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Smog hangs low over the streets, yellow pollution curling catlike through the alleys. The night is windless, and yet still the spires creak and moan, the restless movement of dreaming things. Their nightmares walk the streets and pick at the seams of the city, corruption sending its webbed roots deep through the bellies of the corpse-rats that call this decaying giant home.
A dog limps through the smog, sniffing here, sniffing- there. Near the dumpster, behind the pizzeria. He noses through the bags lying around its base, tearing with large paws until the plastic rips, until it tears apart and the contents come spilling into the street. Steam rises ponderously, the warm stench of rotting things floating up to mix with the chill night air.
The dog isn’t the only one looking for food: two crows alight, clacking their beaks hungrily. Rats come skittering from the shadows. A raccoon, belly swollen with parasites, comes waddling from beneath the dumpster. The dog snarls and snaps, hackles rising as he defends his dubious meal. And then from a darkened doorway a figure peels itself from the shadows, a child with gaunt cheeks and skeleton hands and eyes too large for their face.
The dog hesitates, and then slowly backs away. One last dying growl fades in his throat, and then he turns and limps back out of the alleyway, head hanging and tail between his legs.
It’s been nearly two weeks since Sirius fell through the Veil and into the city of Death. He hasn’t been human since.
Sirius wakes to the smell of sausage fat and sweet bread and pickle relish. There’s a stand down the street, around the corner and one block south, just next to the park. He has occasionally managed to beg a meal off the owner, although recently the goodwill has been stretching thin.
Sirius cracks open an eye, nose twitching.
There’s a sausage on a cardboard plate sitting on the ground not three feet from him. He lifts his head in a sudden movement, about to snap it up, but something freezes him before he can.
There’s a boy sitting crosslegged on the dirty pavement just behind the sausage, back straight and hands hanging loosely over his shins as he watches Sirius with keen eyes. He doesn’t move as their eyes meet, he doesn’t smile or twitch away. Sirius knows how he must look; he knows he hasn’t been keeping himself clean, he knows that even now he must be twice the size of this child.
There’s no fear. There’s nothing except the unexpected kindness.
It almost feels like a trap. Sirius gives it one more minute, but when the kid still hasn’t moved an inch he gives up. He doesn’t smell anything strange from the food, and even if he did he thinks he might be too hungry to care. He pushes himself to his feet and wolfs down the sausage in one snapping bite.
The boy reaches behind him, unzips his rucksack, and pulls out a tin of dog food and a knife. Before Sirius can do anything (what he isn’t sure, but surely something, Merlin) the kid stabs the tin and saws off the lid. Then he reaches out and snags the cardboard from the sausage and dumps the kibble onto it. He pushes it back towards Sirius with an expectant look.
This encounter is becoming stranger and stranger. He’s not about to complain though, and obligingly scarfs down the food.
Next is a biscuit in the shape of a bone. Then, telegraphing all his moves to the point that Sirius is definitely suspicious, the boy stands, taking his backpack over his shoulder and holding out another bone-shaped treat.
“Come,” the boy says, beckoning. “If you behave, we can take the bus.”
When the boy stops in front of an enormous Gothic manor, Sirius nearly turns tail and runs. Because no. No no no, never again, Sirius swore, he thought he was done with this-
The boy holds out another treat and gives him a pointed look. Sirius takes it gently from the boy’s fingers, and follows with no small amount of resignation.
They go to the garden first, where the boy takes a hose and fills a bowl with water. And then while Sirius is distracted he gets a full-on geyser of water aimed at him, warm water soaking his fur and dripping over his ears and into his eyes. The boy points the hose at the ground, going completely still as he watches for Sirius’s reaction.
Sirius lets him sweat for two minutes, the two of them motionless beneath the rose-filled trellis. There are birds singing somewhere nearby, the earthy scent of seed carried faintly through the air. The grass is warm (and wet) beneath Sirius’ feet, and for what feels like the first time sunlight breaks the clouds, pooling in the air and filling the cracked earth with golden light.
Sirius shuffles around, braces himself, and gives an almighty shake.
“Hey!”
The hose swings back around and the boy laughs as Sirius catches the water in his mouth, shaking every time his pelt begins to grow heavy with the water. Soon he’s jumping about, the boy swiftly following suit, brandishing the hose like a weapon and cowering every time Sirius shakes, water droplets flying through the air.
The kid pulls out a basket of soap from under the garden bench. His face is still open, but Sirius can tell in the way he moves that he has grown cautious again. He approaches slowly on the balls of his feet, ready to dart away should Sirius suddenly turn feral. Sirius waits patiently until the kid is near enough to squirt soap over his fur, and then holds still as he cautiously runs his fingers along Sirius’ back, rubbing until the soap begins to froth and bubble.
