Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason’s living room was surprisingly clean.

It wasn’t hard to see why Alfred always seemed to like him better—Jason had always been a tidy boy. Unlike Dick, who was still haunted by memories of being scolded for leaving socks in the chandelier.

Shaking his head to banish the image of Alfred wielding a feather duster like a weapon, Dick sank into Jason’s couch and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The front door creaked open, and a bulky figure shouldered his way in. Hidden behind the kitchen wall, Dick caught Jason’s reflection in the blank TV screen.

Arms straining under overstuffed grocery bags, Jason elbowed the light switch. The room was suddenly flooded with harsh light and jagged shadows.

Dick rubbed his eyes, and that tiny movement was all it took.

In less than a heartbeat, Jason snapped into full Red Hood mode—bags dropped, hand on his hidden holster, gun drawn and pointed straight at the couch.

“Who’s there?” he barked.

“Put that down, Jaybird—it’s just me,” Dick said, stepping into view, hands raised to shoulder height.

In hindsight, breaking into the Red Hood’s apartment was probably not the smartest way to ask for help. But Dick had been too distraught to think up a better plan.

His life was in Jason’s hands—even if the anti-hero wasn’t aware of it yet.

Jason swore colorfully, though the barrel didn’t immediately lower. “What the hell are you doing in my place?” he demanded. He sounded relieved—but also exactly two seconds away from kicking Dick out the window.

Dick smiled wide and innocent, showing empty hands. “What, I have to make an appointment to visit my little brother now?”

Jason finally shoved the gun back into its holster with a grunt, still muttering profanity under his breath.

“You’re cleaning that up, asshole,” he snapped, jerking his head at the mess in the hallway.

Dick bent to retrieve a rogue apple that had rolled his way. “You really didn’t have to go full drama queen over it,” he said, biting into the fruit.

Jason shot him a glare so piercing it could’ve come with a boot to the ribs. “Says the guy who breaks into my apartment and lurks in the dark like a freaking bat, trying to catch people off guard.”

Dick gave a sheepish half-laugh. “I wasn’t *trying* to catch you off guard. Your couch is just… placed in the wrong spot.”

Jason tossed a cleaning rag at his chest and said nothing. The insult was implied.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, anyway?” he asked as Dick scrubbed at the oil stain on the parquet, grumbling about jarred olives and parquet floors not being natural roommates.

Dick handed back the rag, mentally vowing never to buy oily products again. Then he took a breath. Time to sell it.

“I need your help with something,” he said—and regretted the phrasing immediately.

“I’m not doing shit for you.”

“Jason.”

“No! Last time I needed help, you were too busy playing Daddy’s Good Boy to even look at me.”

That stung.

Jason wasn’t wrong. The last time they’d both been in the cave, lined up in front of an unreasonably furious Bruce, Dick had let him down. Jason had taken the full heat—for something that, frankly, wasn’t entirely his fault. Dick had lost his bike keys. Jason had lost actual blood.

“I help you when you really need it, Jason. You know that.”

“I really needed it then.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did!”

Dick sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I couldn’t go against Bruce. If you want that kind of help, talk to Alfred.”

That name worked like a shut-off switch.

Jason froze, mouth pulled tight. “Then go to Replacement.”

“Tim wouldn’t be the best choice,” Dick said. “He’s eighty pounds too light and eight inches too short.”

That earned him a suspicious squint. Jason’s curiosity was officially piqued.

“What the hell is going on in that filthy mind of yours, dickface?”

Dick leaned in slightly. “I need a fake Batman. For one night.”

Jason blinked.

Then: “A FAKE *WHAT*?!”

“NO WAY!”

The outburst came in stereo.

Dick froze, turned—

—and found himself face-to-face with a furious, pint-sized ninja in full Robin gear.

“Damian!” Dick exclaimed.

Because of course Damian had been hiding in the ceiling again.

Chapter Text

“What the hell?” Jason yelled, rage dripping from every word. “You’ve been hiding baby assassins in my freaking place?” He shot a sharp glare at Dick, full of accusation.

Dick was equally stunned. Where had the kid been all this time? When did he sneak in? How was this even possible?

As if out of thin air, Damian appeared, striding toward them with long, purposeful steps.

“I knew you were up to something unwise, Richard, but this? This is absolutely ridiculous!”

Dick found himself stuck between two furious little brothers, unsure who to answer first.

“Jason—”

“Todd doesn’t measure up to Father. Drop this insane idea!”

““You bats keep breaking into my damn apartment like it’s a public park! Who do you think you’re messing with?”

“Father would be so disappointed in you, Richard!”

“Do I look like a hotel receptionist to you? Do I look like someone who wants baby assassins hiding in his bedroom? What the—”

“I thought you were better than this! I thought you were a competent fighter—”

“SHUT UP!” Dick shouted at both of them. When the noise finally died down, he turned to Damian first.

“What are you doing here, Damian? Have you been tailing me?”

“Of course! You can’t be left alone for a minute!”

“Damian,” Dick groaned. The kid was supposed to be in his room, working on math homework. “You do realize I’m the adult here, right?”

“Being legally an adult doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t even notice I was following you. This just proves my point—I *am* the superior child. I’m the one who must take up the mantle!”

“Oh, shut up, kid!” Jason snapped, tossing the TV remote at him. Damian dodged with ease.

“You know it’s true!” Damian shot back.

The remote bounced off the wall, then smacked Dick, who had stepped between them to prevent a fight.

“Ow fu—” Dick hissed, rubbing the back of his head. That damn thing hurt.

“Will you both settle down?” he demanded.

“Damian, why were you tailing me?” he asked once they’d quieted down.

