Chapter Text
Jason whistles appreciatively, pushing open the library's arched double doors. Books were strewn about, some piled neatly on end tables while others were sorted haphazardly on the floor. He vaguely remembers how his younger self laid them out. The ones on the floor were titles he was unsure about, while the end tables were reserved for books on his reading list. Nostalgia eats at the back of his mind, a smile forming on his face remembering how much Alfred had loathed the mess.
Bruce was the one who convinced him to dust around Jason’s process. It was just one of the few things his father did to make ensure Jason felt comfortable in the manor.
Nowadays, Jason isn't so disorganized. He’d keep the new arrivals in one place, only sorting them into their proper genres after finishing them. Most of his current reading list, (future reading list?) he'd keep in his apartment, periodically returning to the manor to switch them out for space. His tiny Gotham apartment could only hold so many books, and Jason genuinely enjoyed adding to the manor’s collection–even if he’d never admit it. Besides… Jason spent enough time in the manor where having his favorites stored here (there? Here, but future here?) was more convenient.
“It looks like a tornado tore through here.” Damian steps through the large double doors behind him, those sharp, green eyes studying the mess. There’s a towel around his neck, catching any small droplets that fall from his still-wet hair.
“I had a system.”
“You mean it’s like this purposefully?”
Jason doesn’t dignify that with a response, scooping up the first book he doesn’t recognize and anchoring himself in Bruce’s reading chair.
If it was going to be anything like yesterday, then Bruce would spend most of his time cooped up in the Batcave. And without anything productive to do himself, Jason figures reading is as good a time waster as any. The Stranger is the title that greets him when he takes the time to actually look at the book in his hands. One of his teacher’s recommendations, he knows, but if Jason got around to reading it, the memory died when he did. He opens the cover, keeping his youngest brother in his peripheral vision.
Damian appears marginally less upset than he had last night, his posture relaxed as he continues to stare at the safety hazard Jason made out of the library. But appearance could mean very little in this family at times, so Jason hesitates to take it at face value. Maybe if he'd had the chance to ask Dick how their talk went last night, Jason wouldn't feel so out of his element facing Damian today, but alas, he hasn't had the opportunity.
Jason wishes his brother would at least sit down- say something else about the mess or complain about Dick sticking them up here together. But, as the minutes stretch out, his brother just stands there. Frozen. It’s similar to how he'd acted previously at lunch. Only now, there’s no Dick to draw the real Damian out. Just Jason, and Jason has never been good at that.
Before Jason can open his mouth to try, his brother finally opens his mouth to speak.
“Before you– you were disorganized?”
What?
“What?”
Damian purses his lips indignantly, staring at the ground intensely for a moment. Like he’s reformulating his– approach? In his head.
“Before the pit changed you, you were disorganized?”
“Oh, I guess so.” Jason regards Damian carefully, the boy (yes, boy. Jason refuses to think of him as anything else right now) still hasn’t looked at him. “Before Bruce kidnapped me from the streets, I hadn’t had a home to keep clean. So I’m not so sure the change is as much pit-related as it is Alfred-related. Besides, It’s organized chaos.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“Fuck you.” He points to the pile by the door, “Historical non-fiction,” again to the stacks blocking access to the couch, “Mythology,” he kicks a pile by his feet, “Literary classics I would go on to reread a dozen times,” a nod to the neat array on his end table, “Those are recommendations from Bruce–”
“Okay,” Damian does look at him then, but his eyes dart away before Jason can meet them. “You’ve made your point.”
Weird. This is all way too weird. Sure, Jason and Damian’s relationship could sometimes be boiled down to ‘shared League of Assassins trauma’ but their conversations were usually less stunted than this. Especially in the last couple of years, when Damian really matured. Jon liked to joke that he was a ‘well-adjusted’ version of Bruce, and Jason really didn’t have any refutes to that.
Damian is a lot like their father, but Jason thought he’d outgrown Bruce’s awkwardness– at least with them.
“What's this about?”
“What is what about?”
Jason rolls his eyes, “Why ask about the pit? You know what it did to me.”
“I do,” His brother is silent for a moment, shifting his weight back and forth from one leg to the other. “But I hardly know what it changed you from.”
Uh, what? Jason tilts his head, and Damian lets out a tired breath.
“Everyone else knew you. Even Tim interacted with you before the Joker killed you.” Damian was the only one of them who could ever say it out loud, at least other than Jason himself. Secretly, he’s always appreciated that bluntness. It was nice knowing Bruce and Dick couldn’t stand to think about losing him but, sometimes, it was nicer to have someone fully acknowledge that it happened and not treat him like glass for it. “I did not.”
“Oh.” This was his brother’s way of asking Jason to– tell him. But what could he say? Even if Jason’s memories were perfectly intact, it’s not like he knew himself very well before he died. At least, he doesn’t think he did. His youngest brother scowls.
“Yes, oh.”
“Well,” He gestures vaguely to the mess around them. “I liked books.”
Damian doesn’t look appeased. “You like books now.”