Then come warm towels for both of them, and another treat for Sirius, and it’s not until they’re sprawled in the growing sunlight that Sirius realizes they’re no longer alone.
“Ahem. Damian. Who is this?”
Sirius raises his head, ready to protect, hackles rising. Small fingers tighten in his fur, and Damian lazily opens one eye.
“This is the Fenris Wolf, Richard. Do not worry; he is perfectly harmless.”
“I... okay. But you can’t just... where did he come from?”
“I don’t know. I found him and brought him here. Obviously those who were supposed to care for him did not.”
“You can’t just take in every stray you come across.”
“I don’t see why not. Father certainly does.”
There’s a moment of silence, and then the young man sighs, running a hand down his face. “Okay. Teachable moment, Dames. Ready? Comparing your brothers to animals isn’t nice.”
“Do not tell me it is untrue.”
Silence stretches, and Damian gives a smug little “Tt.” Richard rolls his eyes and then lets out a huff of laughter. “You’re a brat, you know that? C’mon. I came out to tell you lunch is ready. You’re the one that’s going to explain to Bruce why there’s a new member of the family, though.”
“Of course,” Damian says importantly, pushing himself to his feet. “Come, Fenrir. Let’s introduce you to everyone else.”
Sirius has known for a long time that he is no longer in the world he grew up in. He’s in America. He’s in Muggle America and that’s strange enough, but there’s something unquantifiably different, something that pulls on his magic and tries to expel him like a body pushing out a foreign object. You don’t belong, the city says. Get out, whispers the air, the earth, the trees, the stars themselves; Sirius would do anything to comply if only he knew how.
These voices quiet when Damian tangles his fingers in Sirius’ fur. Those voices still when Dick crouches down and envelopes him in a hug, or when Jason reaches out absentmindedly to scratch behind his ears. They are quietest when Tim, fear evident even as he wrestles it away, finally reaches out a hand for Sirius to sniff.
There’s no sign of anyone named Bruce. There’s only a kind old man to look after the children, and a dark house full of haunting (if mercifully silent) portraits.
“It’s for the best that Father isn’t here,” Damian informs him one night. “When he returns, you will have already proven yourself a valuable addition to the family, and he will be unable to refuse you a place under his roof.”
“That’s not how that works, Damian,” Dick sighs. “There’s no price to be paid here; there’s nothing to prove.”
Across the room, Tim’s face is perfectly blank. On the other side of the sofa Jason sinks lower into the cushions, face hidden by his book as he pretends not to listen.
“In any case,” Damian says, after the silence has stretched too long. “Fenrir is not going anywhere. He has already proven himself to me.”
“Bruce,” Dick says into the phone, cord wrapped around his clenched fist. “When was the last time you told Damian you love him?”
Every night the house empties. Alfred serves up dinner, and then Damian brings Sirius to his room and gives him a hug and says “I’ll be back.” And then he disappears, along with everyone else. And then Sirius is alone in a dark manor, with only his thoughts to fill the passage of time.
It takes him too long to figure out what’s happening. It takes Jason storming through the house with a busted shoulder, it takes Damian glaring at everyone from a black eye, it takes Tim passing out in the middle of a game of Clue for Sirius to realize that these children are at war.
The next night Sirius puts himself between Damian and the bedroom door, and refuses to move.
“What are you doing?” Damian asks, some of that old wariness creeping into his voice. “Fenrir. Down.”
Damian tries everything short of abuse. He offers treats and threats in equal measure, he tries pushing and sneaking and even getting a running start. But in the end Damian is only a head taller than Sirius, and weighs only half as much. In the end Sirius takes his arm and guides him to the bed, and then lies down on top of him even as Damian squirms and pushes.
“I have to go!” he protests. Sirius lets out a whuff of air, and doesn’t move.
At a quarter to nine, Damian falls asleep. At nine Jason pokes his head inside, eyes going wide before he clocks the rise and fall of Damian’s chest. He finds Sirius’ gaze, and then slowly and quietly closes the door.
Try as he might, Sirius can’t keep all four of them in at once. He approaches Tim cautiously, because despite everything he thinks that Tim might still be afraid of him. The boy offers him treats as though he believes he is buying his life, relaxing with each one Sirius accepts. So Sirius doesn’t try and physically hold him down; Tim is small enough (still a child enough) that Sirius thinks he could if he wanted to, but he doesn’t want to frighten the boy. Instead he curls up next to him when Tim is on the couch, and he starts breathing deeply, and sooner or later Tim’s breaths start matching his. Sooner or later Tim starts to doze, and when someone inevitably comes looking, they leave because Tim is asleep.
