Chapter Text
The Batcave was experiencing what Dick Grayson would later describe as "a normal amount of chaos" and Jason would describe as "absolute bullshit" and Damian would describe as "an embarrassment to the legacy of the Bat."
Terry McGinnis stood in the center of the cave, looking deeply uncomfortable, which was impressive considering he regularly fought psychotic clowns in a flying bat-suit.
"So let me get this straight," Jason said, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his domino mask. His voice had the particular flatness of someone who had seen too much and was now being asked to see more. "You came all the way back from the future—"
"Not all the way, it's like, a specific temporal corridor—"
"Nobody asked for the mechanics, future boy." Jason waved a hand dismissively. "You came back to check on the Joker."
"I'm not checking on him per se—"
"You literally said 'I'm here to check on the Joker' thirty seconds ago," Damian cut in from where he stood with his arms crossed, looking like a very small, very angry lawn ornament.
Terry opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Okay, yes, but it's more complicated than that—"
"Oh, great. Look, it's Future Batman again," Jason announced to no one in particular, gesturing vaguely in Terry's direction.
"You know, I hate that that's my name in your guys' heads," Terry muttered.
"It's not even a name in our heads." Dick Grayson swung down from one of the higher platforms with the kind of acrobatic flourish that made it impossible to tell if he was showing off or if his body simply refused to move normally. "Bruce wrote it on a sticky note on our Bat-computer."
Terry stared at him. "He what."
"There's a sticky note. It says 'Future Batman (Terry) - DO NOT FEED AFTER MIDNIGHT.'"
"I'm going to kill that man," Terry said, with the calm certainty of someone who had been saying those exact words for approximately three years.
"Terry." Bruce's voice rolled across the cave like distant thunder. He hadn't moved from his position by the main console, but somehow he managed to take up more space than a man his size should. "What are you doing here again?"
Terry shifted his weight. "I'm, uh—"
"You don't have to say it." Jason's grin was visible even beneath his helmet. "We know you're here for the Joker."
"It's so predictable every time," Damian agreed.
"Dude, this is starting to become like a hobby for you." Tim Drake looked up from the tablet he'd been scrolling through, clearly hoping to find something—anything—more interesting than this conversation. His tablet showed a stock market graph. He was not finding anything more interesting.
"I'm not visiting for fun," Terry said, and there was something in his voice that made even Bruce look up. "I'm just checking in."
"You're checking in on the Joker?" Jason asked.
"Yes."
"Literally the same sentence," Damian said, and he sounded almost bored, which meant he was paying very close attention.
"Listen." Terry stepped forward, and the shadows in the cave seemed to lean away from him. "I'm here for a particular purpose, okay? I'm here to make sure the Joker stays the Joker."
Silence fell. The kind of silence that preceded something terrible.
"Huh?" Jason said eloquently.
"What do you mean, 'the Joker stays the Joker'?" Dick's usual cheerfulness had dimmed considerably. "Like, stays the same person?"
"No, I mean—" Terry ran a hand through his hair, which was probably a nervous habit he'd picked up from Bruce, which was a disturbing thought for everyone involved. "In my future, right, Joker is not like a guy. He's like a disease. It's a mantle. An identity that passes on."
"Oh, that's not concerning at all," Tim muttered.
"Okay, so why don't you handle him in your time?" Jason asked, crossing his arms. "If you've got a Joker-shaped problem, future boy, that sounds like a future-boy-shaped solution."
"Because—" Terry hesitated. "Because something happens. And someone becomes the Joker."
The temperature in the cave dropped approximately fifteen degrees.
"Oh, that's horrible," Dick said quietly.
"And I feel horrible for the guy who has to become the Joker," Tim added, because he was, at his core, an empathetic person who had not yet realized the conversation was about to become his problem.
Bruce's jaw tightened. "Father?" Damian noticed immediately, because Damian noticed everything. "What seems to be the issue?"
"Nothing." Bruce's voice was too controlled. "Nothing."
Terry and Tim were now staring at each other with expressions that suggested mutual horror, though possibly for different reasons.
"Okay, well," Tim said, clearly trying to steer the conversation away from whatever emotional minefield Bruce was currently navigating, "if you have to come to our time, it means that your Joker is either monologuing too much or he's just annoying. So at least we know the bar is low."
"Yeah, he does really talk a lot," Terry admitted, grateful for the subject change. "Like, a lot a lot."
"He sounds like the worst," Dick said sympathetically.
"Yeah, why do you keep doing that?" Jason asked suddenly.
Terry blinked. "Why do I keep doing what?"
"Why do you keep coughing?" Jason gestured vaguely at Terry's general direction. "You've coughed like four times since you got here. You got future COVID or something?"
"Sorry, it's the bat dust in here." Terry waved a hand at the various accumulated artifacts, costumes, and questionable taxidermy that decorated the cave. "I'm allergic to it."
Tim's head tilted. "The bat dust?"
"Are you hearing yourself right now?" Dick asked, somewhere between amused and concerned.
"Can we just get back on with the Joker?" Terry pleaded. "Please? I'd rather talk about the clown than explain why my immune system is three hundred years behind your particulates."
"I'm just confused how that works." Dick paced a few steps, his brow furrowed. "Like, how do we go from this kind of crime boss Joker to this, like—what was he? A disease? A mantle?"
"Tim." Bruce's voice cut through the chatter like a blade. "I really don't wanna talk about this."
Everyone stopped.
Tim turned to look at Bruce with the particular expression of someone who had just realized they were the protagonist of a horror movie. "What is wrong?"
"And please don't encourage him," Bruce added, which was not a denial, which was significantly worse.
"Encourage him to what?" Dick asked.
"What are you hiding from us, dude?" Tim demanded, turning back to Terry. "What's the big secret?"
"I'm not hiding anything." Terry's voice had gone high-pitched in the way that meant he was absolutely hiding something. "It's just—"
"What." Tim took a step forward. "Is Joker one of us?"
Terry made a sound like a dying animal.
"Oh my god," Jason breathed. "Oh my god."
"Uh, well." Terry was now staring at the ceiling as if hoping it would collapse and end his suffering. "I know it wasn't me," Damian offered helpfully. "I've never been fond of clowns, and I refuse to lower myself to such theatrical nonsense."
"That would be correct," Terry said, sounding almost relieved. "It was not you."
"No, it wasn't my ass either." Jason pointed at himself. "I've got better taste in career trajectories."
"You don't exist," Terry said flatly.
Jason's hand dropped. "Oh."
"Okay, best to be Dick then," Tim said, because he was still trying to solve this like a puzzle rather than accepting that he was the puzzle.
"You became the Joker?" Dick asked Terry, looking almost flattered. "Aww, wait, is that bad? That feels bad."
"It's really not that funny," Terry muttered, though no one had laughed.
"First—what? I don't get it." Tim was frowning now, genuinely confused, which was a bad sign because Tim Drake solved things. Tim Drake figured things out. And he was very close to figuring out that he was the thing that needed solving.
"What is it?" Tim asked slowly. "Like, I became the Joker or something?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Terry said nothing. Which was, unfortunately, an answer.
"No." Tim's voice cracked. "No."
"How does that even happen?" Tim demanded, and his voice had gone up an octave, and Jason was now making eye contact with Dick in the particular way that meant we are witnessing a breakdown and I don't know what to do with my hands.
"It's a long story—"
"How does that even happen, Terry."
"But I'm just here to check in and make sure that you stay Tim."
"Stay Tim?" Dick echoed. "What does that mean, 'stay Tim'?"
"What?" Tim's voice was approaching frequencies that would soon be inaudible to human ears.
"Wait, so you're not actually here for the Joker?" Jason asked, clearly delighted by the turn this conversation had taken. "You're here for this Joker?"
"I'm not the Joker!" Tim pointed at himself frantically. "I'm standing right here! I'm Tim! I'm currently Tim!"
"Yeah, somebody check his backpack for crowbars," Jason suggested.
"Dude!"
"I always knew Drake was a little suspicious," Damian mused, tapping his chin. "His coffee consumption alone suggests a concerning relationship with chaos."
"Are you serious?" Tim looked around at his family—his family—for support. "Are any of you serious right now?"
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tim, you're not the Joker—"
"Not yet," Terry added helpfully. Unhelpfully. Incredibly unhelpfully.
"NOT HELPING," Tim and Bruce said in unison.