“I knew you were up to something, Richard. I won’t let this happen. If you need a Batman—”

“You’re not going to be my Batman,” Dick cut him off firmly. Damian visibly shrank.

“Go back home before anyone notices you’re missing.” The kid was still grounded for that stunt at the Watchtower. Bruce would kill him if he found out Damian had snuck out in full ninja gear.

“No one will notice. I know Father and Pennyworth won’t be back before dawn, which is exactly why you picked tonight for this operation. And I know you won’t tell them—because you wouldn’t want me telling them everything I know.”

This kid was Batman’s son through and through. If Dick thought he could get rid of him easily, he was an idiot.

“Okay, Dami, I see you already know everything.” He didn’t—but flattering the kid was an easy way to disarm him.

Damian puffed up with pride. “Of course, Richard. I’m here because I’d never let you handle this alone.”

“I wasn’t planning to. Thanks anyway. Since you know everything, would you give me a minute with Jason? Just wait in the bedroom while we talk.”

Damian shot a resentful glare at Jason, who watched the scene with cool disdain.

“Grayson, you’re making a huge mistake. He’ll never make a good Batman,”

Dick gently steered Damian toward the bedroom. “Thanks for your concern. But don’t worry—I’ve got it. This won’t take long.”

Once the “baby ninja” had vanished, Jason started up again with a string of expletives.

Dick had no idea what personal grudge the universe held against him. Why was life always this unfair?

“Jason, I know this might sound weird, but I can explain—”

Jason threw himself onto the couch, pulled out a cigarette, and sharply motioned for Dick to shut up.

“Jason—”

“I hate Batman.”

“I know.”

“Yet you want me to be him.”

“It’s important.”

“You want me to wear his suit, walk like him, talk like him, act like him.”

“For a short time—just a couple of hours.”

“You want me to rule his city.”

“Not exactly—”

“You want me to fight his battle.”

“No, wait—”

“And you’re asking me to do all this, and in return I get…?”

“Uh… I thought a nice brotherly night would do it.”

“A nice brotherly night, huh?” Jason snorted. “You and me. Batman and Nightwing.”

“Yes. Batman and Nightwing aaaaand Robin, of course,” Dick added sheepishly. No avoiding Damian.

“You mean I get the Demon Spawn as my Robin?” Jason asked, sounding oddly intrigued.

“…Yes?”

Dick could see the mischievous glint in Jason’s eyes just as clearly as the nasty scar on his cheek—no matter how hard his jackass brother tried to hide it.

“He’s a kid, Jay,” Dick warned, trying to kill whatever sinister idea was brewing.

“An assassin kid!” Jason shot back. When Dick gave him a skeptical look, he added, “Come on, man—you agree that brat could use a couple good smacks.”

Apparently, the chance to boss Damian around was tempting enough that Jason didn’t even ask about the mission details. Dick was more than happy to let it go.

“You don’t get to smack him. Don’t even think about it,” Dick said, mostly for the record.

Jason shrugged, feigning innocence. “Fine. Offer help, get rules. Typical.”

Dick wasn’t sure how “smacking Damian” counted as help, but he let it slide—he had bigger problems.

“So, what do you say? You in?”

Jason scratched his jaw. “Never say I never did anything for you, dickface.”

Dick grinned—the widest he’d worn in over two weeks. He’d expected this to involve endless bargaining and bribing. Getting Jason on board this easily was shockingly satisfying. Whatever Jason’s reasons, Dick would figure them out later. For now, one major problem was off his plate.

“And how exactly are you planning to hide this mess from Batman?” Jason asked after a moment. “The world’s greatest detective?”

“He’s not the world’s greatest detective anymore,” Dick said with a conspiratorial wink.

“Oh, isn’t he? Who took his place—Replacement?”

“He earned it, fair and square. And yeah. That’s why we need Tim.

Chapter Text

“You’ll have my cooperation on one condition,” Tim said, leaning against his desk, sipping from the steaming mug in his hand.

“What’s that?” Dick asked, already bracing himself for the worst.

Tim didn’t answer immediately. He swirled the dark liquid slowly in his mug, as if the spinning eddy might whisper the perfect demand.

“The Bat-brat here,” he finally said, locking eyes with Damian, a wicked sneer tugging at his pale lips, “has to admit he’s jealous of me. That everything he’s done, is doing, or ever will do is just a desperate attempt to earn *my* approval—because deep down, he looks up to me.”

What?

Dick had to snatch Damian’s wrist before the younger boy lunged at Tim, intent on ripping his throat out—and blowing their only chance of pulling this mission off.

“Seriously, Replacement? Of all the things you could ask for…?” Jason said, perched on the only clean spot in Tim’s room—the armrest of his chair. His tone was far too amused for Dick’s comfort.

Wasn’t it a little *concerning* that none of his brothers had even asked what the mission *was* about?

“That’s my only condition,” Tim said, already turning back to his wall of graphs and charts. “Take it or leave it. Otherwise, go find some other genius to clean up your covert-op disaster.”

“Grayson, unhand me *right now!*” Damian growled through clenched teeth. Dick held him tight.

“Tim!” Dick called, though he knew it was useless. Tim waved him off without a glance.

No hope there. So, plan B.

“Dami, please,” Dick begged, switching to his signature mix of flattering charm and persuasive pleading. “This is for Titus too. You wouldn’t want him to suffer, would you?”

Damian didn’t ask what Titus had to do with any of this—thankfully. Maybe he already knew how *his* grounding had ruined the Great Dane’s quality of life. Possibly even more than his own.

“Why not just blackmail him into cooperating?” Damian hissed in a high-pitched whisper. “Make him yield to our wishes.”

“It’s *Tim,* Dami,” Dick whispered back. “He probably has a hundred-terabyte hard drive full of blackmail material on each of us. That won’t work.”

Damian’s nostrils flared. He looked *exactly* like Bruce when he got angry—just shorter and a lot stabby.

“Fine. Deep breaths, little brother. Deep breaths,” Dick coaxed, watching Damian twitch like a cornered feral cat. He had to act fast.

“Tell you what,” Dick said brightly, like he’d just come up with the world’s best plan. “It doesn’t count if you cross your fingers behind your back. I’ll film it, you can take it back later. Easy peasy, right?”

Of course, he *should* have known better than to teach an innocent, brutally honest child how to lie—even a white lie.

Chapter Text

Jason wrinkled his nose as he sniffed the suit. “This stinks!”

Batman’s suit carried that thick, complicated smell—leather, metal, copper, and sweat. Dick had known that scent since he was a little kid, back when he’d seek refuge in those strong arms after patrols or nightmares.

Jason sniffed again, more slowly this time, like he was searching for something—or someone—hidden in that smell.

“Your leather jacket doesn’t exactly smell like paradise,” Damian snapped, tapping his booted foot impatiently against the floor.

Jason ignored him. With one smooth motion, he pulled the cowl on. The cape fell over his broad shoulders, swallowing him in shadow. For a moment, it was genuinely hard to tell who was behind the mask. The white lenses hid his eyes. His jaw was as square and stern as Bruce’s. His shoulders were just as muscled, his stance just as imposing.

Jason straightened his posture, looming over Dick in perfect imitation of the real Bat. He favored his left foot slightly, drew raspy breaths through the mask, and clenched his gloved fists like he was seconds away from punching someone.

“Perfect! The act is just incredible!” Dick said, half-impressed, half-concerned.

“Tt. Father doesn’t trample on the cape,” Damian muttered.

“Robin!” Jason barked, his voice sharp and commanding—so convincing Damian actually flinched.

“Check your gear,” Jason ordered.

“Already done,” Damian said stiffly, trying to hide the flicker of unease in his eyes.

The fake Batman looked him up and down with a gaze sharp enough to cut steel. “Then why is your boot unlaced?”

Damian froze, standing rigid like he’d just been hit with a sudden shock. For a second, he didn’t move. But under the weight of that stare, even *he* cracked—his eyes flicked down to his boots.

Of course, the damn boots were laced.

“You think you’re funny?”

“Lace up your boot.”

“They *are* perfectly laced!”

Damian squared his shoulders, glaring up at Jason with pure defiance. Dick knew exactly where this was headed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and stared at the floor.

“Ten laps around the training mats,” Jason ordered flatly.

Damian’s mouth dropped open. “What?!”

“I give you orders, you follow. That’s rule number one.”

“You’re *not* the real Batman!”

“Fifteen.”

“Grayson!” Damian practically screeched in desperation.

Dick sighed. “He *is* the Batman right now,” he said, because he had no other choice. Siding with Robin against *Batman*—even a stand-in Batman—would’ve meant blowing the whole mission, and that was why they were here in the first place.

Damian’s face flushed with rage. His nostrils flared. His lips pressed into a tight line. He looked ready to argue—until one well-executed Bat-glare shut him down completely.

He turned and stalked off to the training mats, muttering a string of curse words no thirteen-year-old should know.

Once Robin was safely doing laps—and still swearing—Dick walked over to Jason, who was busy checking his belt pouches like he hadn’t just mentally suplexed a child.

“Could you *not* push his buttons like that, Jason?”

“Code names in the field, *Nightwing,*” Jason said without even glancing at him.

Dick dropped his shoulders and rubbed a hand over his face. “Oh my god, you’re taking this way too seriously.”

“Our job has no room for leniency or recklessness. Get back to your task.”

This was going to be a long night.

A really long night.

And Jason was going to make sure they *all* suffered through it.

Chapter Text

“Who am I supposed to team up with?”

Red Robin asked, standing tall in full gear, casually leaning on his bo staff.

Dick was halfway to the exit when the question made him freeze.

“Tim, you’re not coming. You’re on monitor duty, remember?”

Tim spun into a flashy somersault, twirling his staff around his wrist like he was auditioning for a circus act.

“I’m not doing the boring part while you guys have all the fun.”

“Tim!”

“I’ve already done my job,” he said confidently, grinning. “Bruce isn’t coming home tonight, and I made sure that when he *does*, he’ll have *other* super-urgent stuff to deal with. We’re good. He won’t check on us.”

Dick sighed—deep and heavy, already full of regret. “Fine. You’re with me.”

“Are we taking the Batmobile?” Tim asked, eyes lighting up with dangerous hope.

Dick felt a chill run down his spine. *Here it comes.*

All eyes turned to him, waiting.

“No,” he said firmly—at the exact same moment Jason, still in full Bat-mode, said:

“Yes.”

Jason didn’t even acknowledge the contradiction. He just turned and started walking toward the parking area like his word was law.

Dick scrambled after him. “Wait! We can take the bikes. It’s more fun.”

“We don’t do this for fun, Nightwing,” Jason growled. And damn if it didn’t sound exactly like Bruce.

“Drop the act, Jason. We’re not even out the door yet!”

The white-hot Bat-glare he got in return explained *exactly* why Damian was still running laps on the other side of the cave.

“Come on, man. You can’t tell me you don’t miss riding one of the Batbikes!”

“You can take a bike if you want.”

“The *Batmobile* has trackers on it,” Dick hissed. “The second you touch it, Bruce will get an alert.”

“This is *why* we’re enduring Drake’s intrusive presence,” Damian muttered, suddenly appearing at Dick’s side, breathless and agitated from the laps. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes—I mean, *no*. We didn’t drag him into this for problems we could’ve just *avoided*. We’re fine with the bikes. … not *mine*of course. Because of the whole smoke bomb thing and… locked-away keys and…” He trailed off, realizing nobody was buying it.

Jason’s silence radiated disapproval, his white lenses practically pulsing with *you’re an idiot* energy.

“Batman works methodically,” Jason intoned, turning again toward the Batmobile.

“Fine! Damn it, fine!” Dick threw up his hands. “We can’t take the Batmobile!”

Suddenly, he felt fifty pounds lighter. Unfortunately, now three sets of eyes were staring at him, demanding an explanation.

He drew a breath. Then another. Then steeled himself.

“This is why I need your help.

We need to *take the Batmobile back*.”

Chapter Text

Dick knew he could never live this down.

“Where the hell is the Batmobile, Dick?”

“What do you mean *take it back*?”

“Who’s holding it *captive*?”

Dick scratched the back of his head, wondering how the hell he was going to explain this mess.

“Remember when I mentioned Babs and I are back together?”

“Like that’s anything new,” Tim huffed.

“I don’t get Babs,” Jason said, dropping the Bat-voice for once. “She’s supposed to be smart. Why’s she playing this back-and-forth game with *you*?”

“I wouldn’t say Gordon has brains if she ever picked *Richard* as a romantic interest.”

“She’s got awful taste. No argument there.”

Dick wouldn’t mind the taunts if it distracted them from the Batmobile disaster. But this was *his* family—distraction wasn’t in their DNA.

“You took her out in the freaking Batmobile, didn’t you?” Jason cut to the heart of it, like a bloodhound on a scent.

Tim’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t do what I *think* you did… right?”

Yes. Yes, he absolutely had. But no way was he admitting it straight out.

“No. Not like that.”

“*Like what* exactly? You got her laid in the freaking Batmobile!”

“Jason!”

“WHAT?”

“Children present!”

“Tt. I *knew* you weren’t wearing that stupid turtleneck for no reason,” Damian muttered disdainfully.

“Babs gave you a hickey in the Batmobile?” Tim asked, incredulous.

“NO!” Dick shouted, horrified. But the mockery was incoming.

Jason shook his head in mock disappointment. “Nightwing, I’m really disappointed in you,” he said, slipping back into his Batman persona. The tone was so perfect it made Dick want to throw something.

“You don’t even know what happened!” Dick protested.

“I don’t *need* to listen,” Jason waved him off. “I can picture it.”

There was *no* way he could actually guess—

“You take Babs out in a rental. She’s like, ‘Hey, what happened to your bike, Dickie?’ and you turn red as a beet, embarrassed, because *who* gets their stuff taken away as punishment in their *thirties*? So you go, ‘Oh baby, didn’t you know? I’m not riding bikes anymore.’”

Okay, he might have *some* clue.

“She asks, ‘Why not?’ And oh boy—*why not*, right? Because I’m perfect Dick Grayson, the golden child. Not some low-level Robin who gets his butt kicked for touching the Batmobile. *I’m* driving the Batmobile now.”

As brutal as Jason was, Dick couldn’t really blame him—not with Tim doubled over laughing and even Damian’s lips twitching.

“She doesn’t believe you. Of course she doesn’t. And being the freaking Dick Grayson you are, you *insist* on proving your point. So what do you do? You take the Batmobile.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Dick cried, miserable. All he had left—weak denial.

“Shut up, Dick. I’m censoring the gross parts for young ears here. Otherwise, I’d tell *exactly* how many smooches you two exchanged.”

“Jason!”

“What? *You* misused the Batmobile, and *I’m* the one who gets yelled at?”

“I *told* you it wasn’t like that!” Dick snapped. “Babs asked me to take her to check out some weird signal readings downtown. She suspected a hidden sewer exit used as an escape route. I couldn’t take her in a *rental*, so we took the Batmobile. She was right. There *was* a secret route.”

Tim groaned. “Boooring.”

Jason muttered something sour and made a face like he swallowed lemon.

“Anyway,” Dick said firmly, “we *did* find something. Babs was right. There *was* a hidden exit—looked recently used. We parked the Batmobile just outside while we went in.”

Tim blinked. “Wait, *you left the Batmobile unattended*?”

“It was a narrow tunnel, okay?” Dick snapped. “Not like we could drive it through. And we were only gone ten minutes—”

“Oh my god,” Jason said, eyes wide with horror and awe. “You got the Batmobile *jacked*.”

Damian whipped his head around like he’d sprain something. “You let an asset *that* valuable get stolen?”

“*We* didn’t *let* anything!” Dick panicked. “We were *ambushed*. Croc burst out of the water, knocked Babs into a wall, grabbed me—”

“Croc?” Tim echoed. “*Killer Croc*?”

“—then threw me into the tunnel wall, *hard*, and while we were dazed, he just—he *took it*.”

Jason stared like watching a car crash in slow motion. “You’re telling me a sewer gremlin emerged from his bachelor pad and just *drove off* in the Batmobile?”

“He *hijacked* it,” Dick snapped. “He *commandeered* it.”

“Oh, that’s so much better,” Tim nodded solemnly. “I feel way more reassured now.”

“What did he even *want* with it?” Damian asked. “Croc doesn’t usually care about tech.”

Dick groaned. “He left a note.”

That shut everyone up.

Tim tilted his head. “A *note*?”

“What did it say?” Jason demanded.

Dick sighed, regretting everything. “It said: *‘Tell Batman to come get it if he wants it back. I got demands. And cupholders.’*”

Jason made a sound like he’d been stabbed in the chest. “He stole the Batmobile for the *cupholders*?!”

“No,” Dick muttered. “For the *attention*. Cupholders were a bonus.”

Damian looked personally offended. “So you let a mutant reptile abscond with our primary vehicle because you *couldn’t be bothered to lock the doors*?”

“I was *unconscious*, Damian!”

“And the Batmobile has biometric security, right? You can’t just start it without being one of *us*,” Tim asked.

Dick winced. “Yeah, that… might’ve been temporarily overridden. I had it on manual because Babs was in the passenger seat.”

Tim looked amazed. “Wow. You turned off the Batmobile’s *security protocols*… for a *date*.”

“It *wasn’t* a date!”

Jason was cackling. “You *absolute clown*. Croc’s out there joyriding in the most high-profile vehicle in Gotham and *we’re* the ones who have to clean it up.”

“I swear,” Dick muttered, “next time I get a concussion, I’m just gonna let it kill me.”

Jason grinned. “We should all be so lucky.”

Chapter Text

None of them could remember agreeing to this.

Maybe it had happened in a moment of collective brain damage, or maybe Jason had just shouted the loudest and fastest until the rest of them stopped protesting and started suiting up. Either way, by the time the oversized screen in the Batcave flashed to life and showed an infrared feed of the Batmobile half-submerged in Gotham’s sewer system, it was too late.

Jason stood in front of the monitor, arms behind his back, wearing Bruce’s cape and cowl like it had never been taken off his corpse. The worst part? He *looked* good in it. Not just good—*commanding.*

“Mission name: Operation Steel Leviathan,” he said in the kind of low gravel that shaved a few years off Tim’s life. “Objective: recover the Batmobile. Secondary objective: suppress Killer Croc—”

“No! We are not going to suppress any one least of all Killer Croc.” Dick argued.  Turned out it was as bad an idea as if Bruce himself was in the cape.

“Undermine my authority one more time, and you are benched for the night…clear?”

Dick’s eyes widened in disbelief “ Come on Jason that’s Killer Croc! We are not going to…”

One big stride and Batman was towering over him “ That’s Batman for you.”

Why Dick had thought giving the cape to this dramatic boy was a good idea.

“Now back to the mission.” Jason said holding the gaze right in Dick’s eyes. “ Secondary objective: suppress Killer Croc. Tertiary objective—discipline.”

“Discipline of *what?*” Dick muttered, tightening his escrima holsters with a sour expression.

Jason turned his head. Slowly. Mechanically. “Discipline of *yourself,* Nightwing. Protocol 38.”

Dick blinked. “There *is* no Protocol 38.”

“There is now.”

Damian, seated on the edge of the tactical table with his arms crossed, scowled. “This is a mockery of Father’s work. You’re not Batman. You’re a lunatic in a cape.”

“I’m what Gotham deserves,” Jason said without blinking.

“You’re what *I* deserve,” Tim groaned, rubbing his temple. “For every time I said Bruce was dramatic and didn’t mean it.”

The briefing continued, because Jason insisted they have a briefing. He marched them through topographical sewer maps, chemical readings, escape vectors, Croc’s last known behavioral patterns, and a slideshow that seemed to exist purely to demonstrate how many fonts he could use to write “FAILURE IS COWARDICE” on a black background.

No one asked where he got the slideshow. No one dared.

“You’ll deploy in teams of two,” Jason went on, clicking through charts like a man on a mission from God. “Nightwing and Red will handle the eastern intercept route, mapping out possible escape tunnels. I want sonar pings every six minutes, no excuses.”

“Why don’t *you* do sonar pings every six minutes?” Tim asked, voice thick with resentment.

Jason didn’t even flinch. “Because I’m Batman. And I don’t *ping.*”

Damian’s eyes twitched. “I hope Croc eats you.”

Jason finally looked at him. “And I hope you brought backup gauntlets, because sewer water eats through the WayneTech plating in twelve minutes. But of course, you knew that. Or didn’t. Who can say?”

Tim stood abruptly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m suffering,” Jason replied flatly. “Just like all of you. That’s the *Bat-family experience.*”

Dick leaned against the Batcomputer, voice dry. “So let me get this straight. We’re going into Gotham’s underworld to confront a seven-foot amphibious cannibal who has *the Batmobile* as hostage and has already issued a list of demands written in blood and fish bones—and our fearless leader thinks this is the perfect time to LARP as our dad.”

“*This*,” Jason said, clenching a fist in the air, “is justice.”

There was a long silence. The kind that made Alfred check the carbon monoxide monitors, even though he wasn’t in the cave.

Finally, Tim turned to Dick. “How long do you think before someone drowns?”

Dick sighed. “It’ll be me. It’s *always* me.”

Jason clapped once, sharp and military. “Gear up. We move out in ten.”

“Wait,” Damian growled. “You never even told us the plan.”

Jason pulled up a new slide. It read, in all-caps: **LURE. DISTRACT. NEGOTIATE. OVERPOWER.**

Beneath it: a very realistic sketch of Killer Croc’s face with a target over one eye.

“You’re going to negotiate with Croc?” Tim asked, stunned.

“I’m going to *simulate diplomacy,*” Jason replied.

Dick was the last to move. As Jason swept out of the room in a dramatic swirl of cape and mission urgency, Dick looked at the others and said quietly:

“We’re going to die in a sewer led by a guy who thinks *voice modulation equals leadership.*”

Tim strapped on his gloves. “We deserve it.”

Damian pulled up his hood. “At least if I perish, it won’t be under *Father’s* orders.”

Chapter Text

It started with the smell.

A seeping, ancient rot that turned the back of the throat to paper and made every breath taste like grave water. Damian was the first to comment—because of course he was.

“This is revolting,” he hissed through his mask, stepping over a mound of sludge that might once have been a mattress or a corpse. “If I come back with trench foot, I’m billing *Father*.”