“I don’t know– I liked school, playin’ chess with Alfred or Bruce when they were free. Once, I bugged one of Bruce’s Batarangs so I could eavesdrop on the Justice League, only for him to use it immediately and get the dead silence of a random abandoned warehouse.” Jason feels his chest tighten as items become harder to list, as the memories get fuzzier. “The first night I patrolled with Bruce, I broke someone’s nose and couldn’t stop laughing because Bruce was more worried about my hand than the poor guy whose only crime was actin’ shady on the first day Robin took the streets again.”
“You assaulted someone for ‘acting shady’?”
“In my defense, I’m pretty sure he admitted to somethin’ before I actually took the punch.”
Damian seems to consider this, his brows furrowed as if deep in thought. Jason decides not to disturb him, waiting awkwardly for Damian to sort through whatever intense calculations he was running in his head.
“It doesn’t sound like you were all that different.”
“It doesn’t–” Jason cuts off his own exasperation, “How?”
“You still play chess with Alfred, don’t you?”
“Sure, when I feel like losing.”
“You still attempt to infiltrate the watchtower, though I admit your attempts have improved.”
“Damian, I don’t really think–”
“And Father still worries about your hand more than any enemy you punch.”
It feels like all the air has been pulled from his lungs, the syllables burrowing into his brain one at a time. And suddenly, Jason understands what Damian is trying to say. That things have changed–but at the same time, haven’t. There’s a part of him that truly did die when the pit brought him back to life, but there’s so much more he's been able to recover with Bruce’s efforts. With everyone's efforts– including his own.
His brother is also saying, that no matter how many people he killed coming back from the dead, a part of Bruce was always still more worried about the son he just learned he still had.
“Meeting this version of you…” Damian finally looks him in the eyes. “I find it unnerving. But if what you described is truly how you were, then I do not believe you changed as much as everyone seems to think.”
“I–” Jason folds his hands together. “...Thanks, Dames.”
“Then, we are operating under the assumption that you no longer experience the Lazarus pit’s effects?”
“That’s what Dickwing seems to think,” Jason decides not to mention the Tower fiasco for now. “But I dunno, feels like I can hear it sometimes.”
“A placebo, probably.” Damian suggests. “The changes we’ve experienced due to this instance of time travel seem to be limited to our physical bodies. With a mind as used to the pit’s corruption as yours is, your brain could be conjuring a phantom of its effects. Still believing it’s a part of you, despite your cells having never been exposed to or corrupted by Lazarus”
“Well, isn’t that just lovely.” One more amazing thing he can thank his brain for. Phantom pit effects, flashbacks, and clown PTSD. (To be fair, you don’t live in Gotham if you don’t have at least some level of clown PTSD.) Jason groans into his hands.
His brother seems to agree with the sentiment if the frown on his lips is any indication.
-
The kitchen is… just as much of a disaster as Bruce anticipates. But, somehow, he can’t shake the warm feeling in his chest, even when Dick sweeps flour at him with an innocent expression that all but confirms he’s entirely guilty.
It’s been so long since the manor has felt this lively.
Of course, they do not quite get rid of all the evidence before Alfred returns, but Bruce thinks he’s too stunned by the sight (Bruce and Dick in the same room, alone, without arguing) to be as mad as he wants to be. He even offers to check on Jason and Damian, so Bruce doesn’t have to keep going up himself to make sure no one’s dead.
At least Damian won’t have to continue wearing Dick’s old clothes. Bruce regrets not being able to take Damian out to pick out a few things for himself, but right now, Damian being seen in public was too much of a risk. Soon… Soon they’ll need to contact his lawyers and get Damian official paperwork, but how difficult that process ends up being... It largely depends on the results of Damian's DNA test. Actually, that particular test should be finished around now.
“I asked Cyborg to take over training the Titans while we’re here.” That’s another thing, actually. ‘We’. Dick has used it a couple of times now, as though staying in the manor is something the teenager was actively planning on. He… didn’t have to. Bruce hadn’t asked him to. Dick should be with his team, with the family he made for himself. “I doubt it’ll be quite as effective without you there to run it, but it’ll give them something to do. It can get boring in the Tower without a bunch of crime fighting to keep you occupied.”
Dick sighs somewhat wistfully, the broom in his hands going still. “God knows Jump city is no Gotham.”
“Dick,” Bruce formulates his next few words carefully. “If you would rather return to the tower–”
Only to be cut off almost instantly.
“Cyborg’s got it, B.” His son waves a hand dismissively. “It’ll be good for him.”
It’s not that Bruce doesn’t agree with him, because he does. (Even if he didn’t, Dick knows his team. Bruce would be unwise to disregard his input.) It’s that staying away from the tower doesn’t have to mean staying in the manor– or even Gotham to begin with. The last thing Bruce wants is to make Dick feel like he’s trapped here, because that would do nothing to improve their already rocky relationship.
Only maybe… he shouldn’t push it. They’ve managed to go this long without fighting, and as worried as Bruce is, Dick seems– happy. Bruce is terrified to change that.
“Alright.” He concedes softly. “If you’re sure.”
Dick hums something in the affirmative, continuing his task offhandedly.
Eventually, the kitchen is back up to the butler’s standards. Honestly, