright and met the bastard’s gaze through the eye slits.

“You are still trying to push through your mind, Jason,” the man reprimanded, his smooth voice far less intense than his grip or his eyes. “You must let go of this.”

Lip curling into a sneer, Jason jerked his chin up in place of his dead-weight arms. His words are horribly slurred when he retorts, but he forces them out with vigor.

“Fuck d’ya mean? ‘Course’m pushin’! We’re tryin’ to get my damn powers back!”

“No,” Slade sighed immediately. “That’s what you’re trying to do. I’m trying to teach you something useful.”

“Ha!” Cassie barked from the floor, pointing a mocking finger. “Wow, Jay, you just can’t stop getting destroyed.”

“Piss off!” Jason cussed at both of them, somehow lifting an arm just enough to grasp the forearm that still held him up. “You told me—”

“Jason.” The grip tightened as if for emphasis, sending shockwaves down the boy’s nose bridge. 

“What you are attempting to do right now is fight against the current while your entire body is shattered. You’ll never progress before it drowns you.”

Swallowing blood and bile, Jason growled frustration. “The hell’m I s’posed to do, then? Fuckin’— Give up?”

“Let go,” the infuriating bastard replied, his stare searing like he’d just said something profound.

“M’not seein’ the difference here, Wilson.”

Jason’s eye twitched as Slade let out another pitying sigh. If he didn’t direly need this egotistical maniac for his knowledge, training and resources, the boy would have strangled him with his bare hands five months prior.

“Of course you don’t, dear boy. That’s why you have remained stagnant,” Slade continued with a click of his tongue. “You’re still trying to become the boy you were, when such a feat is impossible. I have told you from the start - I never agreed to restore you, only promised to help you embrace the twisted thing you have become.”

Chills trickled down Jason’s spine, only tripling the nausea which churned in his gut. These were the speeches he hated the most - when a strange, almost familiar supernova lit up the void of Slade’s gaze and seemed to lock the both of them in a trance.

“Madness only eats away at you if you are attached to what it consumes. There is power in releasing yourself. There is something greater to be found if you let go of your stubborn, old nature and allow yourself to accept defeat.”

It was moments like these where, despite appearing poised and collected, Jason recognized just how far off his rocker this man truly was. He did claim it was a workplace hazard, after all.

He didn’t like to look at Slade when he went on like this, but with a hand clutching his chin and wrenching it upward, the bastard was pretty keen to force him to.

“That foolish child you are longing for perished in that jump,” he insisted, the intensity of his words and gaze powerful enough to burn the flesh from Jason’s bones. “Stop trying to claw him from the dirt, or you will never leave that place.”

Cassie lets out a long, low whistle, breaking the palpable silence. “You think he needs to up his dose, or what?”

For once, Jason was grateful for her snide comments cutting through the tension. With a deep, steadying breath, he straightened and pushed at Slade’s hands to release him.

“So, what?” he scoffed. “Your advice is to just… stop fightin’ n’ let the madness, fuckin’— take over?”

Thankfully, the bitch finally took a step back, arms folding behind his back as they did every time he was feeling particularly obnoxious. Jason chose to focus on the victory of gaining a foot of distance.

“You don’t take control of a wild horse by tightening the reins - that’s how you get bucked off.”

“Ah…” Rolling his eyes, Jason smeared the remaining dribbles of blood into the already-scarlet rag. “So my mind is a ragin’ stream n’ a wild horse, n’ ya want me to let it take me for a ride?” he deadpans, unimpressed.

The bastard stepped forward again, seizing Jason by the shoulder. “I want you to stop fighting in futility,” he replied, prodding a pointed finger into Jason’s ribs. 

“This is not a battle for control, it is a precession of mourning. The sooner you accept this loss, the sooner you may rise from the ashes.”

Smacking the hands off of him again, Jason slid across the wall and started hobbling for the nearest bench. In all of Slade’s eerie, mad ravings, he somehow had to find the keys to success without losing sight of his goal. 

After all, any time he complained about the recovery being too slow or too challenging, Slade would offer to wipe the slate clean.

Hitting the bench with a thump, Jason grasped for water with trembling hands. Apparently, there was an easy route for any agent at Headquarters to rid themselves of their time-sickness, so long as they were willing to lose whatever memories they once had. 

Slade was all too willing to offer this - perhaps even keen to force it if Jason didn’t figure this out on his own. All it would take was one bullet through the skull, and his family would be stolen from him. 

Whatever it takes - if he must become a shell of himself, or give up his senses to the cosmos like Slade has - Jason cannot allow himself to fail again.

He’ll fight this god-forsaken current with brute force, shattered bones be damned, until he learns how to fucking swim.

1997 (Present)

~ Jason ~

The next jump is reckless, practically tossing him straight into the red bricks of an alley corner. Jason blinks a few inches left on instinct but trips on his own feet in the disorientation and nearly face-plants into a dumpster. 

“Watch your step!” his new, ever-helpful companion suggests, batting her lashes. 

It’s been barely half an hour since waking up and already he’s had to add Stephanie and Tim to the head count. It’s bone-chilling to feel himself so rapidly backsliding on years and years of agonizing progress, but he clings to the merciful truth that he is not stuck at rock-bottom - his blinks may be clumsy and more strenuous than usual, but he didn’t lose them again.

“Not yet!” Cassie reminds him, giggling as his next blink lands short of his goal, leaving him groaning against the side of another building. “Careful, Jay. Keep pushing like this n’ you might just drown.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, pushing himself off the wall and keeping a hand on it to steady his step. “What d’ya think I’m doin’ this for?”

Three smartass voices jump in eagerly despite the obvious rhetorical nature of the question.

 “For funsies?”

“Crippling addiction?”

“To make real-me cry?” 

Cassie’s comment is the only one to sting. Clenching his jaw, Jason shakes it off and shuffles down the rest of the alley. Across the late night street, he spots his destination - a squat postal building crammed between two equally small, nondescript shops. 

To any passerby, the faded orange-brown paint was nothing more than a peeling testament of Gotham’s poorly-maintained vintage architecture. To Jason, the innocuous symbol of a stickman holding a briefcase, which hung quietly over the deceptively-hefty front door, was a familiar, immense relief.

“Nah, you were right, Steph,” Tim concedes, shaking his head in mock-shame. “It’s definitely addiction.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Jason grunts, briefly checking the streets before prepping for another dizzying blink. “You bitches are my withdrawals.”

The gasps of offense seem to stretch out as his body shunts forward through space, echoing in his rushing ears as if he were abruptly hurtling down an infinite tunnel. His feet stumble just as suddenly over smooth, yellowing tile and he falls to his knees just inside the Commission outpost’s threshold. It’s always a bigger pain in the ass, blinking somewhere he hasn’t seen recently.

“It’s not like you could’ve just… walked through the door or anything,” Steph muses as he swallows down a hurl.

Swiping spittle from his chin with a fist, Jason glares at her. “Kinda not tryna get noticed here, smartass.”

“Oh, yeah,” Cassie jumps in, nodding sarcastically. “And stealing their drugs will totally go unnoticed, for sure.”

“He’ll never know ‘fore they do,” he grumbles, pulling himself off the floor and hobbling towards the back room. “That buys us time.”

The room is lined with cabinets and mailing tubes, all convincingly modeled to be period-accurate and obscure their true purpose. Jason stumbles straight for the first cabinet and opens the door to reveal what appears to be a basic first-aid kit and bottles of ibuprofen. 

Snatching three bottles, he wonders idly if any ignorant soul has ever had the misfortune of actually believing the packaging and falling into the trip of their life. He sincerely doubts the Commission would actually employ outsiders at an outpost, but the thought is amusing regardless. These meds are only temporary fixes and not nearly the level of the medication stored at Headquarters, but they’d still take the average sucker to Nirvana.

“I think you’re forgetting,” Tim is saying as Jason shakes out two pills and dry swallows. “That the ‘time’ you’re buying is worthless when you’re dealing with–”

A tell-tale hiss and loud, metallic thud actually halts all commentary, and Jason hears nothing but his own heartbeat for several paralyzing moments. That was a message delivery. He doesn’t dare turn around - he doesn’t dare move at all, too unwilling to face any evidence of the worst possible scenario. 

It can’t be. He didn’t go through all the bullshit, all the effort of hot-wiring a briefcase and all that agony of withdrawal just to be tracked down this damn easily.

But it can’t be denied. That was a message from Headquarters, and what reason could they possibly have to message an empty outpost unless they know he’s there. And somehow, they knew exactly when he’d arrived.

In a flurry of motion, Jason whirls around and smashes open the cylindrical package, unravelling the note as he backs up into the cabinets, one eye scanning the room for intruders. Before he even reads the words, he recognizes the bastard’s pretentious-ass hand-writing and cusses up a storm. 

How? How the fuck did he know? Jason planned this meticulously for months - he left no trace of when or where he was going, he never spoke of his family or his desire to save the world, he never gave anything up to Rose in spite of everything - how in the hell did Slade find him so quickly?

“Sometimes the simplest answer is the correct one, Master Jason.”

“He means you’re an idiot.”

Jason’s eyes bulge out as they finally focus enough to scan the message, and he swears he tastes his own heartbeat. 

‘After all of my lessons, I expected far better from you. I would have thought you’d outgrown such foolishness by now, yet here I am - disappointed and insulted as a little birdie flees his cage.’

“Fuck–”

His body is blinking through space before the click of a trigger finishes echoing, and he’s slashing the gunman’s throat by the time the shot rings out. 

An ambush. 

No time to process, information transfers backwards into Jason’s mind with survival taking priority. He blinks again midway through the slash, carrying the momentum into a sharp elbow jab to another set of ribs. 

Five agents in his sights, likely twice as many tucked behind cover - all armed and ready, but evidently unprepared for what they’re facing. 

Lunging forward, he grasps the second grunt’s pistol with both hands, jerking it quickly downward as the idiot recklessly fires - straight into his own groin. A dozen more shots ring out, all tearing through the poor fucker as Jason blinks rapidly around the cramped rooms, taking agents one by one with swift shots and slashes. Blood coats every surface, smoke floods his nose, his ears are swallowed by the ring.

None of the agents came via briefcases - Slade was smarter than that. Their weapons are all silenced, but this outpost will no-doubt be wiped once this fight is over, if it hasn’t been already. These poor bastards were unknowingly sent to their deaths just to warn Jason - and they were ready, prepped and posted for him on Slade’s order, not the Commission’s.

How?

A burst of blood gushes from Jason’s nose as his next blink falters, planting him square in front of a luckily-distracted gunman. With barely a split second to spare, he ducks and throws himself at the agent’s waist, tackling him down in a spray of bullets. 

It’s fortunate that this particular asshole had been positioned behind the front counter, or Jason would’ve just become a lead pincushion. Instead, he caught a graze on the shoulder as he jumped at the guy and just barely dodged the headshot that splattered the same bastard’s brains on the way down.

Damn was it ever inconvenient to be pushing his limits. There was no chance that Slade actually intended for these amateurs to off him here, so that would be beyond embarrassing if a simple, dumbass glitch did him in like that.

Wiping his nose with a heavy breath, Jason reaches over the body for the fallen pistol while his other hand finally fishes out his own concealed handgun. This one does not have a silencer, but that’s the Commission’s problem, not his. He’s always preferred his gunshots deafening.

With a quick ammo check, Jason gages position and distance based on footsteps, blurry memory and rough calculations before popping up from behind the counter and absolutely unloading both guns into his remaining assailants. He finishes them off without any blinking, not willing to trust the power to not betray him again in his weakened state.

The last of the bodies fall with dull clatters, leaving Jason standing alone in a ruthless, scarlet scene. Glancing down, he sighs. He’s a lot less bloody than after a typical job, but normally he’s wearing a red suit and also doesn’t have to face his neurotic family members within the next few minutes.

At the thought, the haze of adrenaline finally fades just enough for his sluggish detective skills to put the dreaded pieces together. There was exactly one explanation for how Slade had managed to easily track him through time and so precisely and confidently pull off this surprise attack, and it meant that Jason needs to be back at home fucking yesterday. Still, he hopes against hope that it isn’t the case. 

Even as he takes a knife to the injection scar in the crook of his arm, he prays that he’ll draw nothing but more blood. Because if there is any other conceivable option that doesn’t crown Jason the biggest dumbass of all time, if there’s the slightest chance that he didn’t immediately fuck everything up again and put his family in peril, he’d pray to any god who listens for that chance. 

But when has Jason ever known divinity to be merciful?

Through a hot, pulsing sting, his knife catches onto something solid. His teeth grind together as he slowly drags it out, frigid dread washing over him at the sight of a blinking, red light - as if he didn’t know what he’d find the moment he hit anything other than flesh. 

A tracker. A goddamned, fucking tracker.

He was never one step ahead of that bastard, he’s been lagging miles and miles behind like a naive idiot. Wilson had been watching Jason’s every move as he took him through a full-fledged tour of everything and everyone that matters to him. All of his efforts to conceal his plans, protect his family, keep Slade from knowing his true intentions - all of that, just to lead the piece of shit straight to his fucking front door.

“Congrats, Jay,” Cassie laughs through the ringing, thumping his back in between his ragged gasps. “You’ve killed us all again!”

1997 (Present)

~ Cass ~

Cass can’t tear her eyes away from the vacant space where Jason once stood. She can’t move, can’t blink, can’t do anything but stare silently and wait for him to reappear. He’s going to reappear. He has to - he promised.

Voices swirl around her as she remains locked in place, reaching her ears without properly sinking in. 

“I can’t believe him!”

“Truly, Gordon?” Damian shoots back skeptically. “What part of Todd’s behaviour seems unbelievable to you? It’s hardly out of character for him to vanish.”

“Oh, you shut up!” she seethes, back-handing his upper arm.

“Guys, stop,” Dick tries, stepping in front of Cass towards the bickering pair. “Something’s obviously… wrong. Did you see the way he was flinching? And talking to himself?”

“It was hard to miss,” Barbara mutters, chewing at a thumb nail. “But then acting like everything’s peachy and blinking off? God, he’s learned nothing, has he?”

He’s going to come back. He’s coming back.

“Master Bruce had a few… theories regarding the effects of time-travel on the unprepared mind,” Alfred supplies, smoothing out his waistcoat. “Suffice to say, the depths of the cosmos are unlikely to be terribly kind to the human psyche.”

“In that case, what of this apocalypse he claims to have seen?” Damian asks. “How do we know it isn’t simply the manifestation of a raving lunatic?”

He promised.

The air in that empty space seems to blur for a moment and Cass perks up - before realizing it’s just her own tears. She swallows a bitter sting, fists squeezing so tight that they ache.

“What, you think we should ignore his warnings of the world ending just ‘cause he’s got a few screws loose?” Barbara is snapping, sharp and rattling in Cass’ rushing ears.

“Of course not!” Damian retorts, even louder. “I just–”

The teen’s voice dies the instant his gaze locks on Cass’ flinch. All at once, the room is silent and four sets of eyes fall on her. She flinches again, clamping hands over her ears as the abrupt switch in volume floods her ears with a sharp ring, almost like a feedback loop. Her thundering heartbeat quickly fills the space, but not without strangling her lungs.

Alfred is at her side in an instant, his steadying hands on her arm and back, coaxing her to breathe. Both Damian and Barbara whisper apologies while Dick asks the butler if there’s anything he can do.

“Would you like your headphones, Miss Cassandra?”

Shaking her head furiously, she releases her ears to insistently sign Jason’s name. She knows it’s childish, especially with how sickeningly pitying everyone’s expressions twist, but she can’t help it. She doesn’t want to drown it out - she doesn’t want comfort or distractions or calming music, she wants her goddamn brother back!

“That fool… ” Damian mutters under his breath, jaw clenched tight as he glares out at nothing.

“He’ll be back soon, Cass, I’m sure,” Dick tries to soothe her, but she scowls, tears brimming her eyes.

Sticking her thumbs and pinkies out, she jerks both arms down in the emphatic sign for ‘now’. Then she shuts her eyes to avoid that awful look, clutching herself. She knows there isn’t anything they can do. Cassandra knows that she’s being unreasonable, but if she doesn’t beg them for Jason then she might just start crying out for Bruce, and she doesn’t want anyone giving her false hope about that.

“I’m so sorry, Cassie, I–”

“Bravo.”

At the sudden, low hiss from Damian’s lips, everyone in the room instantly jumps to alert. It may have been years, but Batman’s training never falters - even Cass, who never joined her family on any outdoor missions, still knows every code by heart along with the steps to take when one is spoken. ‘Bravo’ means a security breach, and in this context implies that someone has broken into the manor.

Head spinning and heart in her throat, Cass latches onto Alfred’s arm and allows him to guide her towards the nearest cover. She can’t help but follow Damian’s gaze along with the others, searching in vain for whatever threat their youngest brother has spotted. Her siblings move like lightning to shield her and Alfred, falling into readied stances. 

And lucky they did, because the next part happens in a blur. The first thing Cass is aware of is loud and pain. She’s on her knees behind the couch, clutching her ears. Alfred is gone. She is alone and she may be screaming.

Gunfire. If only she’d gotten her headphones when she had the chance.

It’s so loud, it hurts! Her throat is raw and ragged from the scream that fights so desperately to escape, everything is still spinning, and the shots won’t stop!

Where is Alfred? What happened to the others? Are they being pelted by all these horrible, rattling bullets? Is there blood spilling over the carpet next to her, but she can’t see it yet from how tightly her eyes have screwed shut?

Is she losing them all today?

Arms abruptly wrap around her, pulling her from the ground before she can even process the contact. She only flails a moment, realizing it’s Dick carrying her away. She catches a short glimpse of the fight and instantly loses the small gasp of air that she’d managed to draw in.

Damian stands at the front, holding both arms out as he struggles to divert the paths of at least a dozen bullets raining down through the railing of the upper level. One strangely-costumed figure is peeking out from behind a china cabinet with what appears to be a minigun, grinning wide and cackling as she relentlessly fires at their teen brother. 

Just down the far hall, Barbara’s wheelchair has been flipped backward as she wrestles intensely with another red-headed woman. Just as the doorway blocks her view, Cass watches the assailant suddenly lurch back before catching a brutal rifle shot to the arm from further down the hall. Alfred.

A whimper escapes Cass as soon as they’re out of sight and she claws uselessly at her brother’s back. No! He shouldn’t be distracted by her right now, Dick needs to be back there fighting with the others! He’s their leader - their protector, in Bruce’s stead. Thankfully, he quickly deposits her in the nearest corner he deems to be safely out of the fray, and doesn’t fight her urging him to run back to the others.

“Stay here,” he pants roughly, turning on his heel. “We’ll take care of ‘em.”

Nodding stiffly just to make sure he leaves already, Cass watches Dick race back down the hall just until he disappears. Then she scrambles to her feet and immediately rushes for the parallel hall where she’d heard Alfred’s shot ring out. 

All of her training indicates that she should absolutely not be running anywhere near the action, but if Alfred can protect their family, so can she. At the very least, she can make sure no one gets the drop on their butler while he takes care of business.

She cuts through one of the white-marbled bathrooms to hopefully reach Alfred without ending up in the crossfire of his stand-off, but in a flurry of red and black, she instead finds herself nearly skidding straight into the blonde jester from the second floor. How had she gotten past Damian and all the way down here already?

Horror lances through Cass’ chest at the thought of all those bullets her baby brother was holding back and she practically growls at the woman. The blondie’s white face-paint creases as she flashes another wide grin, flicking her cotton candy pigtails with a slight jerk of her head as she pulls out a large baton. At least the minigun is gone.

“Hiya, toots!” she greets cheerily, obnoxiously chewing gum. “Ya seen a scruffy-lookin’ beefcake with a skunk-stripe hidin’ ‘round these parts?”

Cass feels her body go cold and rigid at the description before boiling over with a violent, protective wrath. She couldn’t give two shits what these bitches want with Jason - all she knows is that she will die before she lets them anywhere near her brother.

A vicious snarl serves as her reply, and blondie shrugs.

“Suit ya’self. I’m sure he’ll show himself eventually - if we break enough'a his shit.”

The baton swings as if to emphasize the statement and Cass barely dodges out of the way before the next swing catches her in the side. Stumbling back with a grunt of pain, she struggles to draw enough breath to think.

Instead, panic and adrenaline scream only two things to her: They’re going to kill you. Kill them first.

Somehow, the second thought scares Cass far more than the first, but she can’t explain why. She can’t afford to wonder, either, because the voices are right.

The next blow is a fist, connecting with her cheek and gliding across her nose with thunderous force. Cass’ head rolls with the punch, ears shrieking and brain rattling.

They’re going to kill you.

Her shoulder thuds against the marble wall, red splattering white as she fights to stay on her feet. The next blow is coming fast.

Kill them first.

Tumbling to the side, she ducks under the baton as it smashes into the mirror behind her head. Shattering, scarlet glass. An endless scream.

No.

No!

Blurring, fragmented images litter her vision like the scattering mirror shards as her body seems to move on its own. She hears only the scream. 

Her knee connects harshly with blondie’s gut, hands launching for the woman’s throat. The rapid pounding of her own heart seems to rattle through her bones, her every nerve, like a beast clawing at its cage.

Kill her first.

The bathroom spins, smearing red and white in a dizzying tumble as Cass and her assailant hit the floor together. Her body stops, the spinning doesn’t. A fist meets her gut, another flies for her face. Jerking back, Cass dodges the blow and springs onto her haunches, out of reach. Get some distance. Don’t let them get close.

Blondie scrambles for her baton and Cass uses the opening to jump to her feet and sprint out the door. She hopes it’s the same door she’d entered through, but she rolled around too much to know for sure. Even the hallways are lurching too much for her to make sense of them - she just keeps running.

She has to get away. Get somewhere safe, somewhere far - somewhere Bruce won’t find her for a while. She can’t be near him like this. She–

…What?

Stopping short, Cass nearly trips over her own feet with the momentum, one shoulder careening into a wall instead. She heaves in ragged breaths, shaking her head as if the motion will somehow clear her spinning mind. Her heartbeat still pounds heavy and dangerous in her ears, but she struggles to place why.

What had she just been thinking? When had she ever felt afraid of Bruce? Why did that feel so wrong, yet so strangely familiar at the same time?

“Harley!” a new voice suddenly shouts, jolting Cass back to the moment with a spike of terror. 

She’d stopped in a junction of four hallways, a cylindrical space revealing the upper level beyond the curved railings, decorated by a massive, black, iron chandelier that hung just below the lip of the upper archways. The red-head was calling down from over the left railing, looking past Cass and clutching her messily-bandaged shoulder. 

“We’re leaving,” she declares with a grimace, still barely glancing at Cass.

“Aw, shucks! So soon?” Blondie whines from the lower right archway, swinging her baton until it rests across her shoulders. “S’itcha boo-boo, darlin’? Wan’ me tah kiss it bettah?”

“He’s not here,” Red deadpans, making Cass stiffen once more. 

That’s right - these pieces of shit are after her brother.

“So I’ve got another way to draw him out that doesn’t involve risking our asses fighting these freaks,” Red continues, flat and irritated as she gestures impatiently at her partner. “Let’s go.”

Shifting her stance with obvious reluctance, Blondie opens her mouth to reply, but Cass cuts her off with another snarl.

“Y’not touching Jason!” she warns, her words squeezing out rough and thickly-accented as she inhales fire and ice.