“He’s not here,” Jason growled from the shadows ahead, voice modulated down to that too-familiar rasp. “And it’s *Batman* in the field, Robin. Protocol Twelve.”

“You made that one up,” Tim muttered beside him.

“Doesn’t make it less binding,” Jason shot back.

They were six tunnels deep into Gotham’s underbelly, where only rats, ghosts, and Killer Croc felt at home. Grates dripped, pipes hissed, and the walls sweated something oily. Every step was a gamble. Jason led the way like a man on a sacred pilgrimage, cape high, posture brutal, boots silent.

“Nightwing,” he said suddenly.

Dick flinched. “Yeah, *Batman*?”

“Fall back and cover the rear. Red, with me, your scanners better be live.”

Tim rolled his eyes, but checked the wristpad anyway. “Motion two tunnels east. Large mass. Moving slow. Could be Croc, could be a family of raccoons fused into a single nightmare.”

Jason didn’t reply. He just raised a hand, fingers spread, the universal signal for *halt*. Everyone obeyed, even Damian — though not without glowering at Jason’s back like he could melt it with sheer disapproval.

A growl echoed.

Not close. Not far. Just enough distance to promise a short life.

Tim checked the scanner again. “Confirmed — seven-foot-tall nightmare, moving toward us. Humanoid. Claws. It’s him.”

Jason reached into his belt and pulled out a small, vibrating capsule. He clicked it once. It made a shrill, piercing sound.

“What is that?” Dick whispered.

“A lure.”

“You mean a dog whistle?”

“No. It’s *bat*-calibrated.” Jason stared down the tunnel. “Protocol Thirty-One. Croc hates this frequency. Hears it in his bones.”

Another growl. This one *closer*. Then a splash. Then… a *voice*.

“You callin’ me, *Bat-brat?*”

The boys tensed. Lights flickered overhead. Something huge scraped the tunnel wall ahead, shoving debris aside like leaves. A shape emerged — green, slick, glistening with water and filth. The ridged back scraped the ceiling. The claws gleamed. And those eyes — pale, milk-glass things that never blinked — locked onto them like prey.

“Been a while since I cracked ribs with your *daddy,*” Croc rumbled, stepping into full view. “But you… you ain’t him. You smell like gunpowder and cheap aftershave.”

Jason stepped forward. Steady. Tall. Voice perfectly graveled. “I’m *Batman.*”

Croc laughed. The sound shook the tunnel.

“No, kid. You’re *bait.*”

He surged.

Chapter Text

They ran.

Well — *tactically repositioned*, as Jason later insisted. But to anyone watching, it looked a hell of a lot like running for their lives.

Croc had slammed through the wall like a wrecking ball dipped in acid. Bricks went flying. Pipes burst. Damian’s cape caught fire somehow. No one questioned it.

Now they crouched behind a rusted floodgate half a tunnel away, trying to breathe through the aftermath and not gag on the stench.

Jason didn’t look rattled. Jason *never* looked rattled anymore, which made it worse.

“That,” Dick panted, “was not in the plan.”

“I *had* a plan,” Jason said evenly, adjusting his cowl with slow, deliberate calm. “The plan was Protocol Thirty-One: lure, disorient, engage.”

“You forgot the part where we *die horribly,*” Tim snapped, pulling sewer gunk off his gauntlet with visible disgust. “He almost bit Damian!”

“Tt. I would’ve stabbed his eye out first,” Damian muttered, clutching a blade that was probably not standard-issue.

Jason turned to him, calm as ever. “Watch the temper, Robin. Batman doesn’t tolerate insubordination.”

“*You’re not—*” Damian stopped himself, growled low in his throat, and punched the nearest pipe.

Dick sat down hard on a slab of concrete, head in his hands. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss Bruce.”

“Blasphemy,” Jason said. “You should be grateful. Bruce would’ve made us *split up.*”

“You *did* make us split up.”

“Temporarily. *Strategically.* Also, you forgot to say ‘Batman.’”

Tim groaned. “I’m gonna throw myself into the sewer water and let natural selection handle this.”

Jason ignored them all and pulled out a datapad, tapping it like he hadn’t just gotten them almost devoured. “Croc thinks he has the Batmobile. But he doesn’t know we’ve got leverage.”

“Leverage?” Dick echoed. “Do you mean the stolen WayneTech suppressor chip he yanked off the engine block?”

Jason raised one finger. “No. Better. His *location.*”

There was a silence.

Then Damian said, “That’s not leverage. That’s a death certificate.”

But Jason was already standing again, voice low and grave as ever. “Prep yourselves. Ten minutes until Phase Two.”

Dick blinked. “Wait, what’s Phase Two?”

Jason’s eyes gleamed behind the cowl. “Negotiation.”

Chapter Text

They returned to the flooded corridor where Croc had last thundered off, the scent of mildew and scorched pipe insulation still hanging in the air like an omen. Lights flickered. Shadows danced. Water sloshed over their boots with every tense step.

Jason walked in front, cloak flared, posture stiff with theatrical authority.

“Hold,” he ordered with a raised fist, straight out of Bruce’s playbook. “Let *Batman* handle this.”

Dick muttered, “I feel like I’m watching a child do Shakespeare in Kevlar.”

“Shut it, *Nightwing*,” Jason growled without turning. “Maintain comms discipline.”

Tim made a gagging motion behind his back. Damian just rolled his eyes and muttered something in Arabic that was probably not a compliment.

From deeper in the tunnels, the air shifted—thickening. Then came a wet, slithering scrape. A drag. The sound of something enormous shifting its weight.

Then:

“I *smell* you,” Croc hissed from the dark. His voice slithered through the echo chamber of broken pipes and moss-crusted walls. “I *smell* the little ones too.”