Jason lets himself be shepherded with little fuss. After the fifth time Sirius begins to wonder if he is perhaps only looking for an excuse; if maybe all he needs is permission to rest; if all he needs is someone to stand in the way of his own destruction.
It’s a sentiment Sirius finds he recognizes. How often had it been James standing before him? How often had Remus been the one to give him a condescending smile and say No, actually. (Not often enough. Not when it really mattered, not when Sirius made his worst mistake, that’s for sure.)
Dick, by this time wise to Sirius’ ways, manages to avoid him completely. And then Alfred figures it out, and a week later they’ve figured out how to keep all four kids in the manor. For one quiet night, everyone is safe.
Sunlight pours through the stained windows, painting them in colors of rose and saffron and indigo stars. Sirius dozes in the warmth, Damian curled against him as he flips through a book on insects. Dick is for once asleep, conked out and about to slip off the couch as he falls further and further toward gravity’s loving embrace.
Footsteps vibrate through the floorboards, heavy boots striding purposefully in their direction. Sirius lifts his head, ears perking and nose twitching; he doesn’t recognize the intruder.
A man enters the parlor, dressed in a strange combination of cotton and leather. He smells of old sweat and dust and steel, and something completely alien, something that has Sirius’ fur standing on end. When he crosses the threshold of the door he hesitates, taking in the occupants of the room with a casually assessing look. He stops when he sees Sirius, freezing in place. Danger whispers the tightness in the man’s shoulders, Danger screams the darkness in his eyes.
Sirius lets out a long, low growl. It is the sound of the gates of hell scraping against the bones of the earth.
There’s a sudden crash as Dick falls flailing to the floor. Damian drops his book as if it has burned him, scrambling to his knees and turning to give Sirius a scandalized look.
“Father? I-”
“What is that?”
“Bruce?” Dick flails to his feet in much the same manner he had flailed to the floor. “I didn’t know you were coming back. You’re early!”
“Yes, the mission went well and we- for god’s sake, Damian!”
“This is the Fenris- Fenrir, heel! Down, what are you doing?!”
With his hackles raised and all his fur standing on end, Sirius is as tall as Damian. He pulls his lips into a warning snarl even as he lets the growl die in his throat. He doesn’t attack but neither does he back down. So this is Damian’s father. So this is the man who has raised his children for war. Sirius does not like men who recruit children to fight in their wars; he does not like men who send children to die in their stead.
“He is not normally like this Father, I swear. Fenrir, you must behave!” For the first time, Damian is close to tears. For the first time he doesn’t dare reach out, but hovers between the two of them with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
“He’s telling the truth,” Dick speaks up, where he’s frozen by the couch. There’s movement behind Bruce and Jason appears. Something glints in his hand before he moves to hide it behind his back. “He’s never done this before.”
“Hasn’t he,” Bruce says, voice flat. “That’s not a dog, Damian, that is something akin to a dire wolf. Alfred allowed this?”
“Not only did he allow it, they’ve been conspiring,” Jason says, finally stepping from the doorway. “That thing’s too smart for its own good.”
“Oh my god Jason, you’re not helping. Bruce, come on. He makes Damian happy.”
The look Bruce gives Sirius then is enough to flay him alive. He looks at Sirius and Sirius has the bone-chilling thought that the man must know all his secrets at a glance. Occlumency shields rise in his mind, slamming down before he even realizes what he’s doing, before he realizes just how futile the action is. Very few people have been able to rattle him so suddenly and thoroughly, and before this moment none of them were Muggle.
And then Bruce looks away, turning that terrible gaze to Damian, and Damian doesn’t flinch. He meets his father’s gaze square on and doesn’t back down, not even when Bruce finally looks away.
“You have been taking proper care of it?” he asks at last, as time unsticks itself from the corners.
“Of course.”
“Very well then.” Bruce reaches up to run a hand through his hair, even this small movement one of controlled precision. “Fenrir. It’s a suitable name.”
Damian straightens, something like pride taking over his stance. Dick scoffs.
“I’ve been trying to convince him to change it to ‘Bat-dog’ for weeks,” he says, finally moving around the room to pull Bruce into a hug. “I’m glad you’re home, B. Now go shower; it’s no wonder Fenrir thought you were dangerous, you could take someone out with that stench.”
Jason makes a gagging noise. Bruce rolls his eyes and smiles, something so small Sirius convinces himself it must be a trick of the light.
Bruce starts offering Sirius treats, the same ones that Tim has and from the same bag. Damian gives him a firm talking to, and then has him practice listening to commands until Sirius grows tired and wanders off to moodily stalk the halls.