“Aww!” Blondie drawls, swinging the baton to her side with a deadly, manic smile. “Ready for round two, princess?”

Teeth bared, fists raised, feet spread shoulder-width and knees slightly bent, she glares back. Cass has never fought outside of the occasional spar, but the ravenous thud-thudding that clashes like a thousand symbols in her ears fills with her absolute certainty that she can win this one.

Kill them first.

“Cass!”

Dick.

“Harls!” Red snaps, whipping something out from behind her back.

Shock leaves Cass too stunned to see the kick coming from Blondie before it rips the air from her lungs and sends her skidding on her back. Dick cries for her, Blondie rushes him in a blur, and something is tossed through the air overhead, sticking to the base of the massive chain holding up the chandelier - which currently hangs directly over Cass’s prone form.

Instinct commands her to roll out of the way, but unfortunately her ability to follow that instinct is immediately crippled by a massive, excruciating explosion of loud.

The sound seems to shatter her skull from the inside, leaving her curled up with a breathless whimper, just waiting for it to end. All she can hear is that awful, shrieking, garbled ring. She swears her ears are bleeding - her brain surely is.

When it finally fades enough for Cass to pry her eyes open, she blanches in horror. Dick is covered in dust crouched over her, arms shaking and pinched brow dripping with blood and sweat. The massive, iron frame of the chandelier is warped over his back and shoulders like a cage, piercing him in several places even as he struggles to hold it up. 

Anyone other than Dick would be dead, but her brother still manages to keep the sharp, egregiously heavy metal from touching her.

Twisting on the floor, Cass screams out for him - or, at least, she thinks she does. She still can’t hear anything but the rattle and ring. She must make some sound, though, because he flashes her a tight smile and his lips start moving. Unable to read them through all the spinning and panic, she just focuses on squeezing out from under him. 

As soon as she’s out of harm’s way, Dick slumps over in relief, releasing the hefty chandelier edges and letting one side thud into the ground next to him. Cass rushes back to his side, hands trembling as they hover over his shoulder and back. Two thick spikes of metal have sunk at least half an inch into her brother’s durable flesh, drawing slow dribbles of blood that soak into the dark fabric of his shirt.

Anyone else would be dead. The thought repeats in her mind as she stares uselessly, frozen with terror. He saved her, and she can’t help him. 

What in the world could she do anyway? That hunk of metal is too heavy for anyone but Dick or maybe Damian to have a chance at budging. And even so, she can’t seem to move - she can’t even force herself to cry out for Alfred.

Instead, Dick braces himself before lurching over and lifting the chandelier out of his own flesh with one resolute push. Cass barely has time to gasp before her big brother is passing out right into her arms. Finally, the rattle in her ears fades out just enough to hear herself scream.

Chapter Text

1997 (Present)

~ Tim ~

Everything feels distant underwater. The darkness is a blanket, and the searing heat only adds to the muffled numbness of the world finally fading away. It’s the closest peace to death that Tim ever has the chance to indulge in, and he relishes it every time. 

He misses having a bathtub. The last time he had access to a tub this big, the dude that owned it barely had enough hot water to fill it half way and Tim never got to use it for any such meditation purposes. Not this kind, at least.

It would be so easy to fall asleep like this, cocooned from all his stressors by a watery grave. Until slender, icy fingers wrap around his throat, a sunken, ghastly face appearing in the darkness behind his eyelids. Tim unfortunately gasps in on instinct and naturally inhales a rush of searing water.

Fuck. His body lurches up from the water, coughing and sputtering as he scrambles at the slippery ceramic for leverage. Every gasp stings, every wheeze burns. The fuck-ass ghost bitch is rasping some dramatic gibberish about their ‘family’ and their stupid ‘unfinished business’ and Tim wishes for the millionth time that his power granted him the ability to punch ghosts.

With a belligerent groan, Tim slicks back the bangs from his eyes, still twisted awkwardly over the edge of the tub. How is he sobering up already? And why had he given up his good stuff to Jason?

“My daughter…”   the ghost-fuck moans, still reaching his knobby fingers and staring with hollowed eyes. “I must… see her again…”

“If you think rudely interrupting my bath’s gonna put me in a giving mood, then I’ve got news, buddy,” Tim mutters, grabbing for the pockets of his jacket that he left hanging over a chair next to the tub.

“Maybe he was just tryna stop you from drowning yourself,” Steph retorts, fixing him with a heavy stare from the corner of the room, her arms tightly crossed.

Tim avoids it, focusing on searching through his things. Taking stock, his flask has run dry - thanks, Babs - so without that baggie, all he has is a pack of cigarettes. Alfred will kill him if he finds out Tim smoked inside the manor, but… maybe he’ll be too distracted with Jason to notice?

“Tim,” his sister says, a pointed warning. “Don’t.”

Fiddling with the pack, he chews at his lip. He feels her glare as he hesitates, but refuses to look up.

“Please… my daughter…”

He snatches a cig, fishing for his lighter.

“Tim.”

“What?” He sits back in the tub with the cigarette between his lips, flicking the lighter a few times before a flame finally sparks to life. “What else’m I supposed to do, huh? You want me tweaking harder than Jason?”

“I dunno if the drugs are helping with that situation,” she counters, rolling her eyes in defeat as he finally inhales a long drag.

He ignores her, savouring a few more hits before scooping the headphones and Walkman off the floor where he dropped them earlier. He found them in his childhood nightstand, still stocked with his old tapes. The ghost-bitch slowly fades out, replaced by classic tunes and the calming waves that follow each exhale.

Stephanie leaves him in exasperation at some point, so he doesn’t bother warning her as he slowly gets out of the bath, drying himself off to the peppy rhythm of Should I Stay or Should I Go Now? He just lets go and loses himself in the music, dancing around the upper halls with the towel wrapped firmly around his waist.

He’s really getting into it - eyes squeezed shut and singing along as he falls dramatically against the doorframe of his bedroom - when he hears a voice behind him. It barely peaks above The Clash’s masterful vocals and at first he assumes it’s another ghost.

“Ah, so that’s whatcha meant by ‘easier’,” is the first thing Tim makes out, and he curls in on his half-naked self protectively.

“Hey, boundaries!” he calls out without looking back, because Steph is the only ghost whose voice sounds normal like that and he’s not trying to put on a show for onlookers right now.

In hindsight, he definitely should’ve turned around. Or at least thought of a single thing he ever learned in either training or just plain basic survival skills, but all of that generally goes out the window when he’s fighting off sobriety.

All of that to say, the response he receives really should have been quite predictable. He feels a sharp sting on the back of his neck and has approximately half a second to realize how stupid he is before it is lights out.    

Tim returns to that blanket of darkness once more, but this time it’s quick and suffocating and not on his own terms. He tries to relish it regardless.

1997 (Present)

~ Jason ~

Every nerve in Jason’s body is rapidly switching between agony and numbness as he blinks, glitches and stumbles with drunken desperation. His vision is a soupy, red haze and he’s probably leaving a dripping trail of blood from his nose, but he can’t afford to stop moving. He has to get home. He has to–

“You think your corpses will, like, double up?” Steph’s voice is musing, uncaring of how brutally the words tear through him. “Y’know, two dead families for the price of one?”

“Ooh, what if we get updated looks? Robin-ghosts version two!” Tim adds excitedly.

The manor is just at the end of the street. Teeth crunching, Jason tries to force another blink, but barely glitches two feet before stumbling over himself.

“Maybe you’ll finally have the grown version of me, Jay!” Cassie taunts, sticking her face into his as he leans on his own knees and heaves.

Her eyes are hollow, but not lifeless like the others. She’s the only fabrication of his mind untainted by death - so far. 

No.

The terror of that possibility ignites just enough willpower to force a blink all the way beyond the gates, and he crashes shoulder-first into the front door. Shaking off the swimming nausea and splitting headache, he glances through the narrow window next to the doorframe and blinks inside, just to save himself the extra effort of a blind jump.

Before he’s even processed the blurry threshold or what may wait there for him, Jason sticks two fingers between his lips and, with all his remaining breath, sends out a loud, piercing whistle: one high note, then two low. A status call.

“Ah, yeah,” Cassie snorts, elbowing his hip. “I’m sure you can trust your ears right now!”

He ignores her, because a returning whistle cuts her off: high-low-high. The signal for ‘All clear’. 

The relief pouring through Jason at the message is palpable, but he wastes no time sprinting in the direction of the sound. The echoes of the manor are confusing as hell, but he gathers the basic direction and wants to give himself a better angle in order to blink closer without resorting to mental calculations. Lord knows his brain is far too fried for complex math right now.

Thankfully, he spots Damian standing at the end of the central hall, guarding the sitting room archway. The boy clearly just moved out to signal him, and Jason takes the opportunity to blink the rest of the distance between them - or tries to, anyway. He glitches a few feet short, swinging violently into the wall and bouncing back onto his ass with an embarrassing thump.

Worst of all, Damian doesn’t sneer or mock him for the pathetic fumble. Instead, his little brother’s eyes fly wide and he practically flinches towards Jason, arms reaching out in concern.

“Todd! Where are y– Report!” he suddenly switches, as if momentarily forgetting his training - which the brat never does.

Fuck. Shit must’ve gone bad.

“‘All clear’ doesn’t mean all alive,” Steph so helpfully reminds him.

Scrambling off the floor and practically gremlin-crawling for the sitting room, Jason shakes his head and grumbles, “M’fine, now you report for–”

His words choke off as soon as he lays eyes on the scene, swaying into the archway. Blood. It’s all that his senses can seem to focus on - all he can see or smell or taste.

Blood-streaked furniture tossed around and torn up, blood-spattered wallpaper peppered with bullet-holes, casings littering the blood-stained carpet. Blood-soaked bandages wrapping bloodied bodies caked with dust and grime.

Shaking himself with a stubborn hiss, Jason rubs at his bleary eyes. Their bloodshot eyes are not lifeless as they stare back with equal parts terror and rage. They may be bloodied, but they are breathing. His family is not dead again - not yet.

“Where the hell were you?” Barbara is the first to snap, and it shatters Jason instantly.

His jaws wire shut, unable to speak a word in his own defense. How could he? There’s no defense for the way he left them again, so quickly and so carelessly. All because of his own pathetic weakness - his inability to tolerate the specters that he should be more than accustomed to by now.

Barbara is bruised and battered in her mangled chair, bandages staunching the bleeding of what were likely bullet wounds on her upper right arm and left shin. Damian stands tall like he isn’t hurting, but his pupils are too dilated and his shoulders are sloped slightly to one side - a blow to the back of the head, likely knocked him out for enough of the fight to allow him far less injuries. 

Alfred is dousing rags with disinfectant and tending to Dick, whose blood Jason has only seen twice now due to his older brother’s tough skin and ridiculous strength. But evidently something thrown at his family was sufficiently deadly - so deadly that it had managed to puncture Dick’s neck and shoulders deep enough for there to be concern of infection.

At least their butler seems unharmed, but Cass is a shaking mess at his and Dick’s side, her face sporting dark, blooming bruises from what was clearly a punch to the face. Dark blood is crusted beneath her nose and Jason can’t seem to tear his eyes away from it, shame and fury and terror and a hungry vengeance brewing like a maelstrom in his chest.

“Who did this?” The words leave his lips unthinkingly with low, dangerous gravel.

His sister seems to register him for the first time right then, startling in shock before shooting towards him with desperate fervor. He blinks and meets her halfway, nearly tossing them both to the ground with the momentum of their embrace. Instantly her tears drip down his collar and her nails pierce the skin of his back under the force of her grip. She mumbles incoherently between sobs, holding him like she didn’t trust him not to vanish any minute.

“See? Called it!” not-Cassie jeers, twisting the knife. “You made me cry.”

Between murmured, useless apologies, Jason raises a furious gaze to the rest of his family in the hopes of finding any target for his unbridled wrath aside from himself. Again, he demands they tell him who is responsible. His siblings stare back in disbelief.

“I don’t know, Todd!” Damian snaps, that disconcerting worry finally washing away into familiar fire. “Maybe if you were around for the ambush, you may have been able to enlighten us!”

You weren’t there. Eye twitching, Jason tries to block out not-Cassie’s smirk and the shadow looming in the corner. They could have died. You nearly lost them all over again and it would all have been your fault.

Swallowing stinging bile, he squeezes Cass and shakes himself again. “An ambush? How many people? Did any get away?” he interrogates, trying to sift through the shitstorm for the crucial details.

It clearly wasn’t just another wave of goons, or Alfred alone would have handled the matter without injury. No, Slade had specifically targeted Jason’s family with the real danger - this was a firm message and unambiguous threat. He needs to know exactly who they’re dealing with and how long ago they came and went.

“Are you seriously not even gonna tell us where you went?” Barbara scoffs, pushing closer with a violent motion. “You just disappear out of the blue after dropping this bomb on us and now–” 

“I- Look, it was urgent, okay?” he sputters, stomping down the guilt at the way Cass tenses around him.

“More urgent than the apocalypse?”

The bickering of his family all rises up at once and Jason loses track of who speaks what and which comments are real or not.

“And of course that means it concerns no one other than yourself, is that right?”

“Did you know this was coming? Did you not even think to warn us?”

“You could’ve at least told us where you were going before just up n’--” 

“Hey, look, I’m fuckin’- s–” Emotion clogs Jason’s throat before he can spit the words out and his lips press together through the sting.

Cass’ head snaps up, the anger in her eyes cooling to something closer to grief. Everyone else stiffens in the short silence, seeming to take a breath and wash down lingering adrenaline. With one hand, Jason swipes at the brimming tears and pinches his nose bridge, drawing a deep, shaking breath.

“I’m sorry…” he rasps, glancing up at Cass alone.

Then he raises his chin to the others again, fighting to keep his voice level as he wills them to understand his urgency. “Please, tell me what happened.”

Gratefully, they answer him with no further hesitance.

“Two women, dressed like a jester and hippie running for congress,” Babs starts, earning a small snort from Dick who adds: “Scarily competent, too. Miss Pigtails had a minigun.”

Fuck. Jason curses inwardly, grimacing. Of course Slade sent them.

“They snuck past the manor security,” Damian tuts, clearly frustrated with himself. “We barely noticed their presence in time.”

Shaking his head, Jason waves dismissively. “Commission cloaking is miles ahead of this era’s tech, n’ y’all were up against two of their special agents. I’m bettin’ you’re only still breathin’ ‘cause they weren’t expectin’ a house full of supers. What made ‘em dip?”

“Who were those people, Jay?” Dick demands, at the same time that Cass meets his gaze again.

“After you,” she says lowly, her dark eyes as steely and piercing as twin daggers.

It takes a moment to process, but Jason swallows hard as he reads all of the dozen unspoken messages beneath the strained words. She seems to glare straight through him, picking him apart with equal parts anger, worry and suspicion. 

They were after you, her eyes declare, not a question yet just as interrogating. That’s the reason they left without killing us. And most of all, her searching gaze asks him one paralyzing question: Why?

“You might want to redo your head-count, big brother,” not-Cassie suddenly hums in his ear, sending icy chills of dread down his spine.

No.

“Where’s Tim?”

The shock washing over his family does nothing to ease Jason’s rapidly festering terror. Barbara gasps, paling visibly as she twists in her chair. Dick, Damian and Alfred freeze stiff, eyes widening with similarly horrified realization. Then all their voices burst out over top of each other as they scramble to action.

“Oh god–”

“He went upstairs–”

“I don’t think he heard the fight!”

“--For a bath, that was twenty minutes prior to the altercation–”

“How could Timothy be ignorant? She had a minigun!”

“It’s Tim!”

“Shit, someone go find him–”

Jason is already blinking before Barbara finishes speaking, having prepared for the blind jump from the moment Alfred mentioned their brother going for a bath. The closest bathroom to Tim’s room is in the same hall as Jason’s, so it’s not too much of a strain despite the excessive distance.  Wayne manor has always been way too fucking massive for his liking - Bruce really should’ve considered the safety risks more. Sure, the old man hadn’t been the one to build the place, but that’s no excuse to raise a gaggle of crime-fighting kids in a manor big enough that you could potentially miss a shoot-out happening at the opposite end.

The blink is disorienting, but Jason manages to land without glitches, leaning heavy against one wall. The bathroom door is open, the room vacant but still steaming. He faintly registers the scent of smoke in the air, too slight to be from anything more than a cigarette. Turning on his heel, Jason blinks down the right hall and stumbles around the corner, searching desperately for any signs of his brother - despite the sinking feeling in his stomach that knows exactly what he’ll find.

Tim’s door is ajar as well, the light spilling out into the hall from inside. For a moment, Jason loses his breath when he swears he sees a foot sticking out from the frame, but he shakes himself and blinks closer. A discarded shoe juts out from the room, but there is no body attached. There is, however, a small blood stain on the carpet, just in front of his brother’s bed - which is no true relief.

They haven’t killed Tim - not yet. But those maniacs have him, and Jason has no idea how long that will last before they tire of the hassle.

His knuckles crack rhythmically as he squeezes his hands into fists, breathing heavy. If he finds his little brother with even a scratch, Jason won’t stop until Slade and every one of his dick-riding lackeys are bled dry, choked by their own intestines.

Thundering footsteps snap him out of the haze with a violence. He whirls on the assailant, whipping the gun from his belt and clicking off the safety in the same motion. It’s only experience from all of his missions with Rose that grants him the sense to hesitate just a split-second before firing, and still Jason doesn’t manage to halt the momentum of his fingers squeezing the trigger. He just barely jerks his arm enough for the bullet to whizz past Dick’s ear instead of planting between his startled brother’s eyes.

“Holy– shit, Jason!”

“Don’t run up on me!” he snaps back as he folds his other hand over the smoking barrel and wrenches it down, but it comes out like a pleading wheeze. “Sorry.”

Staggering a step back, Dick holds up both hands while flashing adrenaline-chattering teeth. “Why do you have that?”

He seems far more concerned than pissed, which is a habit he really needs to break before it gets him killed. Jason ignores the gun question, forcefully shoving it back into his belt as he marches towards his brother.

“They took him,” he growls, passing by as he heads back the way he blinked. “We need CCTV for the whole area - they won’t get far with a body unnoticed, no matter their skillset. We’ll likely track ‘em through police reports, since they’ll prefer to just kill their witnesses–”

“Hang on, slow down!” Dick interrupts, scrambling forward to block his path with heaving breaths. “They took Tim? Like, as a hostage?”

“No, as a trophy wife, Dick,” Jason retorts, shoving at his brother’s stubbornly-immovable torso impatiently. “Obviously he’s a fucking hostage! They’re usin’ him to bait me out, keep up!”

“Keep up with what, Jay? You haven’t told us anything!” Dick finally shouts, arms flinging wide. “Who are these people n’ why do you know so much about them? Why are they after you?”

With a sharp, frustrated sigh, Jason turns a glare on his brother. 

“Agents of the Commission of Timeline Preservation, the branch of the Intergalactic Security Initiative charged with controllin’ the Earth sector. They’re after me prolly ‘cause I deserted. My former employer’s really not a big fan of his lackeys defecting,” he deadpans, then flashes a humourless smirk. “Answer any of your questions?”

Dick’s eyes seem to gloss over for a moment before his expression screws up into pure bewilderment. “N-no! Not at all!”

“Exactly.” Smirk dropping, Jason steps around him and continues on for the stairs at a doubled pace. “It’s a long fuckin’ story n’ we have no time for details.”

“Very well,” Damian’s voice suddenly concedes, appearing at the top of the stairwell with a determined glare. “Then tell us what is vital. I already have a lead in regards to police reports.”

Nodding gratefully, Jason rattles off information as the three of them make haste down the steps. 

“Codenames are Harley and Ivy. I don’t know much aside from they’re highly skilled - think spies, assassins, the like. But they have access to weapons n’ tech that even Bruce would be baffled by. Though I’m sure Babs could take a crack at it. Or Tim, when he’s sober.”

“And you have access to this, too?” Dick asks hopefully, but Jason shakes his head.

“Not unless I steal a briefcase off ‘em. Which is a solid plan B, actually…” he trails off distractedly, running calculations in his head.

Now that his mission is compromised, regaining access to Headquarters is definitely top of the list for turning things back in his favour. He doubts any experienced agents would leave their cases anywhere accessible, but Jason’s blinks do offer him a leg-up in that regard. If he can get his hands on one, then he could confront Slade on his own terms or maybe gather intel on the source of the apocalypse. 

But he’ll have to worry about that after ensuring Tim’s safety. None of this matters if he can’t save his family.

“Is this information vital to our mission?” Damian is inquiring, and Jason tilts one hand back and forth in an uncertain gesture.

“Ehh, maybe. If ya happen to spot a shiny, metal briefcase, take it. Having one would make dealing with Slade n’ this whole apocalypse issue a hell of a lot easier.”

“Slade?” Dick jumps in immediately, making Jason stiffen.

Briefly, he lets his eyes fall shut. There was no avoiding this, was there? It would be foolish to keep his family ignorant about a threat that was actively and vindictively hunting them down. He had to tell them everything.

But couldn’t it wait just a little longer…?

“...My former employer,” Jason reluctantly replies, avoiding his brothers’ eyes as they round the next corner. 

“He’s known as the Handler to Commission agents, ‘cause he does most of the recruitin’. He’s a fuckin’ crazy-strategic, dangerous bastard, n’ nothin’ pisses him off like losin’ control of his pawns. If my plans had worked out, he’d never’ve found me this fuckin’ quick.”

“You’re afraid of him.”

The words nearly send Jason stumbling, but he catches himself just in time. Damian didn’t state it like a question, but it weighs with the force of an interrogation regardless. He has to stomp down the instinct to sharply protest: “Like hell I fuckin’ am!”, as such a response would only reveal just how true the accusation is.

Instead he scoffs, keeping his tone carefully flat when he replies, “We got every reason to be. He’s got infinite time n’ overwhelmin’ resources, plus he lost his mind so far back that nothin’ fazes him.”

It’s a battle to keep the shake out of his voice and he hates the way his brothers are peering through him as they move. They need to know what they’re facing, but god, he can’t do it right now. He’s already swimming through nausea and itching so bad that he wants to claw his own skin off - and he just took a fresh dose! He can’t afford to fall apart so soon, not while their brother’s in peril. 

With a rough growl, Jason concludes the discussion. “I underestimated him n’ now they’ve got Tim. M’not makin’ that mistake twice.”

Fortunately, his attempt to drop the subject is assisted by their arrival back at the central hall. Unfortunately, that arrival is met with an extremely-infuriated Cass throwing a punch straight into Jason’s clavicle.

Shit. He’d disappeared on her again. Why can he not stop fucking this up?

“Cassie, I’m—” he starts, hiding a wince because ow.

But she doesn’t let him finish apologizing before she’s grabbing his shoulders, eyes blazing with frantic demand.

“Tim?” It comes out like a plea, and Jason wishes she’d simply punched him again.

“The assassins have him,” Damian replies instantly, turning to address Barbara and Alfred further down the hall. “We need eyes on the streets. I assume you can access Gotham’s security footage, Gordon?”

“Obviously,” she retorts, nodding stiffly while already turning her chair. “Was he walking or carried?”

“Carried,” Jason answers, eye twitching as he recalls the blood on the carpet. “They’ll know to avoid the cameras, so keep your eyes peeled. The demon brat’s got a contact with the police—”

“—Who is familiar with Timothy’s escapades. I won’t need to explain further.”

“Perfect. We’ll track ‘em from two angles while Dick n’ I—”

“Hold it right there, Master Jason,” Alfred cuts in, tone sharp enough to freeze him in place. “Neither you nor Master Dick have been cleared for duty and both of you are bleeding over my floorboards.”

Glancing down with a start, Jason realizes that the butler is right - he’d totally forgotten about the fresh graze on his shoulder, not to mention the knife wound on his inner elbow from where he removed the tracker that has been dripping scarlet down his arm ever since. And how did he not notice Dick running around with all those still-unbandaged puncture wounds in his back?

Still, Jason mirrors his brother’s frown. He has more important things to focus on than a couple flesh wounds!

“Alright, see to Dick,” he sighs, ignoring the man’s squawk of protest. “I’ll grab a wrap n’ head out myself to—”

“Absolutely not,” Alfred interrupts again, pointing firmly at a nearby bench. “Both of you are sitting down right here until I clear you myself.”

A flash of annoyance mixes into the racing of Jason’s heart and he grinds his teeth. “Alfie, we don’t have time to—”

“Sit.”

Driven purely by childhood impulse, both Jason and Dick scramble for the bench, dropping rigidly to their asses in unison. It’s ridiculous - batshit insane, really - that to this day, there is still not a single soul capable of striking Jason with the fear of God quite like Alfred fucking Pennyworth.

The butler immediately starts his ministrations, calling on Cassie’s assistance and somehow managing to stick to his strict-medic persona as if he hadn’t just heard them say that Tim was abducted. At least Barbara and Damian hadn’t wasted any time getting to work.

But no matter how much Jason insists these are flesh wounds and not nearly urgent enough to hold priority, Alfred treats every reasonable argument like they’re as weightless as Dick’s flimsy claims of flawless health. Even after he accepts the bandages for his wounds, Jason still isn’t cleared unless he endures a full check-up - which… will not end well.

Foot tapping incessantly on the floor, he pulls back from Cass’ hands and pointedly turns away from Alfred. “I’m not the one with the head injury, doc! If ya let Damian walk outta here, I don’t see why I’m still bein’ held hostage!”

“Master Damian complied for my examination,” the butler retorts, threading a stitch with some difficulty through Dick’s resilient skin. “You will be permitted to leave only as soon as you do the same.”

As if to emphasize the statement, Cass reaches out again and meets Jason’s eyes sternly. Her exasperated glare seems to scream: Quit being stubborn and let me look at you.  

In any other circumstance, Jason would just give in and let his family ease their concerns by fretting over him. But aside from the obvious issue of imminent danger and time constraints, he knows all too well that allowing this examination will do absolutely nothing to lessen their unnecessary worry. It’s no big mystery that the reason they’re so determined to check him thoroughly is because they’ve already noticed the alarming symptoms that have slowly been revealing themselves against his will.

Progressively worsening tics and twitches, rapidly-fluctuating body temperature, erratic pupil dilation and difficulty keeping his eyes focused - lord help him if they try to get him to follow a finger or some shit. They’ll think his head was knocked all the way to space!

“It’s pointless, ya won’t learn anythin’,” he sighs finally, standing up from the bench. “Jumpin’ through time got me fucked up. I’m the only one with a baseline for my condition, n’ I’m tellin’ ya, I am fine.”

“Look in my eyes,” Cass suddenly demands, freezing him with her stare.  “Say it again.”

A low whine escapes his throat as he pulls a hand down his face.

“...That’s not fair…”

1997 (Present)

~ Tim ~

Tim wakes up to easily the eighth-worst hangover he’s ever experienced. Between the horrific cottonmouth and the vomit-flavoured spittle dribbling from his mouth, it’s safe to assume that this was one of those severely ill-advised benders. Steph is sure to give him an earful, and she won’t even be polite enough to wait until he’s not disabled by any noise above a whisper. 

With a plaintive groan, Tim attempts to shift to a more comfortable position, but has no luck. His neck feels snapped in half and his head must weigh a billion tons considering he can’t get it to move a single inch. None of this is helped by the fact that whatever he’s passed out on doesn’t seem to have much of anything for back support.

He tries using his arms for leverage but finds them equally uncooperative. After a moment, he registers the sensation of something cold biting into his wrists and it jolts him to further awareness. No matter the situation, his kink policies are always incredibly strict on not being restrained - sure, choking is on the table, but only if his hands are free. He’s already too vulnerable when he’s wasted and at least some of Bruce’s training managed to stick, after all.

One more decisive tug confirms it - those are cuffs on his wrists, seemingly binding him around the back of a cheap, metal folding chair. His ankles are bound too, likely with zip ties to each of the chair’s front legs. 

All data considered, this appears to be a much worse situation than simply needing to tear some asshole a new one about respecting boundaries and consent. The fact that he can’t currently recall any details of the past forty-eight hours is honestly a neutral factor in that conclusion. The immutable clenching of his jaw and roiling of his stomach indicating the flourishing exit-bow of the good stuff is leading him to believe this is another drug-related kidnapping. Ironic that he still seems to be wearing nothing but a towel, but it’s hardly the first time for that, either.

Seriously, he’d thought these idiots would’ve learned by now that Tim will make good on their money eventually! It’s not like the previous abductions got anyone a better result - half the time their bull-headed attempts at intimidation only ended with their whole operation busted by police! And that wasn’t even Tim’s doing, though he had his suspicions of whose doing it was. Neither he nor the demon brat would ever admit it, however.

“Tim?” Stephanie’s voice rattles through his skull, seemingly hushed on instinct despite no one else being able to hear her. “Are you finally awake?”

Screwing his eyes shut tighter, he groans again in response. He swears he hears her sigh in relief. That’s slightly worrying.

“Pretend you’re not,” she quickly instructs, which is definitely worrying. “We’ve been here about… three or four hours now, I think? Maybe more. You’ve been shaking for at least the last hour.”

Ah, fuck. What had he taken? He could feel himself coming down hard from ecstasy, definitely some mixed drinks, as well as good old nicotine and way too many edibles - but what else? Tim’s no stranger to a party, but this seems extreme even for him. What had happened that had made him so determined to stay—

Oh.

It all comes back to him like a series of whips to the face. His body lurches involuntarily, emptying his already vacant stomach all over his bare chest. So much for playing dead.

He can hardly think about where he is or why anymore, his mind is stuck spinning around a revelation he’d clearly tried to bury as swiftly as humanly possible.

Bruce. Dad.

Tears sting his eyes as a sob seems to rip his lungs apart. No. This can’t be true - it can’t be! Alfred had to have been mistaken, there’s just no chance that The Batman—

Foggy images of Damian sneering, surrounded by furious shouting and protest. Alfred in the rain, his pale, shaking hands clutching an urn as he retreats from the muddy courtyard. Oh god.

The rest returns like a bad trip, leaving Tim heaving raw, shredded breaths.

Jason.

“Oh shit,” Steph mutters at his side. “How bad is it?”

Not bothering to ask what he did to himself, Tim cracks one eye open to try and get a bead on his surroundings. “Where’s here?” he slurs, keeping his hoarse voice low.

As far as he can tell through the blinding spirals attacking his vision, he appears to be in a small, simply-decorated living space. The floral wallpaper is peeling, the only other furniture in the room is a squat couch, a standing lamp, and a tiny coffee table with a mini radio on it. There’s a door to his right, and another one in the corner between the couch and a half wall that presumably leads to a bedroom.

“Some motel across town. They took a taxi, so I lost track of directions. And stop talking, they’re just in the other room,” his ghost-sister hisses, glancing nervously towards the half wall.

Frowning in concentration, Tim struggles to conjure any memory of who ‘they’ are or, once again, how he ended up in this predicament. He doesn’t get to ponder long before a pair of mismatched pigtails are flopping into view, attached to a blonde head that’s peeking sideways around the wall. A white-painted face with several playing-card symbols decorating its cheeks and brows spots him and brightens manically. Tim resists a double-take as the figure slides into full view, still flashing all her teeth. 

Her whole look seems to be following a mismatched jester theme in black and red, skin-tight leather which sports more playing-card symbols - as if she was looking for a halloween outfit and the criteria was ‘sexy clown’. 

Well, that’s… new. It’s enough for Tim to briefly wonder if he’s lost track of time and this is actually some elaborate, extremely unamusing birthday prank. But the wild, disturbingly-giddy glimmer in the strange woman’s blue eyes is far too chilling for him to really believe that.

“Well, wouldja look at that!” she announces, glancing back as another figure emerges from behind the wall. “Sleepin’ Beauty’s not dead after all!”

This one has green face-paint and a tumbling mass of hair dyed fire-engine red. Her outfit is normal by comparison, despite being a forest-green suit with pants that appear to also be leather - like a dominatrix Grinch. She’s glaring at him in a way that is definitely meant to be intimidating, but Tim is far more terrified of the smiling one. He’s used to death glares - bright smiles are always worse.

“And here I was starting to worry he’d keel over before we even got started,” Miss Grinch adds, arms folding.

Tim sighs, letting his eyes fall closed again as he mutters, “Night’s still young…”

After the clown lets out a snort, Steph hisses in his ear, “Are you encouraging them to kill ya?”

“Nah, just being realistic,” he replies, choking down another sudden wave of nausea. “Don’t think they need to lift a finger, m’ taking myself out…”

“Ya talkin’ tah yourself, kid?” Sexy Clown asks, suddenly uncomfortably close. “We sure Big Red’s the only agent from that house?”

The last comment was directed towards the other woman, and Tim doesn’t bother opening his eyes as her footsteps also shuffle closer. He does sneer at the strong scent of her perfume flooding his nose as she presumably leans closer.

“Rise and shine, mumbles. We got questions for you,” she orders flatly, flicking his forehead with a long, sharp fingernail.

“Well that’s unfortunate for you,” Tim laughs, peeling his eyes open and just barely managing to roll his head to one side. “M’like… the worst one to ask.”

The Grinch smiles. Tim briefly wishes he could stuff the words back in his mouth, shuddering involuntarily.

“Tell us about your family, kid,” she responds smoothly, her emerald gaze almost seeming to glow as it sears into him.

Squinting through a few rapid blinks, Tim confirms that he is not hallucinating that - her eyes are glowing a little, and they’re the exact same colour as those strange, new flecks in Jason’s irises. Belatedly, he registers the words she just said to him and can’t resist a sharp scoff.

“What do you wanna know? Favourite colours? Embarrassing moments? Pain-in-my-ass ratings from one to ten?” he drawls, flashing his own pearly whites. “They’re all tens. ‘Cept my sisters, they’re one, nine and eleven respectively—”

A vicious strike to the cheek cuts him off, wrenching his already throbbing neck and flaring fresh, rattling spikes of agony through his skull. Steph sucks in through her teeth in sympathy - despite the way she’d been staring at him like he’d grown three heads with no brains ever since he started talking. An obnoxiously bright red, long baton is the culprit, swung like a backhand by the clown. She seems to have done it more out of overeagerness than genuine annoyance, so he raises a brow in her vague direction, letting out a weak chuckle.

“Y’gotta be more specific with your questions…”

“Aw, lookit, Ives!” the clown coos, flopping to the side until she’s practically hanging off of the other woman while still keeping her baton pointed at Tim’s chin. “The little brat wants tah play!”

“Oh, for the love of— I’m nineteen,” he grumbles, letting his eyes close again.

A squeak of genuine surprise makes his brow twitch. 

“Wait, for real? That was a short joke!” The clown is laughing. “Y’ain’t even twenty-one, stinkin’ a’ booze like that? S’that not a law here, yet?”

“It is,” the Grinch deadpans, and Tim can’t help a small smirk of pride.

He notes the ‘yet’ for further investigation, cracking one eye open to aim a smug look at his captors.

“If you ask my IDs, I’m anywhere from twenty-one to thirty. But also it’s Gotham,” he snorts, raising a skeptical brow. “You ladies new around here or something?”

“You’re right, Harls,” the Grinch suddenly declares, eyes narrowing. “The kid does want to play.”

Swallowing chills, Tim forces out a laugh. “I’m literally just answering your questions! And we just established I’m not—”

All breath is torn from his gut in a wheeze as the clown jams her baton deep into the space beneath his ribs. Curling into himself as much as his restraints will allow, his next gasp devolves into a not-so-dry heave. The faint scent of cologne indicates that the smiley fucker has leaned in close again, but he would’ve gathered that from the sound of her chirping gratingly in his ear.

“Quit playin’ dumb n’ shaddup, pretty boy! We ain’t patient, but we have been known tah drag things out when a bitch gets too mouthy for his own good.”

Biting his tongue, Tim restrains himself from making any further snarky comments, such as: ‘You want me to shut up or answer your questions? I’m getting mixed signals.’ Because, contrary to popular belief, he is not a masochist and would rather avoid another jab to the gut. It’s insanely tempting, though - hence the blood on his teeth.

“M’kay,” he replies through a grimace. “But really, what do you wanna know? I’m a little lost here.”

He hopes it comes out innocent enough, but braces himself just in case. From the data he’s gathered, Tim is fairly certain of what he’s dealing with, but their response will confirm it. And indeed, the scowl that Grinch aims his way does just that.

“Your family, smartass,” she barks, clearly attempting to mask her confusion with added aggression. “Tell us everything they can do - let’s say, oldest to youngest. And any more fucking around n’ I’ll start cutting off fingers to send to ‘em.”

Tim hides a smile with some difficulty. That was probably the best way she could think to phrase the demand after he’d backed her into a corner, but it still gave him everything he needed to know. These women are clearly time-travellers like Jason, and they seemed to have followed after him with absolutely no clue of what they were truly getting into. He doesn’t know why they’re after his brother, but it’s obvious they’re caught completely off-guard dealing with a whole family of supers - they probably didn’t even know Jason had a power!

They may be putting on a convincing act of calculated intimidation, but Tim’s captors are desperately clutching at straws to try and regain the upper hand. As long as he plays it straight, he can mess with them to his heart’s content. They’re not getting anything out of him.

After a moment of feigned consideration, Tim lets his shoulders drop with a dramatic sigh. He opens his mouth to make a show of reluctant agreement, but freezes stiff as he spots several faintly-translucent, blue, glowing figures creeping towards him from behind the two women. Another sickly shudder instantly wracks his body, a poignant reminder of the merciless withdrawals he’s experiencing. Stephanie’s eyes dart between him and their new arrivals, pale lips pursed with concern.

A very real groan of reluctance escapes him as he turns a desperate gaze on his captors.

“Please,” he croaks, ignoring his sister’s exasperated glare. “I’ll tell you everything you wanna know for just one single cigarette.”

Chapter Text

Headquarters

~ Jason ~

So far, the super-special time-travel ‘Headquarters’ seemed entirely underwhelming. For a base that was supposedly some inter-dimensional hub of futuristic tech, Jason expected something more like the Death Star and a lot less like a basic, roughly 70s-style office building. Most of the rooms he passed were filled with clerks on type-writers for fuck’s sake! 

The only indications that he was anywhere out of the ordinary were the complete lack of windows and the seemingly endless maze of hallways that connected everything. Slade didn’t bother with a tour, likely too focused on dragging Jason’s nauseated ass to the nearest medical station when it became clear that he was still hopelessly fucked-up from the jump.

As soon as he’d tumbled through the man’s briefcase portal, Slade had shoved two pills down Jason’s still-retching throat and dusted his hands off like that was problem solved. Normally, Jason would not have taken kindly to being mysteriously drugged without warning or consent - and he didn’t - but the effect was, at the time, immediate relief. For the first time in months, Jason’s mind had gone dead quiet.

That had lasted about twenty minutes before Cassie had reappeared, along with the splitting headaches and aforementioned nausea.

Now, Jason clung desperately to a metal sink basin as he once again spat blood and bile down the drain. His guide let out a thoughtful hum as he fiddled with something to the side.

“Yes, your symptoms are quite advanced already. I will have to administer the full dose,” Slade murmured, seemingly more to himself than anything.

Clenching his jaws through ragged breaths, Jason dragged his gaze over to the man and froze. A nervous laugh tore out as soon as his eyes focused on what he was holding - an obnoxiously massive needle filled with bubbly, vibrant green.

“Yeah, fuck off, Wilson,” he scoffed, inching away as much as he dared without releasing the sink. “I ain’t lettin’ ya stick me with some fuckin’ cartoon-ass poison! Ain’t that fuckin’ desperate.”

“Aw, Jay!” Cassie cooed in his ear. “I knew you loved me!”

Pausing his motions, Slade merely tilted his masked head in Jason’s direction. With one glance at the syringe in his hand, the man shrugged and set it down on the cluttered countertop.

“Suit yourself, dear boy,” he replied easily, but his eyes seemed to burn through Jason in a knowing way. “But your condition will only worsen, and you’ll find no alternative alleviation for these symptoms.”

“Ooh, yay!” Cassie cheered, swinging into his side. “I miss the others already!”

Swallowing hard through a wince, Jason glanced at the mirror before him - only to nearly collapse all over again. He could see her in the reflection next to him, but even worse, he also saw the shadowy form of his father looming in the doorway behind.

Fuck. His legs felt like jelly, threatening to drag him to the floor. Could he really do this?

His eyes caught on something else in the reflection and he peered closer, grateful for the small distraction. One shaking hand reached up and tugged on his bangs, separating a stark-white shock from the rest of the black.

Noticing his inspection, Slade nodded. “A result of your reckless journey, I suspect. Even as we master the cosmos, time will leave its mark on mortal vessels.”

As he spoke, Jason was shocked to see the man reach for his mask and actually peel part of it off. He revealed a short-trimmed head of white-streaked hair and a face riddled with deep, malforming scars. The hair was clearly once as black as Jason’s, and there was a distinct lack of gray or peppering among the white that seemed to have swallowed it. The scars all jutted out from a few large marks that were quite obviously the result of several bullets to the skull - one was even directly between the man’s eyes.

The sight was just too similar to his ghost-family’s mangled appearances that Jason found himself rapidly blinking and checking for Slade’s shadow. The pale light of the strange medical room wasn’t nearly as assuring as the melting sun he was accustomed to, but the man’s shadow seemed to obey it nonetheless. Catching his eyeline, Slade’s lips tugged against thick stitch marks and scar tissue until they curved into a lopsided grin.

“I assure you, Jason, what you see is no distortion of reality,” he said smoothly, picking up the massive syringe again without breaking intense eye-contact. “The serum offers many benefits aside from simple alleviations. We hate to be wasteful of our most valuable agents, after all.”

The implications quickened the pounding of Jason’s heart and he found himself swaying on his feet. This man should’ve been dead, at least three times over based on the scars.

“So should you,” a new voice rasped - Tim, his busted chin abruptly flopped onto the shoulder unclaimed by Cassie. “We all should be… Three times over…”

He knew the corpse of his brother wasn’t really there, despite the sensation of blood soaking into his torn shirt. It wasn’t real, but he could smell the rotted flesh just as pungent as the day he’d uncovered it. 

Trembling, Jason’s eyes fixed on the bright, bubbly green and the long, pointed needle. Slade’s hands held it steady, not offering or retracting but staring like he knew it would be put to use.

Jason made up his mind too quickly for the decision to be wise, but he struggled to believe it was stupid. He rolled up his sleeve without a word and Slade approached him with equal silence. He shouldn’t have watched when the man stuck the needle in him - Jason had always hated getting blood drawn and had frequently relied on his family to distract him from the experience - but he couldn’t tear his eyes away until every last drop of vibrant green was squeezed into his veins.

The quiet returned. The pain became dull and distant. His ears felt clogged, and the warping of his vision slowly settled into a strange, unsettling clarity. And his vision wasn’t the only thing to clarify. He was amazed at how quickly his thoughts seemed to unscramble, smoothing out to a steady pace that he’d scarcely remembered knowing. The specters and their phantom sensations were gone, though he was keenly aware of how temporary this respite would be. 

Something was still deeply different within him - broken like a primal, dying beast unsuspectingly cursed with incomprehensible sentience. It thrummed with every pulse of his heart, lulling him closer and closer to the siren song of madness. Without this serum, it would quickly claim him again and he would be left writhing without trust of his thoughts or senses.

His eyes darted from Slade to the mirror beside them, but Jason once again did a double-take at the sight of his reflection. The eyes staring back at him were no longer the familiar deep brown that they were just moments ago, but were instead glowing with the same vibrant green sheen of the serum that had just flooded his veins.

“The fuck?” he yelped, lurching closer to the mirror as one hand gripped the sink and the other pulled at the skin around one eye.

Slade chuckled at his reaction, setting the empty syringe aside. “A side-effect,” he replied. “Rest assured, it will fade within the day. Though I can make no such promises if you become too reliant.”

Turning on the man, Jason scowled and waved his hands accusingly. “But your eyes ain’t green!”

His pupils may have been swallowing most of them, but Jason didn’t see even a fleck of that sickly shade in those amber irises. Slade smiled something wolffish in response, picking up his mask and fixing it back over his face.

“I have long since surpassed my need for such dependencies.”

Like everything the bastard ever said, the statement sent chills down Jason’s spine. Doubly so in that moment because he was distinctly aware of just how painfully reliant on Slade’s guidance and resources that he would need to be if he wanted any real shot at getting back home.

He unfortunately desperately needed this smug-ass maniac to tear his busted psyche apart and stitch it back into something usable, or his family would be abandoned in their graves forever. This creepy fucking serum was just the first step on what would be a long, agonizing road of compromise and caustic resurrection.

Would he even be recognizable to his family when he returned to them? Would he have the chance to truly reunite with them eventually, or would he lose himself entirely in the struggle to save their future?

It didn’t really matter, of course. He was going to make it back to them, whatever the cost. He just hoped they wouldn’t grieve him for too long.

1997 (Present)

~ Cass ~

He couldn’t look her in the eyes. It was always his biggest tell growing up and it doesn’t appear to have changed. Jason could glare and shout and swear up a storm at anyone else in the manor until his face turned blue, but the second he met Cass’ eyes the whole show would crumble. 

It’s the same with most of her family, really. She always seems to sense it when someone tries to lie to her, like she can feel their nerves in the stifling silence. It’s probably because of the guilt, and Jason certainly carries that heavier than any of them.

Knowing that her brother is trying and failing to lie about being okay does not make her feel any better about it, however. In fact, she finds herself struggling more and more to hold in her fury the longer he continues avoiding her gaze. 

At least he is allowing them to patch him up and check his vitals. At least he isn’t blinking away again. It’s the only thing keeping her from exploding.

She wishes her words would untangle themselves already so she could shake her dumb, stubborn brother and demand answers until he finally spilled. 

So far, he hasn’t responded much to their attempts beyond explaining that he was also attacked by the same group and that he’d had to remove a tracker from his arm. Cass didn’t understand why the people who attacked the manor hadn’t known that Jason wasn’t there if there had been a tracker, but her brother didn’t seem confused about that. Something to do with their employer, apparently. 

Jason keeps saying that the costumed women hadn’t been expecting a real fight. The implications of that turn Cass’ stomach and set her nerves on fire for Tim. If she lets herself think about her poor brother trapped at the whims of those maniacs for more than a second, she will truly break. Her mind keeps flashing images of Stephanie’s body and Bruce—

No, Cass can’t survive more loss.