Jason didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, boots splashing deliberately in the filthy water. “This ends now, Croc.”

From the shadows came the gleam of amber eyes. Then a slow, rumbling laugh, like a truck with broken brakes.

“Well, well. *Batman.* Come to fetch your toy?”

Jason kept his voice cold and exact, like Bruce on a bad night. “You stole from me. That was your first mistake.”

Croc stepped forward, hulking, wet, and horrifying. Blood was still dried along one fang. The Batmobile’s remote ignition fob swung mockingly from a cable around his thick neck.

“My *first* mistake?” Croc repeated, chuckling. “Then what was the second?”

Jason’s jaw flexed beneath the cowl. “Assuming I came here to talk.”

There was a pause. Dick stiffened. Tim’s hand hovered near his belt. Damian stopped blinking entirely.

Then Jason raised a hand — not a fist, not a batarang. A flat palm.

“But I’ll give you one chance. Return the vehicle, tell me who you’re working with, and I’ll make sure Arkham feeds you this time.”

Croc bared his teeth. “I ain’t *working* with nobody, Bat-brain. This is personal. You never listened to me. None of you did. I came to you for help once. Remember? And you locked me up like I was a mutt.”

“You ate two people.”

“They *shot* at me!” Croc roared, slamming his tail into the wall. The echo made even the rats scatter. “You think I *wanted* to be this thing?!”

Jason stood still as a stone, unblinking.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But you *are.* And it’s time you faced what that means.”

Croc laughed again — this time louder, deeper. The fob jingled against his chest.

“I *am* facing it,” he growled. “I’m the beast Gotham deserves. You? You’re just a man in a cape pretending to matter.”

The tension in the tunnel cracked like a fault line.

Jason’s voice dropped, low and lethal: “Wrong answer.”

Croc lunged.

And that’s when everything changed.

The floor beneath Croc’s charging feet gave way — just a hair. Not enough to fall, just enough to tilt. His weight shifted mid-charge.

From the tunnel walls, a net of microline cables snapped free from their magnetic clamps, tightening like a spiderweb with a thirst for blood.

Croc smashed through one — then screamed as the second layer clamped down. Electrified.

The Batboys leapt into motion, each moving according to a plan they hadn’t even known they were part of.

Tim slammed a detonator on a side panel, triggering a flash-burst of light that overloaded Croc’s photoreceptors. Dick flanked left and kicked a power conduit, sending a jolt straight into the wet floor. Damian vaulted overhead and drove a shock blade straight into Croc’s shoulder.

It was all brutal. Efficient. Clearly orchestrated.

And none of them had been warned.

Jason, meanwhile, stood in the center, unmoving, voice steady over comms. “Protocol Thirty-Seven: Beast Barricade. Hope you all memorized it.”

“You *made that up just now!*” Dick yelled, elbow-deep in sewer water.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jason replied. “Batman always has a plan.”

As Croc snarled and thrashed in the webbing, blood leaking from his mouth, Jason stepped forward, cape swaying behind him.

“Let’s talk again, Waylon. This time, you listen.”

Chapter Text

There was a certain kind of silence that only came from dragging a bloodied, unconscious reptilian war criminal up the concrete stairs of Gotham’s old municipal lock-up at three in the morning.

Well—that, and the grunts of four brothers who had been psychologically tortured by their own kin in a Batsuit for the past eight hours.

“Why is he this *heavy*?” Tim muttered, bracing Croc’s tail against his shoulder as they turned a corner.

“Because he eats criminals like protein bars,” Dick said. “And I think Jason stuffed gravel into his back to make it worse.”

“Code names!” Jason snapped from the front, striding dramatically with cape swishing like it had sentience. “You want push-ups?”

“No Batman. Sorry Batman. I’ll watch it Batman.”

Jason didn’t even glance back. “Stay in formation. Gotham expects discipline.”

“Gotham expects therapy,” Damian growled.

“I *still* don’t know why we can’t just leave him down here and let GCPD finish the job?” Dick asked—for the tenth time. He half-expected to be ignored again, but *Batman* turned and gave him a look.

“I gave you what you asked. Now it’s time I get paid for it.”

A cold shudder ran down Dick’s spine.

“Wait! I thought we agreed a nice brotherly night would *do* it?”

There was a screech—maybe Croc’s tail against the ground. Maybe Jason’s grin.

Dick’s knees buckled, and it had *nothing* to do with the behemoth’s crushing weight.

As they turned the corner, Dick was struck by a sudden, sinking realization: he was *powerless* in this massive, unfair world.

Outside, Commissioner Gordon waited under the sickly green glow of the courthouse lamps, arms crossed, a cigarette burning between two fingers. His mustache twitched as he spotted the familiar silhouette of Batman striding into the lot—followed by three very, very done-with-this young vigilantes dragging a half-conscious lizard man.

Behind him, another figure stood tall in a wool coat.

Tim sucked in a breath. “Oh no.”

And Dick knew that if they had to face only one bloodthirsty monster tonight, it *wasn’t* Killer Croc.

Because standing next to Gordon—jaw clenched, brow furrowed, impeccably dressed despite the hour—was *Bruce Wayne.*

“Red! You were supposed to keep him busy!” Dick hissed.

Tim’s eyes went wide. “*And I did!* I *did* keep him busy—with Gordon!”

Dick tried to snatch the cape and stop Jason. “Batman, *please* don’t do this to me—”

Jason did not relent.

He marched up to Gordon, squared his shoulders, and said, in Bruce’s gravel-coated voice:

“Commissioner.”

Gordon looked him up and down. Blinked.

“…Batman?”

And then Bruce saw them.

Saw ‘Batman.’