The first night everyone stays home. Sirius is too on edge to really consider it a success (he certainly plays small part in the endeavor) but somehow between one thing and the next they all end up in the library, curled on and amongst the beanbags as Bruce tells stories and cautionary tales of outer space.
Sirius wonders how long Muggles have been able to travel to space. He wonders how long it took them to travel farther than that first step to the Moon; not long, apparently.
The next night everyone disappears. They return in the early hours of the morning, Damian crawling into bed and burrowing into Sirius’ side, running small fingers through his fur until the motion stutters and stops, his breaths slowing in sleep.
It takes several nights for Sirius to recognize a pattern. Bruce leaves every night, and almost every night, at least one of the boys remains home. Sometimes it’s because they’re benched. Sometimes it’s because they’re injured, and sometimes it’s for no discernible reason, simply that when the others leave, they don’t.
Sirius still tries to keep them in whenever he can. Damian squirms and wriggles and protests more than he had previously, always protesting loudly that “Father is waiting!” Tim sees Sirius at his door, quietly closes said door, and promptly escapes out the window. Dick doesn’t allow himself to be cornered in the first place. Jason is the only one to occasionally remain, the only one who still stops when he sees Sirius standing like an omen of death at his door.
Jason is injured, and Bruce stays up all night fretting. Tim falls asleep drooling on Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce doesn’t move for the rest of the night. He hugs Dick when no one is looking, and he reads to Damian on nights when neither of them patrol, words falling and taking form in the still air as illusions of grandeur and honor and hope.
Bruce stays home, and everyone stays home with him, and for the first time in months Sirius realizes how relaxed everyone is, how at ease.
Bruce doesn’t ask them to fight. He asks them to be careful, he asks them to take a step back and really think about what they’re doing. He teaches them to save and to protect, he teaches them to be lights shining in the dark, and it occurs to Sirius that Damian must have learned it from somewhere. He must have learned kindness, he must have had that role model in his formative years who showed him how to be good, how to offer a stray animal food and shelter and a life worth living.
Sirius allows Bruce to run his fingers through his fur. Bruce smiles as he does so, something sudden and unexpected and utterly childlike. The next moment it’s gone, but this time Sirius doesn’t doubt what he saw.
“Damian,” Bruce says one night, voice quiet in the wake of his story.
“Yes?” Damian murmurs sleepily, caught somewhere between waking and dreaming.
“You have nothing to prove. You are my son, you were the moment you were born and you will be until the day you die. I love you unconditionally. I always will.”
It is easier for Sirius to find the good in Gotham when her people have seen fit to see the good in him. It is still an infested place, it is still a cesspool of the worst mankind has to offer; but it is not without hope.
In one hand a young woman carries a hidden gun. In the other she holds a bouquet of tulips, a heart-shaped card between her fingers and a giddy smile on her face. Old men with weathered faces and swollen knuckles sit on the quay, smoking and drinking and casting their lines to the deep, telling stories of a future they still believe in. Children stare and gawk and clutch their mother’s hands, and smile at each other from the shadows when no one is looking.
Sirius no longer doubts that there is kindness in the world. There is an arm draped around his shoulder, there is a green-eyed boy smiling at him in the daylight and another in his dreams. There are roses growing on the garden trellis, and there are roses growing from the jagged shards of Gotham’s bones.
Somewhere, in another world in another time, there are roses growing over the ruins of a house in Godric’s Hollow.
KNOCK KNOCK
“You get it I’m busy!” Tim hollers.
Damian pushes himself up with no small amount of irritation. Sirius follows, walking lazily after him.
“It would serve them right if I were kidnapped,” Damian sniffs, pulling the door open. “Yes?”
There’s a young man standing on the stoop, of an age with Tim if not somewhat older. He’s wearing garb Sirius thought he would never see again, black robes covered by a patched cloak. His hair is windswept, a hopeless tangle of black locks, and a pair of glasses slip perpetually down his nose.
... James?
“Padfoot,” the kid breathes, and then he’s on his knees, wand clattering to the ground as he reaches past Damian and pulls Sirius into an embrace strong enough to crush him.
It’s not James. It’s Harry, it’s James’ little boy, green eyes and shaking smile and all.
“I found you,” Harry says, nearly crying in relief as he clutches at Sirius. “Merlin, I didn’t think I would, I didn’t think- I thought you were dead. I followed you through the Veil because I just... I’m okay. We’re all okay, and I wanted you to know. And now that I’m... n-now that I’m the Master of Death, I thought I could-” He chokes off, fingers tightening in a familiar pull at Sirius’s coat.
“You’re actually here, you’re okay. I found you.”