She thinks about the way Tim saddled up next to her on the way to the funeral, prying his hand into hers and allowing her to abuse it - just to take that pain from her own palm. The others all seemed to think that their kind, gentle, observant and selfless little brother had been lost all those years ago, corroded by grief and addiction and malformed by the fear of his own power. But they could not be more wrong.

When Cass had moved into her apartment a year ago, only those still living at the manor had known the address. Sure, Dick had been given the new number so he could continue calling for check-ins, but she knew he had no plans of returning to Gotham and so she never bothered telling him.

And yet Tim had been the one to visit her in her new home. Not Dick, not even Damian, but Tim. She didn’t even think he had asked Alfred - he had just tracked her down on his own, likely when he didn’t find her at the manor, or maybe he’d been keeping tabs on her enough to know when she’d moved.

Regardless, he was the one who stopped by. He’d clearly memorized her schedule enough to show up only after violin lessons, and he always seemed to know when she needed company and when she needed space. Sometimes he’d left her notes, sometimes gifts, and sometimes photos. And despite never quite being sober, he never let her apartment smell of smoke or anything obtrusive. 

Often he would talk to her about Steph and sometimes speak so matter-of-factly of things he shouldn’t know that Cass began to suspect he was somehow using his power despite being high. A rueful smile was his only answer whenever she questioned him.

They have to save him.

“My contact is on route to a scene with a dead taxi-driver that corroborates with the blind spots in Gordon’s footage.” 

Damian’s sudden voice snaps Cass back to the present and she whirls around to find him marching from the Batcave’s hidden entrance. He’s suited up sans mask in a covert version of his vigilante uniform, all black and fully strapped with every variation of black-painted blade. Jason and Dick both seize the opportunity of lapsed attention to spring to their feet off the bench.

“The taxi was located on the north-western edge of Crime Alley. I will meet my contact at the scene to investigate,” the youngest continues, never pausing his stride.

“There’s a string of motels near the casino there,” Jason adds, almost breathless. “My money’s on those for where they’re hidin’ out with Tim.”

“Let’s go, then,” Dick urges, rushing after Damian, but Jason blinks down the hall and blocks both of their paths.

“Hold on a sec!” he shouts, eyes wild and definitely too dilated. “The manor is compromised! We can’t just fuckin’ leave Cass n’ Alfred here with Babs!”

A dark scowl overtook Cass’ expression as she tensed in challenge. Despite logically knowing she has no business coming along on this rescue mission, her entire being was crackling with rage at the mere suggestion she would stay behind.

That feeling only swells into something desperate and helpless as her brothers’ voices continue swirling around her.

“Shoot— But where else would they go?” Dick replies fretfully, his head turning every which way. “I have a safe house in Bludhaven, but that’s—”

“Too far. I need somewhere I can blink.”

“Now, hold on just one moment!” Alfred cuts in, snappish but otherwise deceptively calm. “Under no circumstances will I be abandoning the manor, especially not with Miss Barbara here alone.”

Side-stepping Jason in a moment of shock, Damian determinedly continues his march down the hall. 

“We have no time for this squabbling,” he bites out, using his power to lift the far window open by the metallic latch. “I will rescue Timothy while the rest of you sort this matter out.”

“Do not fuckin’ engage ‘em without back-up, Demon Brat!” Jason calls after the youngest at the same time that Dick scrambles to stop him. “They know what to expect from you, now!”

“I’m no fool, Todd!” he retorts, dodging from their brother’s grasp as he swings over the windowsill with one final glare. “But I will not let Timothy’s life be lost to our hesitance.”

No one makes another move to stop him as Damian disappears beyond the outer wall, too stricken by the statement and its grim reality. Jason snaps out of it first, turning back to Cass and Alfred with a constipated look. 

As he tugs on his bangs and paces, she just barely catches him mumbling to himself in a ragged, raspy voice: “Can’t be everywhere, I can’t be fuckin’ everywhere…”

Feeling a pang of sympathy, Cass reaches out and steps towards him, but Alfred’s voice halts her.

“I can assure you, Master Jason, that Miss Barbara and I will handle ourselves against any incoming threat. But perhaps it would be best if Miss Cassandra were returned to her apartment.”

Shock and betrayal flood through Cass like icy chills as she whirls on the butler, but he meets her wide eyes grave and remorseless. Even worse, Jason jumps on the insolent offer without a single note of hesitation.

His tone is offensively relieved as he demands the address and Alfred supplies it with equal swiftness before Cass can even comprehend what is happening. They’re not even bothering to look at her anymore as they all decide which closet they’re going to hide her away in - to be so easily left alone and helpless with her own terror until the danger has passed.

No one had ever been more protective over her than Bruce, and he had never treated her this way.

Jason is rambling directions to Alfred and Dick as he approaches her, still not even looking her way while he decides her fate without her input. She would have pity for the way his arms are frantic and shaking as they reach for her, but all she can feel now is unbelievable, erupting rage.

The back of her fist makes a deafening crack as it collides with his palm, harsh enough to make both of them flinch. When his eyes finally meet hers, the depths of their terror is nearly enough to extinguish her wrath all at once. 

For a split second, she is certain that her brother is afraid of her. For that split second, she believes he is right to be. 

That feeling is far more powerful than any rage, and her legs instantly itch with the palpable urge to run as far away from him as possible. It’s the same urge that consumed her during the attack on the manor, when she’d abruptly found herself thinking she was running from Bruce. 

Except now she realizes that the strange, amorphous fear she’d felt was not of her father, but of herself.

Then Jason’s terror twists into something pitifully pleading, and she knows once more that the thought of her brother fearing her is ludicrous. He is fraught with perilous worry and shackled by unimaginable guilt as he inches towards her desperately. 

He looks at Cass the same way she’s looked at him from the moment of his miraculous return - like he will shatter to pieces in an instant if anything so much as threatens to take her away again.

It is irrational, not to mention hypocritical, for her to resent him for that. She knows this. She has no place in this fight and her presence would be nothing more than a liability they can’t afford.

So why does every part of her protest?

“Please, Cassie…” her brother begs, choked and fragile. “I can’t be everywhere…”

His touch makes her flinch, but she doesn’t smack him away again. Head bowing and shoulders slumping in defeat, she suddenly feels mortifyingly childish. They’re wasting precious time fretting over her tantrum when Tim’s life is at stake. Jason is expending enough vital energy for this jump that will surely push his already-strained abilities even further. 

All of this is simply to protect her, and yet she’s throwing a fit why? Because her entire childhood wasn’t enough time for her to come to terms with being the one who gets left behind? Because she still can’t accept being useless? Because she’d prefer to get her whole family killed over accepting her place of being stashed away like priceless, fragile jewelry?

The urge to scream is overwhelming, but she swallows dryly instead, allowing Jason to wrap his arms around her.

“Fine,” she mutters in Mandarin, still unable to stop herself from adding a bitter, “No liabilities.”

He stiffens around her, but doesn’t pause the pulsing energy of his building blink. He does whisper one last apology as the air warps around them, engulfing them in a sudden, blue flash. 

In the heat of everything, Cass forgets to brace herself for the jump and immediately regrets it. Her stomach lurches violently, the weightless sensation much like falling from the sky but quicker and in reverse. As soon as her feet meet ground again, she rips away from Jason - legs jellied and head spinning like a top - and promptly vomits.

The sound of her brother’s matching wretches register several moments before the feeling of concrete scraping her knees or the stench of their upturned lunches. Jason’s breathing is more ragged than hers, but she can already hear his footsteps stumbling towards her on the ground. His frantic pulse rattled against hers through a hand on her back. Leaning into the touch, she blinks through brightness and wipes her mouth.

“Y’alright?” Jason wheezes, thumping to a clumsy crouch beside her. “With me?”

She nods, gasping another breath. They’re not at her apartment - they appear to have landed in an alley, likely just a block or so from the manor. Turning to her brother with a wince, she scans him over. He’s gone a shade paler, glistening with sweat, but he’s flashing her a weary grin.

“Been a while since we tried that, huh?” he chuckles breathlessly, slumping closer. “Almost forgot… how shit it is…”

“I didn’t,” Cass retorts, ignoring the fact that blatantly she did. “You… were banned… from buddy blinks.”

Scoffing, he waves a dismissive hand and slurs drunkenly, “Yeah, I’s banned from a lotta fuckin’ things’at saved your asses, but y’know… M’better askin’ forgiveness n’all that…”

Staring flatly, she raises a brow. “No, you’re not.”

He pauses for a beat, then laughs again. “Nah, you’re right, m’worse at that…”

Shaking her head, Cass shifts away from the pool of vomit and pulls her feet under her until she’s in a far more balanced crouch than her brother. Frowning, she inspects him a little closer. She knew this jump would be too hard on him in his barely-recovering state, and it makes her wonder if he’d meant to blink them a lot further than this but fell short from the strain. 

Jason catches her scrutinizing eye and tries to wave her off, but his casual air is still thoroughly unconvincing. “Don’t look so worried, m’fine. Let’s getcha home—”

With a firm grip on his arm, she cuts him and his abrupt rise short, her glare hardening. Sensing the bubbling protest already forming, Cass silences him again by slapping a finger over his twitching lips. 

Eyes narrowing to match hers, he mumbles out a disgruntled: “Cass…” through the muffling. She shakes her head.

“Liar.” She huffs, her frown only deepening at his flash of guilt. “You will fall over.”

“M’not—” He pulls her hand off his face with a heavy eye roll. “I ain’t gonna fuckin’ keel over! Gimme a little credit, Cass, I’m used to my own drawbacks!”

Crossing her arms, she raises a skeptical brow. “Yes? Is that why I remember someone saying ‘if my nose is not bleeding, I’m not living’ before he passed out on the training mats?”

“That was twelve years ago!”

“Oh, and who said ‘watch me clear this whole room without sweat’ and then threw up on the carpet after one blink?”

“Kay, well, yeah, we did just puke, but that doesn’t mean I—”

“Oh, and also who said he ‘mastered spacial accuracy’ right before missing the balance beam and landing on his crotch?”

“All of this was over eight years ago n’ doesn’t prove shit!” Jason fumes, scrambling off the filthy alley ground and kicking up trash as he rises up, swift and predictably unsteady.

“Hm.”

Popping up with him, Cass keeps hold of one of her brother’s elbows despite his stubborn attempt to pretend he needs no such support. Rather than leaning any harder into her concern, she decides to needle him instead.

“I will carry you,” she declares, keeping her expression flat and Bruce-level-severe.

He balks at her, flinching back with an absolutely scandalized fury sharp enough to rival Damian. “Wh- y— Like hell ya will!”

“You are small,” she replies, still deadpan. “I will carry while you rest for battle.”

Watching the blustering implosion of emotions wage war across Jason’s face for several stalled moments is the best entertainment that Cass has had in years - and unfortunately, it breaks her. 

The second her brother catches sight of the smile tugging at her lips, all of that frazzled rage and confusion bleeds out into a massive sigh as he shakes his head at her.

“Fuckin’— Unbelievable…” 

Snatching her hand in his own as he stomps by, he tugs her along towards the other end of the alley. She lets out a small chuckle at his grumbling, squeezing his palm.

Abruptly, he’s looking back at her, something soft in his eyes. She nearly stumbles in her step - but luckily catches herself because there’s not a chance that Jason would’ve let that slide after all of her teasing. He quickly turns away again, pulling them both flush against the brick building as he peeks around the corner into an intersecting alley. He keeps a firm hold of her hand.

Slightly dazed, she allows him to lead her on through several more twists and turns without comment. By the time they’re crossing into the next block and ducking behind a dumpster, Jason’s gaze is sliding back towards her with some unreadable curiosity. It’s still another whole block before he opens his mouth.

“...You’re not… talkin’ as much,” he finally mumbles, eyes seemingly fixed on the passersby as he waits for the right moment to move ahead.

Ah. Staring down at their clasped hands, Cass lets her thumb rub absently back and forth across his knuckles as she tries to piece together a response. It must be quite the shift for Jason to reckon with - not only with so much time having passed but also never being around for the worst of it. 

She’d always felt the most safe and comfortable around him and Bruce, so the version of her that they knew was so much different than the one that everyone else was used to. It wasn’t so strange or concerning to the rest of her family when Cass went quiet - they knew her as the solitary sister who rarely did more than linger on the edges of social activities, hardly ever contributing more than a few words when addressed directly. And they weren’t exactly wrong about that, either. 

Socializing, especially with more than one person, was generally intimidating and exhausting for her most times. More often than not, she did prefer to sit back and listen to her family mess around with each other rather than join in and try to match their dizzying pace. 

But with Bruce and Jason, it had always been different. They were both fluent in Mandarin as well, so Cass could be free to give herself a break from the frustrating mess of English whenever she was just too tired to bother. 

It had been devastating for her father to watch her shrivel and sink into herself for weeks and months on end, unable to pry a single word out of her mouth no matter how desperately she tried. Cass knew that he’d blamed himself every time it happened, despite that being absolutely ridiculous. It wasn’t Bruce’s fault that sometimes the world was just too much - no one could’ve possibly shielded her from the torment of her own mind and emotions, especially not when the traumas that she’d endured had been entirely the result of uncontrollable events that had shaken every one of them. 

Jason had only ever seen her get like this a handful of times before, so he would have no concept of how bad it had gotten.

A tug on her arm snaps Cass out of her thoughts and she hurriedly scrambles along with her brother to the next dumpster. They crouch behind it, Jason once again peeking out to watch for an opening. She shrugs, hoping he registers it as her beginning to answer his unspoken question.

“Stuck,” she manages to add, catching his gaze as it flickers back to her. “It got much worse. It was… getting better.”

There’s a pained recognition as he regards her, head bobbing in an almost imperceptible nod. Her brother clearly does remember her quiet days, and he seems to be reading into every tiny space between those lines with a storm of self-destructive fervour. Cass nearly rolls her eyes. 

This is the same brother who had adamantly claimed he had absolutely nothing in common with their father, and would physically fight anyone who said otherwise. Yet, here he is, perfectly emulating the man he hasn’t even seen in eight years.

“Not your fault,” she grumbles, shaking her head.

Twitching slightly, Jason turns away again. His shoulders are tense, and he seems to hold his breath while watching another pedestrian walk past. She feels a pang in her heart as his grip curls tighter around hers.

“...Still sorry,” he replies, throat abruptly hoarse.

He sounds so small and fragile, like he wants to crumble but doesn’t want his sister to see it happen. 

An honest to god pout pulls at Cass’ lips and, before she can stop herself, she mutters, “Sound like Dad.”

Instantly her brother’s head snaps back to her with a sharp breath and a flurry of shock-grief-rage. His eyes don’t focus on Cass, but rather seem to fog over as he glowers into the middle distance.

“Oh, fuckin’ hell, that old bastard— He blamed himself for me, didn’t he?” he seethes, wiping a bandaged hand across his face. “Even though he fuckin’ warned me n’ I didn’t listen to shit! God fucking damnit…”

“Jay,” Cass deadpans, tilting her head pointedly. “He’s our dad. Of course he did.”

Jason definitely doesn’t miss the slightly bitter allusion she makes to some of the final words he had spoken to her all those years ago, before disappearing to the end of the world.

“C’mon, Cass…” he’d almost chuckled, shrugging. “Of course I do.”

Teeth sinking into his lip, her brother looks her up and down for a tense, hesitant moment before lurching forward and capturing her in a firm embrace. She returns it eagerly, soaking in the smell of sweat and the familiar, grounding beat of his heart against hers.

“Fuckin’ idiots, all of us…”

She knows she should be urging him onward. They don’t have time like this to waste, and the rest of their family could be in mortal danger right now. 

Cass should have told Jason to leave her twenty minutes ago - it’s not like she can’t get herself back to her own apartment. It would probably be less suspicious and traceable if she just walked herself home at this point. 

She should make him go. He is needed elsewhere and she is not. But she just can’t bring herself to. 

How selfish is that? She’s willing to risk Tim’s life just for a few more minutes with her long-lost brother.

“Idiots,” she agrees, nodding into his shoulder.

Suddenly shifting around her, she feels Jason crane his neck over her shoulder with a pensive hum. When she tries to track his eyeline, she stiffens at the realization.

“Yeah, I think I can make it…” he declares to himself under his breath, nodding a few times.

“No,” Cass says instantly, grip tightening.

“Third floor, left-most side, right?”

“Jay. No.”

Flashing her a guiltless smile, her brother ignores all protest and focuses back on the target over her shoulder. The blink builds up much faster than the first one, warping the air and transforming into a blinding flash of blue within a second. Cass at least has the sense to brace herself this time, but the spiking vertigo and spinning weightlessness is no less overpowering.

In the throes of their stumbling landing, Jason impressively manages to haul both of them three steps across the kitchenette so that their vomit spills almost exclusively into the sink of Cass’ apartment. She still feels some of it dribble off the counter and soak into her shoes, so he is not forgiven. 

Before she’s even close to finished retching up bile, her arm snakes up her brother’s back to grab a fistful of hair with all her strength. He yelps, choking on his own spittle before breaking into coughing laughter.

“Ow, fuck— I’m sorry! Shit— Mercy!” he cries through hacking and cackling, desperately trying to squirm away from her relentless grip.

“ Shǎ bī…” she grumbles petulantly, tugging one last time on his baby hairs before releasing him.

He only laughs harder, wheezing like a dying man as he flings himself backward onto his ass, clutching at the handles of the counter’s drawers for dear life. His coughs are rough and flehm-filled, but his amusement is too genuine for concern. 

Despite herself, Cass can’t help smiling at the look on her brother’s teary, reddened face. It’s the first time since his return that she’s seen Jason happy. It’s hard to stay angry when she’s faced with that.

“I could have walked,” she says anyway, crossing her arms while leaning her hip against the counter for stability.

He wipes his eyes from her dusty, kitchen floor, still shaking off his mischievous amusement. “N’ this was faster,” he argues, shrugging nonchalantly.

Scowling, she shakes her head. “Not faster! You need to rest now. That’s not worth it!”

“Nah, m’good,” he replies, slowly and casually pulling himself off the ground. “That one wasn’t so bad, I could see where I was blinkin’. Blind blinks’re always worse.”

Grabbing his arm as soon as he rises, Cass eyes her brother skeptically. He’s hiding it better, but he’s still breathless and not quite steady on his feet. Alfred definitely wouldn’t have let him stand up yet.

“No,” she asserts, shaking her head again. “Rest.”

“I did,” he answers easily, meeting her eyes without wilting. “I walked with you. Regained my strength.”

The unexpected sincerity in his gaze gives Cass pause. She frowns, scanning him over again, but finds nothing different. Jason is tired, queasy, and his shortness of breath must be a result of his heart still beating too quickly. Yet his eyes are honest as they meet hers, and his mouth quirks up into an assuring smile.

“You… are okay?” she finds herself asking, the words falling almost numbly from her lips.

“I’m good, Cassie.” He rests a hand over the one she has on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. 

“I’m good to go.”

And she believes him. He’s looking her in the eyes and, despite everything, she believes him. Somehow, it stings worse than the lies - because it means there’s no more stalling the inevitable.

He has to leave her again.

Swallowing hard, Cass tries at a smile of her own, but she’s sure it comes out more like a wince. Her throat is suddenly too closed up for words, so she just cups her brother’s face in her hands for a quick moment before pulling them back to sign: “Bring Tim home.”

Softening further with a far-away look in his eyes, Jason signs back: “I will.”

Then one hand gently grips the back of her head and tilts it down, fingers threading into her hair, and he presses a tender kiss onto the crown of her bangs - just like Bruce used to. The gesture is so raw on her emotions that she almost misses the amusing way Jason is forced to stretch onto his tip-toes to reach.

“I will come back with him,” Jason reiterates, this time in Mandarin.

Nodding mutely, Cass stands rooted in place as her brother backs away. He keeps his eyes fixed on her as long as possible while stepping towards the nearest window, seeming almost as reluctant to leave as she is to let him go. But finally, he glances towards his goal, gripping the windowsill with a grimace.

With one last look her way, Jason calls, “See you soon, favourite! Love you.”

A genuine smile twitches onto her face and she raises her hands to sign: “Love you, little brother.”

He scoffs gently at the tease, head shaking with amusement. Normally, she would call him ‘big brother’ in response to ‘favourite’ or ‘favourite sister’, even though they’ve never actually known for sure whether she’s older or younger than he is. But he’s little now, so Cass will call it like it is. 

Satisfied, she flashes what he would call a shit-eating grin his way. Sighing fondly, her brother turns back towards the window.

And then he’s gone. In a blink and a flash of blue, Cass is alone again.

The creaks and groans of her empty apartment are all at once as deafening as her own heartbeat as she stumbles back against the counter, gasping desperately. Her hand snaps up to clutch her bangs where Jason had kissed her - where her father had always kissed her.

What if I lose them all today?

Without a single other thought in her mind, Cass fishes the near-empty medication bottle from her pocket, up-ends the remaining three pills straight into her mouth and swallows them down.

Chapter Text

1997 (Present)

~ Tim ~

“No, please, I’m telling you,” Tim continues desperately, wrestling against his bonds with wide, pleading eyes. “I was just gonna feed you bullshit n’ fuck with you, but I swear on my sister’s grave, I’ll sing like a bird for literally one hit of anything you got!”

“Oh, fuck you,” Steph scoffs, flipping him off with two ghostly fingers.

Though his sister’s practically-untouched image can hardly be classified as ghost-like when compared to the twisted, translucent, glowing, bluish wisps of long-dead souls that now creep up from behind her and his captors. He shivers again at the sound of their low, guttural groans.

Tim has taken to calling these things wraiths, because it’s difficult to imagine them as truly human. Their incorporeal bodies are both shriveled and sagging, several of them sporting wounds that show straight through to equally-wispy organs and bones. Given the state of decay, these wraiths must bear the current appearance of their corpses, unlike Steph, whose body still appears as it did the day of her death. Though his sister did also appear to age alongside him, but that must be due to their bond. That must be why the creatures are always reaching for him with their frigid, awful, bony hands.

So transfixed on the nightmares approaching him, Tim nearly forgets about his captors until the clown is unscrewing a cap from her obnoxious red baton and - oh, wonderful. It has a taser just like Dick’s Escrima sticks.

The pain forces his jaws together and his binds bite into his skin as he thrashes involuntarily. Electric shocks are not a fun ride, but they’re hardly a new experience. Honestly, Tim is a little grateful for the warmth they’re providing to his icy chest, though the proximity to his heart is not ideal.

Finally, she tears the zap-stick off of him, still giggling and flashing all her teeth. Notably, the grinch had to pull her off with a grumbled reminder not to kill him.

“Keep bein’ funny an’ we’ll see just how hardja can laugh!”

Tim gasps for breath, despising the accelerated dose of sobriety almost as much as the pain. The wraiths are crowding him now, mumbling and moaning and trying to grasp at his clammy skin. Another shudder racks him from the whispers of their touch.

“It really won’t be much of a show,” he wheezes, against his better instincts. “These lungs don’t take me far.”

“Stop antagonizing them!” Steph snaps, worry cracking her voice. “Just play scared! They’re pissed enough!”

There is no ‘playing’ about it - Tim is petrified. He just happens to show it in the most inconvenient ways possible. Predictably, this earns him another swift blow to the jaw and his world is sent spinning anew. God, he can’t catch his breath. He honestly wants to do as Steph said and just work with them at this point, but he sincerely can’t remember what they wanted anymore.