Saw ‘Robin, Nightwing, Red Robin’ behind him—wrecked and limping. Tim with blood still drying on his jaw. Damian’s hood in tatters. And Jason, glorious Jason, walking up with the full Bat-voice locked and loaded.

Dick could feel his soul *leave* his body.

“Commissioner,” Jason said smoothly, dropping Killer Croc to the pavement like a sack of wet cement. “One more for the Arkham Express. He’ll need five sedatives, restraints, and a tetanus shot. He bit someone again.”

Bruce made a strangled sound.

Gordon was astonished. “You actually brought him in. I thought we were well past the point of neat endings.”

Jason held Gordon’s gaze, calm and unyielding. “The threat has been neutralized. But this wasn’t why I wanted to see you.”

Jason turned to Bruce and stepped closer.

“Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce stiffened.

Gordon frowned. “I was having a talk with Mr. Wayne about some urgent documents his son handed me this evening. It was already finished.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Commissioner,” Jason said, locking eyes with Bruce—who, to his credit, didn’t flinch.

Gordon looked between them. “What are you trying to say, Batman?”

“Commissioner,” Jason said coolly, “I’m here to submit a formal concern.”

“A… concern,” Gordon echoed slowly.

“About Mr. Wayne,” Jason said, head tilting slightly in that perfect Batman way. “He’s been interfering with investigations. With minors. I believe it warrants further scrutiny.”

“Excuse me?” Gordon frowned, not trusting his ears.

Jason took another step—boots heavy, voice like dry thunder. “You know, Commissioner, for a man so invested in orphan welfare, Mr. Wayne has a surprisingly poor track record in child safety.”

Bruce’s nostrils flared. That was it. His only reaction.

Which, by Bruce standards, meant he was internally howling.

“Are you—” Gordon looked between them. “Are you *accusing* Mr. Wayne of misconduct?”

Jason stood taller. “I’ve received multiple reports of child abuse. Apparently, Mr. Wayne isn’t that sweet angel who saves orphans off the street like he *pretends* to be. I must say—I’m almost impressed by the image he’s built. But not every act lasts forever, Mr. Wayne. Don’t you agree?”

Gordon looked at Bruce, wide-eyed.

Bruce stared Jason down.

Dick knew that look.

It was the look Bruce gave a criminal who’d made it *personal*.

Jason, of course, was utterly undeterred.

“Ask him what happened to his son when he accidentally broke a giant screen in this man’s house.”

“Batman,” Gordon said slowly, “This is Mr. Wayne. One of the most respected men in this city—”

“And also a child abuser.”

“I can’t charge someone like Wayne without *proof*.”

“You can question his butler. He’s an honest man.”

Did he *really* think Alfred would testify against Bruce? Dick wondered. Then he remembered: this was Jason. Alfred would absolutely testify—if it meant protecting Jason from emotional damage. Or *anyone* standing in Jason’s way.

Gordon hesitated**, clearly confused.

Bruce looked like he’d forgotten how breathing worked.

His jaw twitched. His eyes flicked—*pleaded*, really—over the broken mess of his children, as if begging someone to say *anything that made sense.*

And then, of course, *Robin stepped forward.*

Chapter Text

“I can provide proof,” Damian said solemnly, reaching into his utility belt.

“Oh no,” Dick whispered.

Damian pulled out a glossy printed photo. A full-color shot of *himself* in civilian clothes—sweatpants, a Metropolis Zoo t-shirt—hanging *upside down* by his knees from the fifth-floor stairwell railing, arms crossed, scowling at the camera like a furious bat-shaped possum.

“I received this from Damian Wayne himself,” he intoned. “He managed to contact me after being subjected to this humiliating punishment. He was forbidden from contacting any allies. He had to smuggle this out in a hollowed-out protein bar.”

Tim choked.

Bruce stared into Dick’s eyes with the cold intensity of a man witnessing betrayal carved into stone. In utter silence, his gaze screamed: "What catastrophic hell have you unleashed, Dick Grayson?"

Dick closed his eyes. *Please let me pass out.*

Damian continued with unrelenting calm.

“This is a child’s cry for help. He claimed Mr. Wayne forces his children to do physical penance when they disobey. He said they’re made to hang for hours like bats—without bathroom breaks.”

“That’s not—” Bruce began.

“He said his brother, Timothy, provoked him into it with a dare involving a stack of Jell-O cups and five dollars, and yet *he alone* was punished. Tell me, Commissioner—does that sound fair?”

Gordon looked deeply uncomfortable. “Well… when you put it like that…”

“Absurd!” Bruce barked, eyes flashing. “That wasn’t *punishment*, he was doing it for a *bet*! He got grounded because I caught him! I told them both—Tim’s punishment was—”

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Jason interrupted coolly.

“You haven’t even *heard*—”

“Commissioner, I suggest CPS pays Mr. Wayne a courtesy visit. The evidence speaks for itself.”

Bruce Wayne opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He looked at his children.

Tim winced.

Damian folded his arms, utterly content with himself.

Dick offered a look that said *I tried*.

And Jason—Jason just turned away with the smugness of a man who’d waited *years* for this moment.

“Remember, Mr. Wayne. You might be this city’s prince…

…but *I’m Batman*.

I’m vengeance.”

***

As they piled back into the Batmobile—beaten, bruised, and dripping with sewer-stained water—Damian leaned back with a small, victorious smirk.

“Gordon needs to keep Father under suspicion until morning,” he said casually. “It gives us time to flee the city.”

Dick nearly dropped his head to the dashboard. “Why Damian? Just why?”

“Don’t worry, Grayson,” Damian replied, holding up crossed fingers.

“I had these up the whole time.

It was a *very* white lie.”