Eyes squeezed shut and bracing for more pain, he opens his mouth to inform them of this, but stops short.

“Let me speak to them, Ambassador…” a faint, raspy voice suddenly hisses into his ear, accompanied by ringing and the haunting rush of ethereal winds.

With a flinch, Tim’s head snaps up despite the burst of agony at every motion. He’s staring straight into sunken, translucent eyes that peel wide on a deeply wrinkled, half-rotten, ghastly face. The wraith’s incorporeal fingers clutch at his arm, causing a tingling numbness, but he barely notices the sensation when the horrid creature is looming so close.

There is no force of will that could have prevented the strangled keen of terror from escaping Tim’s throat at the sight. Why did he of all his siblings have to be the unfortunate bastard cursed with the damned, stupid ghost-seeing powers?

“Help… We must…” Another of the wraiths is speaking, seeming to prompt the whole crowd of ethereal onlookers to jump in.

“Let us persuade them, Ambassador…”

“They cannot snuff your Light… We cannot allow it…”

“These assassins are ruthless, but we have known their kindness…” the wraith at Tim’s nose croaks, somehow crowding even closer.

Another grasps towards the center of his chest, frosty and eager as it tugs at his power. “Let us Bond… Give us the strength to speak through your Soul…”

“Tim!” Steph’s voice breaches the rest, a shuddering pulse erupting down their bond.

It snaps him out of paralysis and he recoils against his bonds, shouting out without thinking: “Get off me!”

Hot and cold flash through his bond and all at once the pulse seems to blast out from his chest, rippling through the wraiths around him as they all fly back.  

The ghostly bodies all became rigid at once, moving away swiftly in unison, as if commanded. Now they stare back at him from a distance, no longer obscuring Tim’s captors from his sight. 

Blinking dazedly, he struggles to process what just happened. One glance at Steph offers him no further insight - she seems equally stunned. Apparently neither of them knew he could do that. Whatever… that was.

“Maybe you’re right,” the Grinch sighs, leaning towards the Clown while raising a brow at Tim. “Maybe he has been touched by the cosmos.”

Oh, right, Tim reminds himself, shaking out of his stupor. They can’t see the wraiths. His captors just witnessed him crumble and shriek at the empty air with genuine terror. Normally, this would be incomprehensibly mortifying, but right now it works well in his favour.

“Nah,” the Clown chuckles, swinging her zappy baton idly. “I think he’s just regular ol’ crackhead-crazy.”

Jackpot. Despite the hiccups, he finally managed to convince them that he’s just a babbling idiot. They won’t fish him so hard for information anymore, and maybe they’ll even cool down the torture if there’s nothing to gain from it. 

Now it’s time to turn the tables. His first thread of intel is whatever the hell that one wraith said - something about knowing the assassins’ kindness?

“Please…” Tim whimpers, clenching his muscles to make the shaking more prominent. “Mercy… I’m fading, I just need a cigarette…”

Grinch snorts, rolling her eyes and wandering off. The Clown steps forward, still flashing all those teeth as she draws her sparking baton close to Tim’s throat. 

“Oh, we’re gonna have so much fun with ya, kid!” she declares, waving the active taser around his jugular like a taunt.

He subtly keeps his eye on the wraith that seems to move with her - it’s the same one who had mentioned their kindness. The ghost seems female, likely middle-aged at her death, and wears the rags of a bloodstained, floral dress. She was evidently killed by two efficient bullets to the head and chest. Her ethereal eyes are not trained on the Clown with hatred, but something closer to tenderness.

“Are… are you gonna kill me?” Tim whispers in a trembling voice, staring directly at the wraith while he does.

The Clown shrieks a laugh, jerking the taser in a feint as it sparks just high enough to jolt him without giving him a proper, deadly shock. He flinches and whimpers appropriately, but watches the wraith woman closely. 

Slowly, she shakes her wispy head. Tim holds back a smile. 

The message is clear, and it gives him everything he was asking for. These time-travelling assassins will not kill him unless they have to, and they obviously take no real pleasure in causing him pain. If they did, there would be no chance that one of their victims would regard them so tenderly after death. 

Their cruelty is a mask just as blatant as the costumes and face paint, and that means there’s weakness beneath it which they don’t want exploited. And with the ghosts of these assassins’ former victims at his service, he has all the information he needs to exploit it to hell.

1996 (Present)

~ Damian ~

The setting sun painted the smog-flooded skies with fiery oranges and unsettling reds, growing deeper with each passing second. Normally, Damian liked to study skies like this - perhaps even attempt to capture their image with paints of his own. It could be a calming hobby, taken up at Pennyworth’s quiet insistence. 

Now, drumming his fingers restlessly against the inside of the idling taxi’s door, he finds nothing calming in the sight. In fact, he pointedly avoids looking towards the glaring reminder of the evening’s arrival in a feeble attempt to escape the spiraling of his own impatient mind. It’s not very effective. 

He’d begrudgingly accepted that a taxi could traverse Gotham city slightly faster than he could via grapple, but part of him regrets opting for this method. At least moving on his own accord, he wouldn’t feel quite as useless in the interim. Yes, Todd had warned him not to engage before the others arrived, and thus, in theory, he’s going to end up waiting anyway. But Damian plans to assess the situation for himself once he arrives and determine the necessary approach - if that approach happens to go against Todd’s wishes, he’s hardly going to dissuade himself from it. 

Hesitation is deadly in their line of work, especially when Timothy is involved. The idiot seems to make a challenge out of how quickly he can escalate a situation to its deepest possible peril, and Damian has been just shy of too late to rescue him far too many times for comfort. Suffice to say, he has a terrible feeling about this, and it is not leaving him with much in the way of patience.

The stoplight ahead finally flicks to green, prompting Damian to release a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He’s nearly there - just a few blocks away from the crime scene that Jon reported to him. The detective will have arrived on scene by now, and Damian is increasingly tempted to pull out his radio and contact the man for updates. He holds back, given that his vigilante partnership with the police is legally and professionally frowned-upon. The matter is an open secret with Jon’s colleagues, but generally not one worth pushing the limits of - especially when he will receive the same answers with far less risk if he only waits a few more minutes. 

Restraint is wearing thin, however. So thin that the moment he spots the flashing of police cars waiting ahead, Damian is already unbuckled, tossing the taxi driver his fare, and gracefully flinging himself out the door of the slowing vehicle. His feet will carry him faster than the taxi’s current speed and he is simply too restless to keep himself from moving any longer.

Despite the highly unusual exit, Damian’s black clothes and swift, subtle steps allow him to all but vanish from the notice of onlookers as he approaches. Even the officers, supposedly on the watch for suspicious activity around an active crime scene, don’t seem to catch a glimpse as he strides directly into the fray. 

The only pair of eyes that fix on him are the sharp, sky-blue set that were already searching and knew exactly what to watch for. Jon nods to him subtly as soon as their gazes meet, then jerks his head to the right as he casually meanders closer to the nearby alleyway.

Briefly scanning the victim and vehicle as he goes, Damian skirts the shadows of the scene and makes his way to the alley as indicated. As Jon had reported, the victim is a simple taxi driver, slumped over his steering wheel without a speck of blood or visible wound. The car is parked in a street corner obscured from cameras, and the victim was clearly left in a manner to discourage any swift crime reports. After all, the man appeared to be only drunk or sleeping. He’d likely also made no noise as he was killed.

These assassins were truly cunning and skilled as Todd had claimed. This crime was so far the only trace they’d left behind, and was likely only committed to ensure more details were not revealed. Timothy was undoubtedly transported in this vehicle, and they couldn’t risk this man going free with that information. But that means he is close.

Slinking up against the brick next to Jon, Damian nods for the detective to report. With something of a grimace, he does.

“No wounds aside from a small pinprick in his neck, and his body shows barely any signs. If it weren’t for the lack of a pulse, I wouldn’t believe he’s dead,” the older man sighs, running one hand through dark, short-cropped hair.

“Poison?” Damian suggested softly, foot tapping without his input.

Shaking his head, Jon helplessly waves the small notepad he always carries for investigations. The thin, narrow sheets of the pad are packed full of his looping, nonsensical scrawl - the writing is often more difficult for Damian to decipher than the most advanced of criminal ciphers.

“Not one that we know of!” he huffs out, briefly losing enough composure to both raise his voice and forget the cover he’s supposed to be holding.

He remembers himself before Damian is forced to remind him, however, and scribbles more onto the notepad while muttering under his breath. This successfully diverts the attention of the officers, who assume the detective is debating the details of the case aloud to himself. Whether any of them truly buy that cover or simply accept it as plausible deniability is irrelevant.

“We’ll need an autopsy to know more, but somehow I doubt it will be much more conclusive,” Jon muttered after a moment, shooting Damian a pointed look. “Is this them?”

The weight of the question is clear, and the conclusion drawn perfectly understandable in these circumstances, but Damian quickly shakes his head. If not for Todd’s return and the Pandora’s box that opened, he would’ve also suspected that this was the handiwork of none other than the League of Assassins.

“Not them, but equally dangerous,” he replied, clenching his jaw for a beat. “…Perhaps more so.”

Those blue eyes widen, flashing with shock as the detective clearly fights off a dozen more questions brimming on his tongue. 

Taking pity, Damian leans slightly closer, voice still barely above a whisper. “Another of my brothers returned home last night. Yes, precisely the one you’re thinking of,” he adds before Jon’s lips have fully parted to ask. “But Todd was followed. His pursuers are the ones who have Timothy, and most assuredly the same who killed this man.”

Blowing out a sharp breath, Jon stares down blankly at his notes, as he typically does to process overwhelming information. It only takes him a moment to recover, but his next words are not what Damian anticipated.

“So… he is alive, then.”

Stiffening, Damian narrows his eyes at the man. Why is he choosing to fixate on these irrelevant details when there are pressing matters at hand? This is not about Todd right now - they have to rescue Timothy!

“Evidently,” is his curt reply, hoping the acknowledgment will be enough to refocus his partner’s attention to their priorities.

His hope is dashed when Jon turns - the crime scene and their cover seemingly forgotten entirely - and fixes him with a strange look.

“Then Tim was telling the truth.”

The statement knocks the air from Damian’s lungs for some reason, and it takes a shameful number of moments to shake the feeling off.

“I never thought Timothy a liar,” he finds himself responding, almost defensive.

“But you didn’t believe him,” Jon counters immediately, and his tone and expression are frustratingly unreadable.

All at once, Damian wishes he’d never told this man about his family, his life, and especially not his powers. Sure, the Robin Academy was as open a secret as his partnership to Jon, but he never should’ve told anyone the details. It leads to people like Jon thinking they truly know him - like they can actually understand the life he’s lived and everything it has cost him.

“What has possessed you to think this is even remotely the time or place, Kent?” he finally snaps, voice a low and dangerous growl.

Instantly flinching back, Jon seems to finally remember himself again and nods apologetically.

“Right, sorry, I just—” he shakes his head, scribbling in his notes again. “Sorry. We know they’re in the area, right? They can’t have gotten far with him.”

“Todd mentioned a strip of motels nearby,” Damian says, relieved to be back on track. “Someone must have witnessed them, but the moment they smell cops, they’ll run. Or worse.”

Jon’s mouth forms a hard line at the implication and he nods again, swallowing hard. “We’ll have to track them down covertly, let them believe they have more time.”

“No, I don’t want your officers on this. They’ll be spotted from a mile away, and most likely just end up dead.”

“I wasn’t planning on sending them,” Jon replies, resolute and meaningful.

Despite himself, Damian glares stubbornly at his partner, a stab of fear lancing his chest. The detective meets the challenge with a level gaze, uncompromising. It does nothing to soothe that lance.

“I can handle this myself,” he protests weakly, fists curling tight at his sides.

“With my help, we’ll find him faster. That’s how we always operate.” 

His tone is casual but firm. Not an argument - a reminder. He’s already hiding his badge, signalling to the officers that he’s leaving the scene. Damian feels a clawing desperation building up inside him, like he’s staring at an oncoming collision.

“Jon,” he breathes, stiff and strangled. “These people are assassins.”

And they could kill you in a single blink, goes unsaid, but is heavily implied. Along with the pressing fact that Damian can deflect knives and bullets while Jon decidedly cannot.

Flipping his notepad closed with a snap, his partner shrugs off his detective jacket and starts walking, ostensibly towards his vehicle. “Then we better get your brother away from them, yeah?”

The man doesn’t pause in his stride and so Damian is left in the shadows of the alley, mouth flapping soundlessly, before he turns on his heel and sprints. In order to avoid matching directly into the eyeline of Jon’s entire team, Damian is forced to circle the entire building and run up the next alleyway to catch up with his partner again. 

For each of those hurried steps, his mind spirals further and further into inexplicable panic. Why is this even so distressing? Jon is correct - they have always worked together this way. The core of their partnership is efficiency and trust, relying on each other in order to maximize the good they both can do. This is the reason he came to his partner tonight, is it not? He knows that he requires his assistance.

Yet, the lurching dread only grows. His brothers squabbled over Cain’s safety due to the immutable fact that her lack of powers puts her life at too high a risk. So how can he think of allowing Jon to face those odds?

But can he justify wasting even more time on a likely fruitless argument while Timothy’s life is in jeopardy? He knows exactly what his partner will counter, as this is far from the first time the two of them have clashed on this particular issue. Despite Damian’s extensive training and undeniable advantage with his power, Jon insists they are at equal risk merely because Damian is still fifteen. A ridiculous and insulting argument, but one that his partner has proven entirely unwilling to compromise.

He’s embarrassingly breathless by the time he reaches the end of the next alley and falls into stride with the man. A smug grin ghosts Jon’s expression even as he pointedly keeps his eyes on the street ahead. Damian’s eye twitches and he grabs impulsively at his wrist with a growl.

“You’re no subtler than your officers,” he insists, trying to force his partner to look at him. “In fact, I’m certain Todd would agree your presence stands out even more down in this neighborhood.”

He stresses the word ‘presence’ to indicate Jon’s entire chronically-cheerful, somehow-still-naive boy-scout appearance and disposition that he can never quite seem to conceal.

“And yet it’s never been a problem on busts before,” Jon retorts easily, eyeing him without slowing or turning. “And we’ve worked plenty seedier places. Most people just see an easy target.”

“These are not most people, Kent!”

“I know!” Jon stops short, gesturing a hand towards the nearest motel that just came into view. “I’ll scout the perimeters and watch the exits if you insist I’ll compromise us. I understand the stakes here, Dami, but I’m not letting you do this alone.”

Jaws clenching tight as he stiffens, Damian struggles to draw a full breath. Instantly, his face flushes hot with shame and he nods quickly. This is their agreement - they respect each other enough to not underestimate one another. Jon isn’t stupid or reckless or overly self-sacrificing like the rest of Damian’s family, he’s just logical and practical and determined. And Damian won’t be emotional or overprotective or martyrous like the others are to him. That’s what makes him and Jon partners.

So he banishes the shadow hanging over his mind that looms suspiciously like Father, and splits off with Jon as they hurry towards their mission.

1997 (Present)

~ Tim ~

“Even still… she visits when possible… to tend to the grounds…” one ghastly voice continues, following Tim’s standing request to provide any and all details of why these wraiths follow their maniacal assassins around.

Over eager - as most of them are - another wraith jumps in with his own anecdote several beats before the first has finished.

“Kept from my family’s sights… yet ensured their closure for my fate…”

“My daughter…” the wraith-woman in the floral dress speaks again, despite repeating herself at this point. “Secretly cared for… protected…”

“One at a time, please,” Tim groans, his whole body quaking with another involuntary shudder.

Those are becoming more frequent. He can’t tell if that’s due to the wraiths or the withdrawals, but it’s likely both.

“Apologies, Ambassador…”

“We serve your will…”

“Forgive us our transgressions…”

The wraiths all hurry to grovel, and in doing so immediately contradict his request to speak one at a time. Shuddering again, he sighs - long and suffering.

While he could not be more grateful that his captors decided to back off for a bit, the constant cacophony of raspy voices flooding his ears is making him start to miss the torture just a little. 

The guise of mumbling nonsense to himself has been working pretty well for information gathering - it helps that his squirming terror is still fully authentic - but all this intel is useless if he has no chance to exploit it. On top of that, his roided-up hangover is worsening by the minute and he is rapidly losing the will to give a shit.

This thought process instantly screeches to a halt when the clown steps back into the room, flashing one of her trademark unhinged grins. No matter what all these ghosts claim about deep-seated guilt and genuine kind-heartedness, this woman is terrifying.

“Hiyah, kid! Nap-time’s over,” she declares, strutting over as the Grinch follows behind. “Hope yah cleared yer head, ‘cause we got more questions for yah!”

Jaw clenching through another violent, full-body shudder, Tim dares to glower at her. “Do I look clear-headed to you?”

“This tactic only led to electric shocks, Tim,” Steph chimes in immediately, appearing right next to his face.

Apparently she struggles to stay visible to him while he’s talking to the other ghosts - which would definitely be something to look into if he had any plans to remain sober after this. As it stands, he doesn’t, and his only response is to wince.

“Ooh, he’s gettin’ sassier!” the clown squeals, clapping her hands like an excited toddler. “That’s a good sign, don’tcha think, Ives?”

“Depends what you mean,” Grinch replies flatly, returning Tim’s glare.

Shit. Steph is right - he needs to switch tactics. But this transition is going to be hard to pull-off naturally without giving the game away. Maybe it’s better to just go for it, no segue? That could certainly catch them off-guard, which is exactly where he wants them. Put his captors on their back foot, watch how they scramble to regain control, and then use that against them as well.

“Right, of course - questions,” he forces out as casually as possible, rolling his head to the side. “What is it you wanted to know again? Something about family, showing no mercy, having fun playing with lives and picking them apart over and over to get what you wanted… or, no, that’s not right, is it?”

The air shifts immediately and Tim fights hard not to let his nervousness show. He keeps his expression carefully Batman-flat, even as the clown stomps forward and grips his jaw, wrenching it towards her.

“The hell’re yah blabberin’ now, kid?” she demands, her wide, glazing smile ever-so-slightly wavering. “Do I need tah remind yah what we’re askin’?”

“No,” he answers, a little too light for the circumstances. “I know what you want to know. I’ll tell you all about them.”

Her grip squeezes tighter around his jaw, clearly unnerved by his tone and the switch up, but she raises a brow and waits for him to continue. He doesn’t dare swallow, lest he betray his nerves.

“They want to talk to you, you know,” he begins, wishing he didn’t have to stare so directly into those ice-blue eyes. “Through me. I could let them.”

There. He has a front-row seat to the shock and panic flashing in his captor’s gaze. Her pupils shrink minutely before dilating larger - they do seem abnormally massive, similar to Jason’s. Her one eye twitches twice in rapid succession, also similar to his brother, and she jerks her head back.

Grinch seems more in control of her composure, but Tim also wasn’t an inch from her face when he spoke. She steps forward, crouching next to her partner, and raises a skeptical brow.

“They can talk through you? Your family?” she asks, like a challenge.

He won’t manage a bluff like that under her inspection, and it probably wouldn’t be wise to do so anyway. Instead, he lets his faux-casualness stand in the light.

“No, not them,” he replies, slightly muffled with his jaws still locked in the clown’s grip. “I don’t think my family has nearly the same fondness for you. I thought that was only natural, but now these testimonies have surprised me. They actually forgive you, you know? They truly don’t hold it against you.”

Once again, Tim watches it happen. Shock, confusion, frustration and the struggle to regain control. They want to simply dismiss his nonsense and beat him down, but they’re smart enough to sense this is different. They’re desperate to know what he knows - they have been this whole time. 

They’re scrambling in the dark while fervently pretending that they have everything handled, and the more holes he pokes in that, the more stubbornly they’ll fight to maintain it. But they’ve seen it now. They know he has an edge, and they need to know what it is. 

Hook, line, sinker. Now, if only he had the brainpower left to effectively take advantage of that without fumbling the whole thing.

“I think we’ve been too soft on the little shit, Harls,” Grinch sighs, valiantly masking that unsteadiness with annoyance. “He seems to think it’s a smart idea to fuck with us.”

The clown gasps, making her pigtails bounce as she claps gleefully. “S’that mean I can start takin’ fingahs?”

Shooting the wraith in the dress an exasperated glare, Tim receives back something of an incorporeal apologetic shrug. These ghosts must have known nothing but brutality in their living years to truly consider these psychos to be merciful. He’ll need to act fast before he loses his favourite digits. And they will go for his favourites first - only amateurs start with the pinkies.

“Tim, is this really a good idea?” Steph suddenly squeaks, appearing partially in front of him with her arms out as if to shield him. “This is just gonna piss them off, and— Man, they might just kill you! Maybe you—”

“Do you remember Annabeth Swanson?” Tim’s voice rings out, impressively flat and composed despite the distractions.

“Oh, and you did it anyways, ohh, god…”

Aside from his sister’s panicked ramblings, the room falls dead silent. Though, Tim’s experience weakens that metaphor. More accurately, the air seems to vacate the room, leaving behind a muffled effect comparable to the meditative moments when Tim would dunk his head underwater, except completely devoid of any comfort or peace. 

If he thought he had them on their back foot before, that was nothing compared to now. The sense of imminent danger, however, has escalated in equal measure. Maybe Steph was right.

Too late now, Tim reminds himself, taking pains to keep his expression smooth and impassive. The uncontrollable twitching is decidedly unhelpful in this endeavour.

Unsurprisingly, the silence is broken within a beat by the clown’s fingers twisting into his hair and viciously wrenching his head back as she presses close.

“Now, where’d yah hear a name like that, huh?” she hums in his ear, the rhythm far too harsh and unsteady to be much more than a growl. 

It takes every bit of willpower left inside him not to whimper, but he allows himself a hiss of pain at the continuous, stinging grip. He’s trying to act mysterious and confident, not invincible.

“I told you,” he gasps, meeting her eyes as down the bridge of his nose. “She wants to thank you… for what you did for her daughter.”

He registers the pain in his torso before processing the flurry of movement, only understanding what she did after her face is pulling back from him in a mask of fury. Her elbow must have been the culprit for that brutal jab to the gut, as Tim definitely has a cracked rib now. He’s not certain she even meant to do that, since her previous baton swings had fallen with far more precision. 

That was certainly the ace up his sleeve, so hopefully he hasn’t just royally fucked himself. The way the clown is whipping out that baton again doesn’t exactly spell success.

“Yah don’t know when tah shut yer damn mouth, now, do yah, kid?” she spits, barely a whisper of that manic smile peeking through her seething snarl. “And neither does Red, apparently! Just how much nonsense did he spout off tah yah?”

The sudden thrust of white-hot electric pain to the gut spares Tim from having to convincingly pull off confusion at the statement. He grits his teeth and groans pathetically through the exhausting twitching and squirming instead. 

Of course they assume this intel is from Jason - that would be the much easier answer, and one that puts them in a state of panic. But it’s not really what he wants them to believe, since they’re much more likely to just kill him and run if they see Jason as a threat rather than a target. They might just try kidnapping another family member to replace Tim, and that absolutely cannot happen.

It’s once again Grinch who pulls the clown off of him, though she seems more reluctant this time. Air burns in his lungs with every heaving breath and spittle drips freely from his trembling lips. He really should’ve listened to Steph.

“I’ve… been trying… to tell you…” Tim rasps, his voice hardly distinct from the wraiths as blackness dots his vision. “She’s… here… She… told me…”

Another flash of rage swallows the clown’s vision and she surges forward, lifting the sparking baton to jab him again. Tim braces, watching desperately for any sign of the compassion or reluctance that the assassin’s victims claimed to find, but he can see only frigid hatred. 

The wraith woman - Annabeth Swanson, the former historian in the bloodied, floral dress - cries out for him from where she hovers at the clown’s side. They all do, including Steph. Something must tell them that this next burst of pain may well be his last, and Tim can feel it, too. These ghosts can feel their precious ‘Ambassador’ fading.

But the pain doesn’t come. Instead, he watches the clown flinch, halting her thrust as her head jerks to the right - where Annabeth lingers. For a moment, Tim thinks she actually sees her victim’s wraith, but her eyes continue to dart around aimlessly. She twitches again, though, in time with Annabeth turning towards her, and mutters something too low to hear. It almost looks like…

Tim’s eyes fly wide. Jason. She’s twitching around, flinching at invisible sounds and almost appearing to talk to the dead, just like Jason! 

Whatever phenomenon is affecting his brother also seems to be affecting these assassins. A consequence of time-travel, perhaps? He doesn’t think either Jason or the clown can actually see or hear the dead, but maybe somehow they’re able to sense their presence? Jason did seem to know that Steph was standing next to Tim, even if he probably wasn’t aware that he was right.

Hallucinations, likely influenced by invisible forces that very few aside from Tim are truly aware of. And that green… is the clown more affected because her eyes are clear of it? Jason had only flecks of that glow, but Grinch’s eyes are practically irradiated. Maybe he should work on her next.

“Harley…” the devil in question murmurs, in a tone awfully reminiscent of the one Dick had used on Jason back at the manor.

And the clown reacts in much the same way, shoulders tensing instantly as her head snaps over. “Don’t. The brat’s talkin’ out his ass an’ I’ve had it up tah here, Ives!”

“No, we’re on the same page there,” Grinch replies, turning her glare back on Tim.

Feeling distinctly like a mouse cringing from the talons of a hawk, he swallows stinging bile. If he survives this, Steph and the demon brat will never let him hear the end of it, but he truly has no other viable options aside from what he does best - digging his heels in.

Here goes nothing.

“Frank is grateful for you, too…” he whispers, with marginally less rasp but significantly more waver.

He knew the first word would cause the biggest reaction, so he barrels through without allowing space for processing or interruptions - or chickening out.

“For sparing his family the sight of him… and turning his grave to a garden…” he rushes, panting harder as his eyes squeeze shut. “It was a small bit of kindness from someone he only expected to—”

He feels the wind of her backhand before it strikes him straight across the mouth, splitting his lip and flooding his tongue with fresh blood. A strike transparently desperate to shut him up.

“Who the fuck fed you this shit and where do they think it’s coming from?”

Her teeth are clenched hard enough to crack, her glowing eyes alight with fear and rage as she looms threateningly over him. Still, somehow she suddenly seems more like the mouse.

Spitting a glob of blood down his own bare, sweat-glistened torso, Tim levels his weary gaze on her. She doesn’t want him spilling what he knows, but she needs to assess the threat. He has to keep this vague enough to keep control, but specific enough to stop her pressing for answers. All while not being certain if he can even manage more than monosyllabic words.

“I… told you…” he slurs, hoping to emphasize that harming him further will only reduce their chances for info. “Y’asked… wha’ we… could do…”

Somehow it seems to be working, because he doesn’t receive another violent interruption. The clown, especially, is actually retreating from him with an expression twisted into the closest approximation of distress that he’s seen from her yet. She’s practically hugging herself as she scurries around, collecting items before rushing toward the door. This, in turn, tears Grinch’s attention away from Tim as she moves to intercede her partner’s exit.

“Hey, Harley— Where are you going?” she hisses, grabbing the clown’s elbow before she can turn the handle.

The touch isn’t flinched from or smacked away like Tim was expecting, but the clown is still curt when she replies.

“Out. Takin’ a walk.”

Grinch’s sigh is all frazzled and Dick-like as she keeps hold of the other woman. “Harls. You can’t—”

“Darlin’, I ain’t askin’.”

Their voices drop low and hushed and Tim loses track of the exchange, too distracted by the wraiths lazily circling the room. If he’s honest, he hasn’t the faintest clue how or why he’s still alive. This wasn’t the forgiving kind of gamble that he was dealing with, and yet he continues breathing without even a rescuer in sight. 

Maybe he should feel impressed with himself for the feat, or at least relieved that it’s worked out so far. He’s just exhausted.

Appearing in a crouch at his side, Stephanie peers at him with wide, worried eyes.

“You deserve an Emmy for this, dude,” she whispers, cracking a fragile smile. “But you gotta reel it back or they are one hundred percent gonna kill you.”

With a heavy sigh, Tim stares back at her. Can they hurry it up already? He thinks, feeling something pulse through their bond, but uncertain if the words actually reach her. I’m a fragile flower blowing in the winds of withdrawals…

Based on his sister’s sudden scowl, he determines that he did indeed successfully deliver his thoughts to her telepathically. This leads him to ponder just how long he’s been able to do that for, and whether he could have communicated with the wraiths the same way. Can he command them with just his thoughts? 

If only these neat perks weren’t so heavily outweighed by the unrelenting torment of sobriety - he might actually make use of them.

The door slamming jolts Tim back to awareness and he cringes as Grinch whirls around, her attention once again fixed on a single, unfortunate target.

Changed my mind, He all but prays to an uncaring universe and also his dead sister. There’s no need to hurry.

“Little too late for that, now…” Steph mumbles in response, shifting minutely away from the approaching verdant devil.

From beyond the motel door, Tim swears he can hear the echo of maniacal, cackling laughter.

Chapter Text

1997 (Present)

~ Harley ~

“Darlin’, I ain’t askin’.”

If Harley was even the slightest bit less completely unravelled, she might not have dared to speak to her partner that way. She also definitely would have crumbled into endless apologies the second a flicker of hurt joins the frustrated concern of Ivy’s stormy expression.

“Careful~” that shadowed face sings in her ear, scars stretching at the corners of his ever-manic grin. “Don’t want to wander too close to the truth, now, do we?” 

Unfortunately, at the current moment, she is completely and utterly falling apart at an alarming rate and can’t afford to let her partner see that. The itch beneath her skin begs her to claw until there’s nothing left but red. The shadows are growing around her, whispering with grating voices that get harder and harder to ignore.

“Well, you never did have the brains,” he chimes again, grabbing one pigtail with a quick, harsh tug. “Or the stomach… What did you have, again?”

Swallowing hard, Harley turns away from both him and Ivy, grasping the door handle like a lifeline. Every part of her is trembling and she doesn’t need him to tell her how pathetic it is - not that this ever discourages him. 

She isn’t supposed to feel like this. 

Harley has never needed the meds, and barely took them even when the symptoms first set in. She’s only taken the serum once, and that was more due to her physical injuries rather than any unbearable wounds to her psyche. Wilson always claimed that Harley was built for this - her mind was free to embrace the chaos of the cosmos from the start, with barely a hint of resistance.

Of course, she never told him about the voices. She never told anyone about them, which is exactly why she needs out of this haunted room as fast as possible.

She’d always thought that the only way to fool someone like him was to believe your own lies just as much. Did that mean he secretly suspected her as well?

“Was only a matter of time, Harley-girl…” he sighs, tongue clicking in disappointment. “Why so surprised? We both knew you’d never pull this off!”

Ivy tries to tell her that stepping out right now is ‘dumb’ and ‘inviting an ambush’. She’s correct, as always - but Harley is feeling awfully dumb and inviting right now, so that’s not going to stop her. It’s not like she won’t take the proper precautions, she’s not a total idiot. Maybe she just wants to speed this up.

He laughs.

Swinging the door shut behind her, Harley steps out into the hall on startlingly wobbly legs. She allows herself to sway backward against the doorframe for a brief moment, drawing a breath sharp enough to burst her lungs. The exhale is no gentler, and she can feel her lip quiver in the strain of it. The other doors lining the motel’s upper hall all seem to stretch out before her eyes, warping like a funny mirror. 

She blinks. Blinks again.

He’s still laughing.

With considerable effort, she forces her face to split into an equally wide grin. She breathes in deep through her nose, eyes falling closed, and joins him.

Their sharp cackles rise and twirl and crescendo in the stagnant, empty air, and suddenly the light-headedness feels more like a familiar high. Her lungs ache, her eyes water, and her cheeks burn something fierce. 

Pushing herself firmly off the door, she marches down the hall with a spring in her step. His laugh follows her all the way, filling her chest with a red-hot giddiness. She peels off her mask and wig in one motion, endlessly fascinated by Commission tech. It used to take her hours to do up her make-up for a look like this, but HQ just hands out disguises to be plastered on and ripped off over and over in seconds. 

The whole idea of a Commission agent’s costume is to appear like something that is both distinctive and not easily removable, so that any tails end up searching for obvious characteristics or conspicuous disguises rather than seeing what’s hiding in plain sight. Harley loves it - especially the colour-changing clothes. So many fun fashion opportunities! 

Still, she throws a hoodie over her halter top and a swishy skirt over the leather miniskirt, just to be extra safe. She stuffs the disguise into the front pocket, along with her retracted baton. 

See, Ives? She thinks to herself, much too guilty to be truly bitter. I’m being super careful.

“You’re an idiot, Punkin’,” he chuckles, chastising.

“Ah, shaddup!” she tosses back, brazenly cheery as she skips down the motel steps.

The back door is waiting for her as soon as she reaches the bottom, and she does a twirl before practically falling into it, giggling. The shadows are gone. They didn’t follow her out of the room, only he did. That means something, doesn’t it?

Was it really something that the kid was doing? Hell, Harley has no idea if that brat had actually said even half the things she’d heard spew out of his mouth. Maybe it was the whispers the whole time, messing with her. But then Ivy wouldn’t also have been freaking out, would she? And they wouldn’t have gone quiet after Harley left the room.

That must be it. That kid’s weird, supernatural powers must have been fucking with her somehow. Influenced her mind and emotions enough to trigger symptoms of Cosmic Madness. Not nearly as straight-forward as ‘inhumanly strong’ or ‘can move metal with his mind’, but it’s information they can work with. 

Obviously his magical cheat-code isn’t anything he can use to escape their capture, so they can always just kill him if they’re worried about him being a real threat.

“Suuuure ya can, Pooh,” he laughs, each word drawled out with heavy condescension. “Why don’t ya go on up there n’ kill ‘em right now, if you’re so confident?”

As always, she ignores him, opening the back door and skipping out into the alley beyond. It’s not as satisfying without the pigtails bouncing, but she tries to make up for it by swishing the skirt around. 

A laugh starts to bubble in her chest as she winds her way down the cluttered gap between the motel and the pub next to it. Some ‘fresh air’ this is, with so many overflowing dumpsters. Maybe further down the street she’ll find a prettier sight than molding food waste and rat-infested garbage bags. Unlikely, since they chose this place for its excessively seedy nature, but Harley likes to be an optimist.

Before she reaches the end of the alley, however, a figure rounds the corner directly into her path. A tall, tanned, scruffy man, sporting several large tattoos and a couple mean-looking scars across his face and collar. He’s wearing a greasy muscle shirt and his sleezy grin is embarrassingly smug about the oh-so-imposing build it shows off as he leers over her. She can taste the beer wafting off of him from a foot away while he flashes a crooked, yellow-toothed grin.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ out so late?” he demands with unexpected coherence, far closer to a threat than a question. “Ya lost, gorgeous?”

Subtly reaching into her pocket with barely-contained giddiness, Harley feels her grin slowly stretch and stretch until it’s nearly as wide as his. Yes, her mind sings, a shrieking chorus of ravenous rejoicing. 

This is exactly what she needed - something to tear apart.

1997 (Present)

~ Damian ~

Despite his careful footing and practiced easing of the door, each step into the threshold is accompanied by the helpless groaning of floorboards and the grinding of rusted hinges. The dingy, claustrophobic space inside more closely resembles a splintering work shed than a motel lobby, but this is far from unusual for this district. Crime Alley is not exactly renowned for its decor.

Just as with the previous establishment, the only sign of life within comes from one visibly exhausted receptionist - a portly man is his mid-forties - who slumps heavily into his own arm which is propped up next to the still-smoldering ashtray on the simple, trash-littered desk. The man’s uniform shirt is coated with stains, and his hair is tousled into his bleary red-rimmed eyes as they blink lazily in Damian’s direction. He doesn’t even bother to lift his chin off of his palm, or feign any kind of welcome towards a newly-arriving prospective patron.

This, too, is entirely expected. Motel staff who take even basic interest in their clientele are not the ones maintaining any thriving careers around these parts. The previous receptionist had perked up right away when Damian had entered, and he’d almost walked out of there immediately. It will be an individual like this man - unshakably impassive and dead to the world - who the assassins will use as a cover. Damian is certain that whoever they vetted to guard their door will be long-practiced in the art of turning a blind eye, and nowhere near dumb enough to dare snitch, no matter which methods of persuasion he employs. But he doesn’t need a confession. Honest intel is irrelevant when all he needs is a single confirmation. 

Regardless of whatever years of hard-earned practice a man like this might have in hiding his reactions, Damian Wayne was raised by the World’s Greatest Detective. He knows exactly how to deliver his question in order to tease out the subtle difference between recognition and surprise. The subject’s guard will raise high and lock in place from the moment he starts his inquiry, but the last half of his phrase will distinctly be a shock to anyone other than the true witness to the crime. Their practiced impassiveness will give them away.

So, once again, he strides across the space in a few swift, determined steps, and leans over the desk directly into the haggard man’s space. A short huff of annoyance sends bitter smoke up Damian’s nostrils, but he only sneers and leans in closer. The man’s eyelids have dropped, a glaze washing over his expression as he tilts his weary head as far back as Damian will allow, raising a pointed brow. Lips drawn tight on a crooked line of distaste, jaw locked, squinting slightly in challenge - this is the guarded expression he means to maintain.

“Can I help ya?” the man asks, tone forcefully even, yet rich with impatience.

No fluctuation. So far, he assumes that he knows what Damian is after and is prepared to be unbudging. Time to see if he is correct in that assumption.

“In the past twenty-four hours, have you seen two women come by here together—” 

His tone is a low whisper, kept in the faux-casual air that one would be expecting from a simple bribe, but he switches just as the man opens his mouth to give an easy, neutral reply.

“—carrying a body?”

The effect is subtle but instant, and Damian stifles a hiss of frustration. The slight widening of the man’s eyes as he hesitates for a half-beat before shaking his head - blinding beacons of a man tripped off his guard.

“Ain’t seen nothin’ or no one like that, kid. Y’best move along,” he replies, smoothing back into his mask of indifference.

Barely holding back a curse, Damian spins on his heel and storms out of the musty lobby. Logically, this outcome should not be so upsetting. He is still making quick progress and easily narrowing down the potential locations that Timothy could be held in, but every dead end still feels like a colossal waste of time.

The hinges squeal harshly as he pushes through the door, not bothering with stealth this time. The street beyond is marginally darker than the motel’s interior, lit only by flickering street lamps, and the stench of smoke and waste is only slightly less offensive in the still, night air. 

Two steps onto the sidewalk, Damian catches a glimpse of shadowed motion from the alley immediately in front of him. Very few Crime Alley residents are stupid enough to wander the streets at this hour, so any sign of activity can only be bad news. He has already rescued one sorry drunkard from a knife-point mugging just between the first motel and this one, so he side-steps the alley and impatiently prepares to face a similar scenario.

Instead, he is greeted by a startled Richard, who apparently had the means, opportunity and inexplicable thought to don his entire Nightwing costume for this mission.

“Dami!” his brother exclaims, because he apparently has no sense of either espionage nor identity preservation. “Oh, thank god I found you!”

“Are you certain you trained under Batman?” Damian mutters in response, rolling his eyes as he steps further into the alley.

Wincing, Richard leans closer and drops to a whisper. “Ah, sorry- I was worried I wouldn’t in time. Any luck so far?”

With a flat stare, he replies, “Obviously not. My contact is watching the exits while I survey each motel. I was about to inform him that I am moving on to the third.”

“Maybe tell him to hide better,” Gordon’s voice suddenly echoes from his brother’s earpiece, cluttered with static. “He’s making the local muggers nervous.”

Apparently the woman had perfected that pet project that she had been working on. Damian peers a little closer at the sleek, black device as Richard tilts his head obligingly. An ear piece is certainly a far more convenient communication device than the radios that he and Jon share - he will have to request a pair of his own after this mission.

“Isn’t scaring off muggers a good thing?” Richard counters, clearly amused by both Gordon’s comments and Damian’s distractibility. “That’s kind of our job.”

“Normally, yes,” she replies testily. “But we don’t want the assassins who have Tim to smell trouble.”

In a single, swift motion, Damian snatches the radio from his belt, clicks it on and raises it to his mouth.

“Kent, you’re scaring the rats,” he growls.

Click. Another click, accompanied by heavy static and Jon’s hushed voice mumbling back: “…Dang it.”

Ignoring Richard’s snicker, he pushes the button again. “I’m moving to unit three now, with back up. Fall back.”

Static bursts through the speaker the instant he clicks off his end, Jon’s whispering voice half-chopped by the transition.

“-ait, who- which ones did you-?”

While he is distracted rolling his eyes, Richard leans over and grabs the hand that holds the receiver, clicking it on and bringing it close to his own mouth.

“We’ll handle it from here,” the audacious oaf assures Damian’s partner, looking far too pleased with himself. 

Then, to add insult to injury, Richard clicks the line closed after a final, sincerity-dribbled: “Thanks for looking after him.”

No force is restrained as Damian smacks his brother’s arm away, fixing him with a murderous glare. Unfortunately, due to their respective power sets, the blow causes more harm to his own fist than Richard’s wrist. His brother still pulls away obligingly, all innocent blinks that only peak his annoyance.

“Sorry,” Richard whispers, rather unapologetic, before switching to severe. “Babs caught sight of a suspicious figure heading northwest down—”

The fainter rush of static from the earpiece cuts him off as Gordon’s voice bursts through, tight and breathless.

“I see her! Turning south on the corner of Becker and Ross - she’s skipping,” she falls into a hiss for the last word, something deadly lacing her tone.

Jumping to action about three steps ahead of Richard, Damian swiftly ducks through the next alley and winds into the parallel street. Running the calculations with Ross Boulevard being two blocks over and intersecting with Becker Street approximately five hundred yards from his location, they can route the warehouse on Catherine Street and ambush the assassin from both sides. Richard will just need to flank her so Damian can stop any bullets she sends - he can’t catch what he can’t see coming, after all.

But before he can relay this, he faintly catches Gordon’s voice through the earpiece again.

“Wait. I lost visual… She must’ve slipped down the alley before Chester, but I don’t know if she went east or west…” she mutters through furious clicks and scrambled movement. “If she’s eastbound, you might just run into each other.”

“We’ll pursue with caution,” Richard replies, meeting Damian’s eyes like an order.

He stiffens instinctively, but nods his concession. They shift direction and take off through the cluttered alleys once more, anticipation brewing like a crackling storm. All of Father’s training pounds in his head over and over with each staccato beat of his heart, forcing his senses to their utmost alertness. Every detail of their passing surroundings is both perfectly crisp to his awareness and a blur to his mind. As soon as each mundane visual, each errant sound, smell and brush of wind is analyzed and assessed for threats, it is just as swiftly disposed of to conserve all immediate processing power. 

Father taught that survival instincts favour tunnel vision, so he was required to expand beyond that. Keep your eyes open, spinning on an axis, taking in every part of your environment without letting it overwhelm or distract you. One blink, and you miss your chance to stop the bullet in its path. 

It’s only a couple dozen footfalls before another burst of static interrupts the steady, if hurried rhythm, this time from Damian’s radio. The obnoxious volume of the burst in the otherwise achingly silent tension nearly prompts him to mute the device immediately, but he knows Jon well enough to withhold the urge. His partner would not risk contact without vital reason, especially not after being dismissed.

“Damian…” the man’s voice is low and taught, barely audible above the churning static. “I think I know where he is.”

The shock very nearly sends him tumbling over his own foot, but he catches himself against brick to halt the momentum and fumbles for the receiver. Richard shuffles to a stop behind him, but Damian has abandoned awareness for the moment.

“Report,” he demands breathlessly, for once grateful for Jon’s over-eagerness to speak on the line as he instantly comes through.

Until his partner’s words ring into his ears.

“There’s a body - in the alley of the next motel.”

For an unfathomable moment, a cold, devastating dread freezes over Damian’s every nerve. For one horrific infinity, all of his worst nightmares come true. His breath catches in his throat, his heart staggers, and he is so, so terribly small.

Jon must hear the sound, because it seems to snap through the static and prompt a desperate rush of strangled stammering. “O-oh, gosh, I-it’s not Tim! It’s- sorry, shoot, I didn’t- I should’ve…”

Damian’s next breath leaves him like a punch to the gut and he grips the receiver with enough force to crack it. None of the dread has dissipated, but he will let rage overpower it for now.

“Kent.”

“Right– Looks like a sleeping drunkard, killed as clean as the driver. I can see the motel’s back door from here.”

“The location would line up with our target’s path,” Gordon suddenly adds, following the conversation with impressive ease despite two layers of distortion and distance. “If she killed him on her way out.”

“Should we fall back?” Richard asks, his feet already inching down the path they just travelled. “If one assassin is out, then it’s a good time for a rescue.”

Where the hell is Todd? Damian holds back from barking, instead moving to follow Richard’s example of routing back to the motel. This would be the perfect time for the Robin with the instant travelling powers to be making himself useful, but apparently tripping through the infinite cosmos does a number on one’s sense of timing. He clicks on his radio to instruct Jon to stay alert and exactly where he is, but doesn’t get that far.

“Wait!” Gordon cautions them again, causing both men to coil up like cats ready to pounce. “I think– I think I see the other one.”

“The red-head?” Richard blurts pointlessly, but Damian speaks over him.

“Where?”

“South of Dixon, I just lost visual behind the casino.”

Eyes darting around, Damian draws out two daggers almost subconsciously, guiding them to float subtly on either side of him. Gordon’s sighting places the second assassin less than three hundred yards away, heading up basically the same path that he and Richard just took. And given that they lost sight of the first when she was also potentially closing in on their location, his instincts say they’ve been had. Richard seems to share the sentiment as he nimbly rushes to the nearest corner, peering around with barely a breath. As he pulls back, he signals Damian to follow him in the opposite direction, presumably to decrease their odds of running into the assassin.

Clicking his radio off as he crosses the distance, the teen goes to mute it and is once again jolted by sudden static.

“So they’re both away?” Jon whispers, his tone heavy with a foolhardy implication that immediately has Damian’s heart in his throat.

Nearly releasing his knives, he switches his own line back on with a desperate speed he already knows to be pointless. Jon may have muted him already, and won’t listen to argument regardless. But that unbearable, pooling dread is practically choking him at this point and it’s difficult to pay this logic any heed.

“Jon, no! Don’t–”

It is only thanks to Father’s training that these words are not his last. 

With his senses still on highest alert, Damian not only manages to catch the pop of a silenced bullet leaving its chamber, but locate its trajectory along the glowing, silver line of his power in the split second before it makes contact. This time his knives do drop as all the attention of his power is instinctively redirected towards the oncoming bullet to halt it in place. He is forced to deflect four more shots before the blades hit the ground.

Fortunately, Richard is also quick on his feet. Unfortunately, he is a reckless idiot who seems to believe he’s more bullet-proof than his metal-deflecting brother.

Instantly, he's forced to side-step his brother as the fool tries to put himself into the assassin’s line of fire - and consequently block Damian’s view. Thankfully, he only has to do this once before Richard takes the hint, but it does lead to a heart-stopping moment where he just barely pushes away a bullet that came less than an inch from his brother’s heart. 

They move together toward cover instead, Damian doing his best to fling the bullets backward, but barely managing to even redirect their course with his attention and power so divided. If she gave him even a breath between shots, he’d be able to simply wrench her guns away. She is aware of that, of course, and is far more prepared than her partner had been when he’d robbed her of the minigun.

In a sudden flurry of motion, Richard grabs the dumpster they’re ducking behind and abruptly hurls it at the assassin. It’s enough to shock her and Damian both, but he still tracks her movement as she jumps out of the way and behind the opposite corner.

The momentary respite leaves them with two options and no time to consider between them: tactical retreat, or reckless advance. Richard would surely favour the retreat, but with the second assassin still unaccounted for, Damian dislikes their odds either way. Their only chance to get the upper hand is to act fast and use every advantage to the fullest - something far more difficult to manage while on the defensive.

His decision is made before the dumpster crashes into the concrete, his feet already flying towards his concealed target. He ducks and rolls in time with the impact of the crunching metal, using it as cover while he seeks out her hiding place, and sends a knife flying blindly to either distract her or perhaps get lucky. For all he knows, she could assume that he only needs concentration, not visual, to direct his strike, and get sloppy.

It would have been far easier to spot her if she had still been wearing that ridiculous costume - bright reds and greens don’t exactly blend into the shadows - but flesh catches the light almost as distinctly. He expects to stare down the barrel of her second pistol, but instead her hand flings a larger blur in his direction. If not for the rings of glowing silver highlighting the object’s metallic workings, Damian could have assumed it was a rock. 

Analysis flashes like lightning through his mind - The shape of the glowing lines indicate some type of grenade, likely a smoke bomb due to proximity. He is forced to act before processing seemingly superfluous details such as Richard’s sudden appearance directly parallel to the hurtling device, or the subtle, transparent mask now affixed over the assassin’s nose and mouth.

As soon as his powers push at the device, attempting to fling it back into the assassin’s face, a click and a sputtering hiss floods the radius with thick puffs of sickly green. 

Everything moves far too slowly after that.

Blackness. Hot, sluggish weight. It feels as though Damian’s body is buried under a thousand blankets, and it’s far too difficult to parse out why.

Something is deeply wrong - that much is clear. There’s an awful dread eating at his core, chewing through his intestines like a frantic reminder, but it’s so muted by exhaustion.

Is someone calling for him?

He should call back. Father taught them to whistle, one sign for all clear and one for distress. This… seems like distress, doesn’t it? 

The sound shocks him even as it leaves his own lungs. For some reason, he didn’t think he’s manage it. Because of the heaviness. Because of the… slow.

“Wow, still conscious, huh?” Someone asks, rhetorical and clearly amused.

He wants to scoff in offense. Of course he is conscious - he was trained by Batman! They all learned to resist… 

…Is that what happened?

“Hmm…” the voice above him hums, suddenly closer. “We do need a new hostage… That nasty party trick of yours is definitely inconvenient, but you are much smaller than that one…”

A spike of alarm just barely pierces the heavy haze of whatever he’s been drugged with and Damian grits his teeth, panting desperately. He can’t move a muscle, can’t wrench his eyes open, can barely keep his thoughts together for long enough to process the revelation. But he heard her, and he remembers the source of that dread.

“What…” he rasps, scarcely parting his leaden lips as the words tear out of him. “…have you done… with Timothy?”

All he receives in response is another ominous hum and a condescending pat on the head.

“Night-night, kid.”

1997 (Present)

~ Jason ~

This is taking too long. Keeping out of sight and ensuring that he only blinks where he can see is forcing Jason to travel much slower and more roundabout than he’d like, and it’s quickly draining his resolve to do so. 

How long did he delay already with Cass? Twenty minutes? A cab ride from the manor to Crime Alley took half that, Jason was intimately familiar. But now blinking from his sister’s apartment has already cost him seven more precious minutes, and he hasn’t even made it to the right area yet.

Can’t be everywhere, can’t be everywhere… Jason could scratch his own eyes out from the impatience.

“Tough luck finding us without them,” Cassie snorts, lifting onto the tip of one foot and twirling gracefully in the foreboding darkness of achingly familiar streets.

His eyes catch on her image, momentarily distracted by the dizzying pirouette. He’s never hallucinated her in different outfits before - all of them always appear exactly as he saw them last. But suddenly, her long hair and bangs are neatly pinned into a bun atop her head and she’s spinning in her snow-white ballerina uniform.

It feels almost like a memory come to life, one that he hears echoing. He gapes at her, transfixed, and feels his hand reach out. Then her eyes meet his, somehow in crystal-focus through the blurring motion, and an uncanny chill snaps him to his senses.

“Damn it,” he mutters, jerking away and pointedly fixing his eyes further down the alley.

It’s likely because he saw her again - the real her. Or because he jumped through time again. Maybe the rest of them will start changing, too.

“How could they change, Jay?” she laughs, the sound distorting and muffling as he blinks through space. “They’re dead!”

Fuck, if only he’d gotten his hands on a dose of the serum before Slade upended everything in his face. He’s deteriorating way too quickly and he can’t afford this much faltering. Not when Ivy and Quinn are involved. Not when his family is on the line.

The sight of the Rest Stop motel greets him like a slap in the face, spurring him to action. Another blink sends him stumbling, breathless, into the coarse brick of the building’s outer wall. Swinging his head back and forth, Jason scans the darkness with muttered curses. 

He made it, now he just needs to find the others - somewhere in the endless, pitch-black, crime-laden, befuddling alleyways of Gotham’s least-maintained neighbourhood. 

God, he misses the communicators from HQ. He should’ve asked Barbara if she had anything similar before putting himself in such a stupid situation like having no idea where his loved ones are while they’re in imminent danger.

“They say the definition of insanity…” Cassie’s mockery abruptly fades as Jason trips over his own foot, nearly face-planting into the gutters in shock.

Her voice washes out because a sharp, shrill whistle just faintly reaches his ears. He barely catches it, almost dismissing it as meaningless birdsong, but he knows that song. That’s a distress call - Damian’s distress call.

Fuck! Jason lets instinct guide his blink, trying to travel through space towards a sound rather than a visual, and is immediately kicked in the teeth with a punishing glitch.

“Fuck–” he chokes, sputtering blood from his nose and mouth as his whole body collides with a different brick wall.

Fuck fuck fuck shit– He knew better than to try that, but his panic got the better of him before logic could step in. How has he not learned basic shit like this by now? What, did his brain revert to fifteen years old, too?

With an ugly cough, Jason pushes himself off the wall and tries again - this time running calculations based off of the echo of Damian’s call, like someone who’s actually used his own powers before. It’s nearly impossible to process anything besides the fact that his little brother is calling for help, so he opts to guesstimate.

The blink leaves him nauseous and light-headed - utterly humiliating symptoms for such light use of his powers - but he successfully lands in the center of four intersecting alleys just north of Dixon without blood or vomit. 

He instantly sees red anyway, locking onto the sight of Ivy in a haze of green smoke, her back to him as she crouches over the prone forms of two of his brothers. 

Bare hands outstretched with violent fury, he’s blinking across that short distance before a single other thought can cross his mind. His arms and legs wrap around her neck and torso with feral intensity, pinning her arms and locking her in a chokehold that bears the force of both of his forearms onto her windpipe. She jerks backward with a lot more freedom than he’s accustomed to, given that his ferocity is no longer proportional to his mass in this scrawny, child body. 

But he holds firm, squeezing tighter as he growls in her ear. “Listen up, ya fuckin’ venomous bitch!”

It’s hard to tell, but she’s sneering, sputtering and choking as she struggles against him. The oxygen mask that was previously protecting her from her own gas is trapped within Jason’s chokehold - she’d likely pulled it down to monologue at his brothers. All Commission agents are decently resistant to their own chemicals, but this means that she’s been breathing it in for longer than he has, and now he’s depriving her of oxygen. She won’t stay conscious much longer, so he’d better be quick.

“Tell me where the fuck ya took my brother ‘fore I tear out your girlfriend’s spine n’ make ya fuckin’ choke on it!”

One of her elbows manages to slip free of his pinning legs and she instantly leverages the unbalancing motion to grasp a handful of his curls and twist, jerking her arm as she rolls. His grip weakens from the pain and she uses that to free her other hand and send it up under his ribs in a forceful push. The result is Jason getting thrown handedly forward over her shoulders, his ass slamming into the concrete before he manages to roll with the impact. 

He almost blinks out of harm’s way, but stops himself. A bruised ass is worth the potential remaining advantage of Ivy still not knowing for certain what his powers are.

“That work better when you were a beefcake?” she taunts, slightly slurred as he leaps back onto his feet.

“It woulda worked better if I’d slit your fuckin’ throat, but I’m tryin’ to be pragmatic here,” he spits back, shaking off the dark spots creeping into his vision.

She managed to re-affix her oxygen mask when they broke apart, so Jason can’t rely on a war of attrition any longer. Not that his own general resistance would have ever held up against the assassin who made the gas, but asphyxiation had been helping his chances.

“My god, Red,” she laughs, mask fogging as she shakes her head. “Just what did you have to pull to wind up like that?”

His eye twitches, hands hanging in the air with a hesitation shared by his opponent. They stare each other down for a half-beat, assessing. He now stands between her and Damian, but he’s equal distance from Dick as she is. Jason has maybe twenty-five seconds before he joins his brothers in unconsciousness, and Ivy would prefer to drag this out until that happens rather than rashly engaging a fellow agent one-on-one. She still doesn’t know what he can do. 

She doesn’t know, but she’s cautious. He can use that.

As soon as his hand moves, hers follows suit with equal swiftness and precision. They both draw their weapons, aim the barrels true, and hesitate. A stalemate of sorts.

A smile spreads behind the fog of Ivy’s mask, her green eyes glinting. “We both know your shot won’t kill me, Red,” she asserts smoothly, tilting her head to one side. “Wanna bet on mine?”

Twenty seconds. Jason’s grip flexes on the gun, teasing the trigger.

“Who says I’m aimin’ to kill ya?” he retorts, longing for the deep voice that puberty had once granted him. “I know Slade wants me alive, so I’d say we’re even.”

He doesn’t know that. At least, he doesn’t know that Ivy was told to bring him alive, but he hopes it’s a decent enough bluff regardless.

“I didn’t say who I was aiming for.”

Ten seconds.

Cold sweat and blazing rage trickle down Jason’s spine and all thought of hesitation is abandoned. He pulls the trigger before she can dare to move her own barrel, at the same time blinking right into the space he’s been calculating for the entire stand-off. She pulls her own trigger exactly in time with him, mirroring his motions as her tactic to avoid losing their impromptu duel. But that makes her actions perfectly predictable - and entirely calculable. 

He blinks the exact moment that both triggers activate, closing the distance so that both guns are facing each other point-blank just as the bullets leave their respective barrels. Only Ivy’s barrel has a silencer, so her bullet hasn’t left her gun quite yet when it crashes into Jason’s.

Dropping his own gun, he grasps her wrist in both hands just as she recoils from the shockwave, twisting until it snaps and tearing the weapon away as soon as it does. 

Nine.

She reacts quickly, sweeping his ankle and jamming the thumb of her free hand at his eye. Luckily their consecutive tumble to the ground impedes her accuracy enough to save it from being gouged out, but the jab still hurts like hell.

In a well-practiced recovery move, Jason blinks his falling form a few feet up and backward to straighten out and stick the landing. 

Eight.

But he overshoots - still calculating for a six-foot body - and the scramble jolts his ankles and nearly costs him the stolen weapon. He’s forced to blink again as she swipes his own discarded gun off the ground and fires.

Seven.

A sudden glitch ends up assisting his kick when it causes his leg to both faze briefly through Ivy’s arm and jolt slightly forward in the middle of the swing, resulting in him not only disarming her but also smashing an unexpected boot directly into her face. It breaks the mask clean off with a meaty crack of cartilage.

It was still a glitch, however, and the following implosion in his skull and rush of blood from his nose immediately nullifies any advantage gained. She easily sends him flying face-first towards the concrete.

Six… No, the glitches definitely cost him a few seconds. Any more blinks could instantly rip away his remaining consciousness, but kissing the ground at his current speed definitely will, so he has no choice.

The blink feels terribly sluggish, though it’s the fastest anyone could ever move. Blackness suffocates his vision, eating at the edges and threatening to force him under. It’s only because he’d managed to glance back at the twice-discarded gun while being tossed that Jason pulls off this jump at all - Lord knows he’s not in any mind to run calculations at this point.

All strategy is abandoned, replaced by that stubborn instinct to survive. Grabbing, aiming and firing are the same motion - same breath. His target was her skull, but he hadn’t raised the weapon high enough. The important thing was that he shot first.

He hits her gut, just a few feet shy of point-blank. That shot would kill most - it would’ve killed Jason. It doesn’t kill Ivy.

Her blood spatters and her green eyes flash as they fly wide, their vibrancy waning. The gun is kicked from his weakened grasp as he fires again. Choking, sputtering scarlet, she crawls away from him. She’s still breathing in the gas. With the serum healing her, she’ll pass out right along with him unless she gets away from it.

She’s running. He beat her, just barely.

Now he just has to…

He doesn’t get to complete that thought before the blackness claims him.

Chapter Text

1997 (Present)

~ Dick ~

“What’s the matter, chum?” An old, soft comfort murmurs low and gravelly in his ear. “It’s time for little robins to hit the nest, isn’t it?”

A protest bubbles up despite the unfathomable weariness, and somewhere in this drifting, he voices it.

“No? Not sleepy yet?” his father chuckles, warm arms wrapping his body and lifting him further into the endless drifting. 

“Well, it’s certainly Bruce Wayne’s bedtime, so maybe you can help me get some rest.”

That sounds far more tempting, for sure. Someone else’s sake… That’s why he can’t fall asleep, right? He can’t because… other people need protecting.

“No, no, chum… you leave the protecting to me.” 

Gentle, familiar fingers card soothingly through his hair, over and over and over. But you’re just a man, Dad, Dick hears himself say. You don’t even have powers like us, yet you won’t even let us help you save the world. 

“You’re kids,” Bruce protests, as he always did. “That’s not your job and it never will be, if I have any say in it.” 

A stab of guilt pierces the haze of warmth, stirring something. His own voice is young and loud and bitter when he hears himself again, reverberating through that tremor. Well, good luck with that, Bruce! Good luck teaching a bunch of kids to control their powers without letting us use them to save people! 

He really had said that to his father, hadn’t he? The depths of terror and devastation in Bruce’s eyes are fresh in his mind. That was the moment their father realized that he truly couldn’t stop his children from risking their lives. That he couldn’t protect them the way he wanted to, because despite everything, in the end, The Batman was only human. 

Dick had promised to protect them, too. He remembers the rage of feeling underestimated, and the stubborn pride over every successful patrol. But one loss was all it took. One failure, and nothing could make up for that again.

It should have stopped him in his tracks, forced him to admit that Bruce was right. It only drove him on, festering in the splinters of his pride and cauterizing every bleeding wound with rage.

Until it was too late.

…And now he’s failing again, isn’t he? Because this - the comfort of his father’s embrace, lovingly coaxing him to sleep and whispering impossible promises - isn’t real. He hasn’t known Bruce’s comfort for years, and he will never know it again.

This is a lie, crafted by his own selfish mind to cope with another loss and another failure.

“I’m so sorry, my son…” the fabricated image of his father whispers, his voice cracked with a familiar grief, before he and all his comforts vanish completely.

The drifting seems to fix in place, dousing everything into blackness and an incomprehensible weight. 

Dick… is not used to the feeling of heaviness. He seldom encounters anything actually difficult for him to lift, the weight of bodies and boulders as equally inconsequential for his powers to handle as a stack of books. And so it is utterly, unfathomably wrong to find himself helplessly pinned beneath a force so feeble as simple gravity.

His thoughts feel equally weighed-down, churning with painful slowness as he struggles to make sense of what is happening to him. All he knows for certain is that it’s nothing good.

A constant cacophony of noise is assaulting his skull and the rapid thumping of his heart keeps tearing him back from the brink of unconsciousness. He has an important reason to stay present. He… 

Damian. The distress call. Dick had tried calling for his brother, and that had been the reply. Someone else - Barbara is calling him. She’s screaming. He has to… do something.

Whatever he inhaled in that cloud of green must be ridiculously strong to have left him like this - and god, Damian had inhaled it, too. Even before the training Dick has always been quicker than most to shrug off the effects of sedatives, but they also tend to hit him twice as hard at first. Bruce said it was something to do with his metabolism. 

So if he’s still feeling it this intensely… he must still be breathing it in. Wonderful. It took his brain twenty years to arrive at such an obvious conclusion, even while his body is fully aware of how dire this situation is. 

What if the gas is toxic as well as sedating? No, surely it would’ve killed him by now… 

Everything is so loud and painful and heavy. He tries to call for Damian again, but he’s barely able to move his jaw, especially as it seems to be pressed harshly into cold ground. 

Barbara’s voice bursts in his ear once more, somehow overpowering the deafening ringing and the crack of what are definitely gunshots.

“Dick! Please, answer me! Say something!”

She sounds more terrified than he’s ever heard before - strained and desperate and tearful. He hates it. She doesn’t deserve to feel like that, he needs to fix it…

But everything is so heavy.

All his effort barely manages a small whimper, so weak that he barely hears it himself. The gasp that splits his ear tells him that it still reaches her anyway - right before another pair of gunshots drown her out.

Panic clutches his chest and once again he tries and fails to lift even a finger. Damian. 

Is his baby brother laying in a pool of blood beside him? Has he truly let another one of his siblings be gunned down right in front of him? He’s supposed to protect them. 

How pathetic can one man be? He’s supposed to have super strength and he can’t even push himself off the damn ground when his baby brother is in peril.

“God fucking damn it—” Barbara’s distorted voice is hissing, then all at once it’s the only thing he knows. 

“I heard a rumour you got away from there!” 

The darkness bleeds to white, then flashes red-hot as Dick’s legs fumble beneath him.

“Dick!” 

The static and distortion has returned, along with the uncanny heaviness and sluggish awareness and overwhelming panic. He’s falling onto his knees, gasping for breath. It’s so bright, so loud, so exhausting - but he can move.

“Please, can you hear me?” Barbara cries again from the earpiece, three seconds from complete breakdown.

“I’m back…” he finally pants, blinking as rapidly as his uncooperative eyelids will allow as he tries to take in his black-speckled surroundings.

His hands press into the curb of some sidewalk. A street lamp flickers in rhythm with his pounding headache, intermittently lighting up a cracked, empty, asphalt road and a cluster of nondescript storefronts. Nothing immediately recognizable, and he can’t make out any street signs. 

How far did he…?

“Oh, thank fuck—” Barbara breathes, each syllable additional grease for the churning gears inside his brain. “Are you hurt? Where’s Damian?”

Shit— Scrambling to his clumsy feet, Dick whirls around and sprints blindly back the way he presumably came.

“Why…” he huffs, barely catching himself on the nearest wall as he trips over nothing. “…Didn’t you tell me to grab him?”

Panic grinds far more venom into his tone than he’d intended, but he can hardly focus on anything other than moving one foot in front of the other. The fog is finally clearing, but it’s still so torturously slow. What if he gets there too late? What if he already is?

“Because I had no idea what was happening, Dick!” Barbara snaps, and he winces at the sudden volume. “Even commanding you to move was a terrible risk! All I heard were gunshots— and you still didn’t tell me if you’re injured!”

The next alley is slightly more familiar, but it’s still at least a block away from where he’d last seen Damian. How much time had passed under Barbara’s rumour? Had his body been sprinting, or had he walked robotically?

“M’fine… sedated with gas… wearing off…” he grunts, forcing his legs to move incrementally faster. “Should’ve… told me to get him…”

“If he’s in active danger, sending you to him as a blind zombie is possibly the dumbest thing I could’ve done!”

He pushes off a dumpster in lieu of replying, frustrated with how weak and uncooperative his body is still being. He should be shrugging this off by now, but he continues to drag his own limbs like he’s two seconds from passing out. 

How had Damian managed to stay conscious? Those gunshots couldn’t have all been from the assassin, they…

“Jason…” Dick gasps, nearly collapsing as he catches sight of the small, crumpled form of his Little Wing dribbling blood over the filthy concrete.

“Jason is there?” Barbara blurts, strangled and breathless once more. “Is he…?”

Dick has never wished so badly that he had his brother’s power instead as he hobbles agonizingly slowly across the distance. He can just barely make out the shape of Damian laying what seems like an impossible distance further away and nearly screams. 

The ice in his chest triples as he realizes that every step is getting exponentially heavier again. The damn gas is still there.

Catching the wall with a dry heave, he works his shaking lips desperately. He can’t let it take him again, not when his brothers need him!

“Babs,” he pleads, slowly rolling his head in what was meant to be a furious shake. “Tell me to get ‘em.”

“Wh- you see them both?” He can hear her sit up straight, knocking something on her desk. “Wait- do they- are they injured? We don’t—”

“Barbara,” he grits out, a wave of weakness nearly taking him to the ground. “I can’t… the gas…”

“Shit,” she curses, releasing a shaky breath through nervous muttering and shuffling. “Okay, okay… shit.”

He opens his mouth to urge her on, but cuts off as soon as her uncannily-crisp Voice echoes into his mind.

“I heard a rumour you… carefully picked up Jason and Damian carried them securely out of the range of the gas.”

Gratitude floods him along with the foggy white until he’s once again jolted back with a violent flash of blinding pain. His arms are full this time as he stumbles over himself, but he doesn’t dare relax his grip. Instead, he twists through the fall, clutching his brothers protectively to his chest as his back collides roughly with the ground. 

The air punches from his lungs on impact, and three voices react immediately. Barbara pipes up again, but Damian also lets out a worried grunt and Jason gasps, both of their hands twitching to grip him even through unconsciousness. He loses his breath all over again.

“Dick! Are you back? Did it work?” her voice rattles as he flounders in his attempt to sit up.

The fact they’re even capable of moving their hands must mean the gas is already wearing off, and Dick could cry. Damian groans again, his face scrunching in a way that would be adorably grumpy if everything about this scenario wasn’t completely terrifying. 

Adjusting his hold, Dick shifts his baby brother until he’s tucked against his side, then gingerly, but hurriedly, slides Jason down from his shoulder to lay on his lap instead. Quickly scanning him over, he allows himself a breath of relief. Jason’s bandages are all ruffled and soaked through with blood and sweat, but the source of the dribbling scarlet is only his nose - he wasn’t shot or bludgeoned or stabbed, he just pushed his powers too far.

“They’re okay…” he wheezes out, assuring himself as much as Barbara. “Waking… How long…?”

“I lost you on comms for about forty-five seconds before I rumoured you,” she answers, understanding his question before he even managed to get the words out. “Then I got you back a little over a minute after that, then you ran back, then I lost you again for almost two minutes. So they were exposed to the gas for about… two minutes longer than you were.”

Her words wash over him as he stares helplessly down at his brothers’ sleeping faces. It’s so strange for the oldest and youngest of his little siblings to be practically the same size in his embrace. Heck, if Jason’s body is actually the same age as he was when he left, then right now they’re both fifteen. Their faces still have baby fat, yet Jason is riddled with blood and scars and Damian just spent a whole minute desperately deflecting bullets before they landed. 

God, how had he ever convinced Bruce to let them patrol? They were all even younger than this when they started going out into the night with Batman. It had taken every physical and emotional tactic in the man’s arsenal to keep them from joining him before age twelve, and Dick knows he and Jason still pushed those boundaries frequently. 

The memory of that terror in his father’s eyes returns fresh to his mind, suddenly palpable, and he curses his own young ego for perhaps the billionth time.

I’m so sorry, Dad… Blinking back tears, Dick forced himself to focus on checking his brothers over, rattling off a medical report to Barbara just so the two of them are doing something.

“I can feel my strength returning, so I can carry them back to—” Dick freezes, abruptly remembering where they are and, more importantly, why.

“Babs, where are the assassins?” His voice feels detached from him as he speaks, as if echoing through a tunnel.

Hers immediately breaks. “I… I haven’t seen either one since I first lost visual,” she admits, the weight of it hanging over them with even more force than the gas.

No. Dick whips his head around, staring helplessly down the alley leading back towards the string of motels. No no no no—

“Dick, please, you can’t!” Barbara suddenly begs, seeming to sense his movements as he scrambles to his feet. “You can’t face both of them alone! They’ll kill you!”

“They’ll kill Tim!” he wheezes in reply, searching wildly for some place to hide two unconscious teenagers.

“You don’t know that! He’s a hostage! They won’t kill him unless you push them to!”

“You don’t know that,” he retorts, hurriedly setting his brothers down beside a dumpster, tucked out of sight.

They both groan, eyes fluttering, but it’s Damian’s sudden grip on his arm that makes him pause. 

One green eye twitches open, glazed with terror as his baby brother whispers out: “Jon…”

Dick’s eyes fly wide, remembering all at once the teen’s detective friend and the last message he’d spoken over the radio, not ten minutes prior.

The realization hits him just in time for the faint popping of distant gunshots to flood into the quiet, night air.

1997 (Present)

~ Tim ~

Come on, come on… Eyes screwed shut and fists clenched tight, Tim focuses with all his remaining will and might on the tether between him and his sister. A large, frigid pulse shudders through it as he tries once again to push his power out to her. 

He can feel the slight tingle of numbness at her touch, and wills it to become something real. Even just the incorporeal bobby-pin from her hair would be enough to manifest. But despite almost five minutes of non-stop attempts, the results remain the same.

“I swear to god I can do this,” he grumbles through the wet, loosening gag as he rides out another particularly violent shiver.

It’s hard to tell which of the shivers are withdrawals and which are from the cold at this point. The temperature of the vacant motel room has seemingly dropped several degrees since he’d put his plan into action, causing the metal of the cuffs and folding chair he’s bound by to bite into his skin like ice. And so far he’s got nothing to show for it besides numb appendages and a building, frosty pain in the center of his chest.

“Allow us, Ambassador…” Frank - the decrepit wraith in the sodden plaid and overalls - chimes in again, his ephemeral form swirling a few inches closer. “We shall do as you Command…”

“Hey,” he snaps warningly, glaring at the imaginary line on the floorboards that the eager ghost is once again crossing. “My ‘Command’ was six feet, wise-guy! Back it up!”

The wraith reluctantly complies, gliding back in line with the others. Stephanie leans around the back of the folding chair from where she crouches in front of his cuffed wrists, frowning up at him in concern.

“Maybe those guys are draining your power too much?” she suggests, plausibly quiet enough for the wraiths to not overhear. “Do you sense any way to… dismiss them?”

A weighty sigh heaves from Tim’s lungs as his head rolls back. “All I sense is this fucking hangover…” he groans, teeth grinding involuntarily. “And increasing signs of frostbite…”

With a sharp breath, his sister turns on the other ghosts and snaps, “Hey, uglies! If you want your precious ‘Ambassador’ to get out of here alive, how ‘bout you quit sapping his power like parasites!”

Instantly, all five wraiths fix their hollowed glares on her, brimming with equal parts hostility and hunger. Tim stiffens, but they don’t make any moves - they just stare. Eerily.

“Tale as old as time,” he sighs, one shoulder spasming. “They want what you have…”

Whirling back around, Steph’s face pinches up strangely as she meets his gaze. “Tim, we’re running out of time.”

Eyes falling shut, he releases a shaky breath. “Kind of low on options, here, Stubby…”

He hears her subtly choke up at the childhood nickname and mildly regrets the slip. Getting all sentimental now will only make her feel more like he’s definitely going to die very soon, and the more true that might be, the less he wants her to feel it. She isn’t responsible for this, and no matter how hard she still tries, she can’t be the one to save him anymore. 

Why did he waste so much energy on trying to use his powers? They’ve literally never been useful for him even one time. He should’ve tried harder to dislocate his wrist, or maybe he should just start screaming—

“Someone approaches…” Garland, the almost completely decayed wraith, suddenly mutters.

Shit. Tim swallows dry, avoiding the terror in Stephanie’s eyes. He fucked it all up, and this might just be it.

“A stranger…” Annabeth croaks, drifting curiously towards the door.

Lifting his head in shock, he stares dumbly at the wraiths crowding the far wall. Another swirls almost excitedly by the handle, turning back towards Tim with a sunken, toothless smile.

“He holds keys…” the wraith rasps, gesturing beyond the door.

Heart skipping a beat, Tim shares a look of hope and disbelief with Steph. Who aside from his captors could be coming to his room with the keys? Was the front desk worker struck by guilt and a foolish sense of bravery? Or has one of his brothers finally found him? It wouldn’t be Jason, or he’d already be in the room by now. It doesn’t seem typical of any of them to bother collecting the actual keys from the front, but then again they probably needed to shake the guy down for the room number anyway and—

With barely a clink of metal, the door pushes open to reveal a face that Tim is about eighty percent sure he’s never seen before. Striking blue eyes, short-cropped black hair, built like your average gym rat and poised like a cop trying to be subtle - Tim feels his stomach flip in horror. Was he tracked down by Gotham PD before his family?

“Tim—” the guy breathes out, hurriedly scrambling across the room as those blue eyes scan him over. “I’m gonna get you outta here, okay?”

Something stirs in Tim’s mind as the man pries his gag off and quickly moves onto the cuffs, muttering assurances all the way in that distinctly Kansas accent.

“We should have a few minutes ‘fore those ladies show back up, so hold on…” 

The stranger fiddles with what are clearly professional lockpicks, jamming them into the cuffs with amateur precision. “Damian sent me,” he adds, a little distractedly.

Tim is instantly engulfed in cold sweat, the pieces finally clicking together. This is that detective in the GPD who kept guiding every drug bust in Tim’s proximity - the one that the demon brat always pretended to have no involvement with. This man has probably saved his life more times than he can count, and he’s about to pay the ultimate price for it.

“You have to get out of here,” Tim croaks desperately, visions of every worst-case scenario playing rapid-fire behind his eyes.

“We will,” the saintly idiot replies, still fighting with the lock. “I’m getting you out…”

“No,” he pleads, lungs filling with dread as he watches the wraiths begin to glide and swirl with matching restlessness. “Please, just go before—”

Click. The cuffs slacken around his wrists and the detective pulls them off before his sluggish nerves even process the sensation. Heart in his throat, Tim goes to leap out of the chair, but stops short at the stubborn grip of the zip-ties still affixed to his ankles. 

Dread doubling, he lurches over and pries at one restraint with horribly trembling fingers as the other is swiftly slashed by the man’s keys. Unsurprisingly, the keys also free his other ankle well before he comes close to managing it himself, and so he wastes no time grabbing his saviour’s arm and dragging them both towards the exit.

But he freezes in place the moment he catches sight of the wraiths.

“She returns…” Annabeth whispers, staring sightlessly past the still-ajar door.

“Shit—” the curse is torn involuntarily from his lips as he rapidly redirects his path, using all strength and urgency to pull the other man away from the door.

Thankfully, his saviour takes the hint and scrambles along without resistance. Unfortunately, with death just around the corner, every action taken at this point feels barely shy of utterly futile. Backing into a corner is only slightly more rational than sprinting directly into the crossfire, but it buys them seconds at best.

Stop her stop her stop her— Tim has no idea if he’s even successfully communicating with the wraiths, let alone commanding them in any way that they can actually comply with, but he pushes all of his will into the frantic mantra regardless. 

The detective is drawing a gun as they swiftly shuffle into the connecting room, but Tim would much prefer that he take a running leap at the far window. Insufficient size and obstructing glass notwithstanding, he still vastly favours those survival odds versus facing down the assassin in a shoot-out. The two curtained windows appear to be the only exits in the bedroom, and the only viable means of taking cover would appear to be either tucking behind the first of the two twin beds or ducking into the connecting bathroom.

His saviour opts for the bathroom, gun held at the ready as he watches for the assassin’s approach, and so Tim reluctantly splits off to dive for the bed.

Stop her stop her stop— The blast of gunshots swallows up all sound and thought, leaving only unfathomable cold. 

For one long, suspended moment, Tim is certain that he’s dead. Then he feels his knuckles bash into frosted metal, a stinging pain striking through the numbness enough to remind him that his limbs are still moving. 

The shots continue, relentless. The cold crawls up his throat, chilling his gasping breaths into mist as instinct drives him. He grasps the metal object - a large, silvery briefcase - in his hands and lifts it protectively over his head as he curls up as small as possible behind the bed frame. 

Even as he raises the case, he nearly loses his grip immediately as sharp pings reverberate through it from bullets meeting their mark. Bullets that should’ve embedded into his skull. 

Scrambling desperately to keep hold of his one and only shield, Tim’s fingers cling to whatever friction they can find, squeezing tight over what he assumes to be the latch  - right before a bullet skids perilously close, drilling straight through a chunk of his finger and whipping past his ear. He barely registers the showering sparks and blinding flash as the impact jolts him backward, but instead of rolling over the ground, he finds himself in a sudden free-fall.

Stomach flipping from the weightlessness, Tim tumbles head over heels into a seemingly endless, blindingly blue abyss, clutching the bulky briefcase to his chest like an anchor in a storm. Something feels strangely familiar about the strange, warping light that suddenly engulfs him, and he briefly wonders if this is once again the afterlife before the pieces connect - it looks exactly like that split through the air that Jason had tumbled out of on the night of the funeral.

Somehow, Tim has wound up falling into a portal torn through time.

There are a million things he should be pleading for at this moment, but really he just prays that ghosts can time-travel.

1997 (Present)

~ Jason ~

Exhaustion is bone-deep, pressing against his eyelids with the weight of twin boulders. A pulsing ache travels over and over from the center of his skull to the base of his spine, perpetually reminding him of how badly he fucked up.

Someone is with him, tending to his wounds with familiar disapproval.

“How many times have I told you I can handle things myself?” Rose mutters through her ministrations, raising a brow as she threads a stitch none-too-gently into his shoulder.

About as many times as I told you ‘so can I’, he counters gruffly, trying not to melt into her touch. It gets harder to resist as she shakes her head, lips curling into that infamous wry grin of hers.

“Yeah, nice one, smartass,” she drawls, pulling another stitch through. “You lost your helmet, you know. You could’ve been shot in the head.”

That should terrify him. He’s sacrificed everything else just to keep hold of his memories and whatever scraps of himself still remain - he cannot afford a death like that. And yet, in this moment, he’s more focused on how much that seems to terrify her. 

Rose always kept her emotions close to the chest, hidden from scrutiny as much as he tried to hide his own. And even if she let it slip at times, he knew he couldn’t trust it. She is Slade’s daughter. The bastard obviously planted the two of them together for the exact purpose of slipping through Jason’s guard. They both know they can’t truly trust each other.

He kept her at arms length for so long for that reason, but she somehow always manages to draw him in. Her dark eyes study him with a care that feels so genuine, even though he knows she would turn on him at the first opportunity. After all, they both have a mission. The inevitable betrayal will be nothing personal for either of them, while the way they look at each other certainly is.

What? He teases, too warm not to snatch up the bait. Ya worried ‘bout me or somethin’?

Snipping the string of his stitch, she rolls her eyes and pats his bare chest with just enough sass to spike pain through his ribs.

“I think you’re the only one pretending not to care here, Jason,” she retorts, flashing teeth as she leans close and holds his gaze.

The stare is as intense and piercing as it is electric, burning through him like a wildfire. Yet, what strikes him most is the gentle admission - she is worried. She does care.

She’s close enough for him to smell the sweat glistening her skin, plastering the fringes of her pale lavender wig to her temples. For some reason, she merely tied the long, heavy wig back instead of removing it and letting her natural, black roots breathe. It’s obviously sweltering in here, given how much they’ve stripped down. He can make out the whitened lines of the dozens and dozens of scars decorating her arms and torso that peek out from her black tank top. All of his own lay bare to match.

He remembers this heat. It was the first moment that he’d been perfectly sober when he let himself slip - 1957, Ecuador, an infiltration job gone wrong. He’d ignored her orders and blinked into the fray, barely getting her out of there and narrowly avoiding at least three headshots in the process.

He remembers… so this isn’t really happening.

“Not anymore, it isn’t,” she scoffs, far too bitter to be teasing.

Jason winces, and abruptly realizes that his eyes are firmly closed - still pinned beneath that twin-boulders weight. His body is being faintly jostled in someone’s hold. He’s dreaming.

An impact jolts dully through him, disorienting his senses as a faintly wounded sound reaches his ears. His fingers clench protectively as a groan slips from his throat, shattering the vision further.

“Aw, I knew you’d dream of me…” Rose murmurs, brushing the hair from his face even as her eyes scream hurt and vitriol. 

But he can’t see her eyes. They’re not real - none of this is. He’s reliving a memory, come alive to keep him lulled into a false sense of security and— 

Ivy! This is the work of her sleeping gas. Jason must have passed out after fighting her, which means… 

Awareness bursts through the floodgates like an icy tsunami. Damian and Dick were already passed out in the gas, and Jason was still breathing it in when he fell. If they’re naturally regaining consciousness now, then it has to have been at least thirty minutes since the fight. There’s no chance Ivy would’ve taken longer than that to recover and make it back to wherever they’re keeping Tim, mortal wounds or not.

“They’ll kill Tim!” Dick’s voice suddenly exclaims at full volume into Jason’s ringing ear, perfectly mirroring his spiralling train of thought.

Barbara snaps something back that’s lost to static as Jason feels himself being abruptly deposited on the hard ground, pressed up against another warm body. All attempts to struggle or sit up are to no avail, the effect of the gas still too strong after pushing his powers like he did. 

Luckily, the faster his heart races, the quicker the gas will wear off. For once, Jason’s overwhelming panic attacks will be somewhat productive.

“You don’t know that,” Dick retorts, breathless as his hands pull away.

A desperate groan forces out of Jason’s throat, mirrored by the body next to him as it shifts. Is Damian somehow recovering quicker than he is? Damn those glitches, he can’t afford to let his brothers face those assassins alone again!

“…Jon…” his little brother’s voice suddenly rasps in his ear.

The name means nothing to Jason, but he has never heard the brat sound quite so afraid. Dick also seems aware of this person’s significance, if the ragged gasp he lets out is any indication. 

Whatever he was going to say, however, is interrupted by the unmistakable popping of erratically spraying gunfire, followed swiftly by equally wild return shots. At the sound, instincts turn his panic into a well-trained, rapid analysis, processing a dozen factors at once. No silencer on either gun, both rushed and imprecise, echoes indicating they’re coming from inside a building less than a hundred yards away. 

It’s incredibly difficult to run calculations when he doesn’t have any idea where he currently is, but he tries to anyway. If this is Quinn or Ivy, they’re being unusually sloppy. Could this be a bait?

Dick’s voice swims through the rising ring, his footsteps pounding away as the brat tries to wriggle off the ground next to Jason. Both of their movements are clumsy, their breathing laboured and ragged. The eldest may be on his feet, but none of them are fit for this.

“Which motel was it? Sunrise?” Jason just makes out the question from his brother’s rapidly fading echo and nearly weeps with gratitude.

While the statement is a terrible reflection on Dick’s perception skills at the moment, it’s exactly the information that he was sorely missing for his calculations. Roughly a hundred yards from Sunrise motel, an alley with a brick building and a dumpster - that’d be the passage just south of Dolores’ book store. His best bet is blinking to the west-most end of the hall where the shots rang from. He has to get this right as he can’t afford any more glitches.

He doesn’t bother trying to open his eyes or stand up, instead focusing all of his energy on building up the power to blink. The process is burning through the gas’ effect even faster than his racing heart is anyhow, so the efficiency is warranted.

With a sudden thump, Jason feels a hand curl into his pant leg. He hadn’t noticed Damian pull off the ground, but the proximity of his wheezing breaths would indicate that the kid fell back onto his knees in the effort.

“…Todd…?” he huffs out, strained and soft, as if he only just noticed his brother’s presence. “You… Wake up…”

Certain that the brat does not want to delay his progress, Jason just continues to focus on gathering his power rather than attempting to signal his brother that he is indeed awake. But the hand squeezes tighter through the fabric of his pants and Damian lets out a frustrated growl.

“Wake up, you… imbecile…” he chokes out, each inhale sharper and faster than the last.

The kid actually sounds like he’s crying when he suddenly snaps in a strangled rush: “What’s the point of your power… if you never make it in time?”

The cut of those words plunges deep enough to tear the air from his lungs, flooding his body with a simultaneous weight and weightlessness - like he’s being crushed in the midst of a helpless freefall. All at once, every one of them surrounds him in the darkness, looming over him in their mangled, death-rotted forms. 

He sees Bruce staring blankly over his own casket, and Stephanie crumpled over the fallen, headless statue of herself. He sees two versions of Tim - one in a heap of rubble on the ground, arms twisted and neck snapped, the other standing over him with a bleeding bullet wound steadily dripping from the center of his skull.

The words break him, but he doesn’t let them break his concentration. He doesn’t open his eyes as he blinks, and the last thing to echo in his ears through the warping is a soft, startled gasp.

With the visual of the motel hall so fixated in his mind, it’s hard to tell when his eyes do actually open - until the image tips abruptly sideways and he’s lurching with it. His hands barely lift in time to catch himself on the wall, but somehow he manages to stay upright on jellied legs. It’s also at this moment that Jason remembers he no longer has a gun.

The first thing he notes is the quiet. The ringing in his head isn’t loud enough to be drowning out gunshots or voices, but it may be disguising movement. The next thing he registers is the wide-open, bullet-ridden door just ahead of him on the same wall. The way it swung out blocks his view of the room beyond and none of the bullet holes are angled right to offer a peek.

Practically every potential move he could choose to make in this situation are two shades left of suicidally stupid, but Jason still hasn’t caught a glimpse of his brother and it’s worn away all remnants of logic and self-preservation. He charges into the room.

Anticipation twists in his stomach and catches his breath as he shoulders past the door, expecting to find a nightmarish bloodbath awaiting him. The lack of red startles him enough to double-take, rapidly searching the eerily-silent space for any signs of life or death. 

Discarded metal folding chair on its side, broken zip-ties, no body. Shattered glass table, torn couch and scattered cotton, a brutalized archway leading to the connected room, no visible target. The walls are riddled with a messy, yet bloodless spray of bullets and as he steps forward, he nearly loses his footing on the casings cluttering the threshold carpet. 

Nearly every one of these wild shots was fired from this exact spot at the entrance to the room - with the precision of a cornered animal swinging recklessly in the darkness. If this was Quinn or Ivy, Jason is certain that they must have been both blinded and unfathomably panicked by something.

“Wow, it sure is chilly in here!” Cassie suddenly chirps, bumping against his side as he struggles to right himself.

At her comment, he notes the goosebumps covering his abruptly-shivering body and the startling fact that he can see his own breath. Sunrise doesn’t even have functioning AC and he’s never caught wind of any Commission tech that could accomplish this. The only time he’s ever seen a temperature shift this drastic was during powers training as kids, when Tim would overdo it.

Something between hope and terror surges in Jason’s chest as he stumbles forward for the archway. A half dozen bodies stagger with him as he does, and he quickly shuts his eyes just to make sure none are truly there. The images of Cassie, Bruce, Steph, Tim and Rose all still linger around him in the blackness behind his eyelids, so he forces himself to discard them and search the connecting rooms for real bodies.

His eyes instantly land on a foot sticking beyond the lip of the open bathroom door, and he can’t stop the broken cry from tearing out of him if he tries. 

Two steps and he’s there, but it’s not Tim. The man behind the door is unfamiliar - almost twice his brother’s size with a build comparable to what Jason sorely misses having - and he’s bleeding out all over the bathroom floor from at least three bullet wounds. 

Falling down next to the man, Jason is shocked to confirm that he’s still breathing. Maybe not for much longer, but the fact that none of these hits were instantly fatal means that the assassin wasn’t trying to hit him, despite the gun resting in the man’s limp hand. Strangely, it’s this detail that finally connects the dots in his brain and puts together the puzzling scene. 

The unnatural cold, the unusual sloppiness of the assassin and the peculiar scattering of seemingly aimless gunfire towards non-existent targets - she was shooting at ghosts. This poor stranger was just stupid and brave enough to get caught in the crossfire anyhow. He must have gotten a hit on the assassin before falling, bad enough to make her flee the scene. 

But where is Tim?

“Oh, god—” a few hurried stomps reveal Dick rushing into the bathroom, face paling as his gaze flickers from Jason to the dying stranger. “Jon!”

Jaw clenching at the belated realization, it finally clicks that this is the man that Damian had been calling for as he woke up - the one he’d shown so much blatant terror for. Dick folds the man’s other side and immediately starts applying pressure to his wounds as Jason absolutely should’ve already been doing.

“Babs, call an ambulance! He’s shot!” His older brother cries, pressing his ear to the man’s chest as he impressively manages to cover all three seeping wounds.

“I did, three minutes ago,” Babs’ voice is suddenly answering through crackling static.

At a quick glance, Jason makes out an impressively slender comm in Dick’s ear that is no doubt Barbara’s own design. Huh. He was right to assume his sister’s technological abilities were on par with the entirety of the futuristic, intergalactic Commission. 

“Is he breathing?” she asks, tearing Jason back to focus as Dick winces.

“Barely.”

“Do you see Tim?” This time her question is tense to the point of combustion, and Jason is already scrambling off the floor to check.

The tiny connecting room is also littered with bullet holes and loose feathers from the pillows and sheets, but the only part of it hidden from his view is the space between the two twin beds. The cover provided there is abysmal in regards to all the wild shots that were sent through the archway, so Jason tastes his own heartbeat preparing for what he might find.

He expects blood, a similarly bullet-ridden body, or perhaps a frost-bitten miracle. Any of these would be at least some kind of release from the unrelenting and all-consuming dread of anticipation. Instead, his brain stalls as he once again finds nothing.

No blood, no body, no sign of escape or struggle - his brother is gone without a trace.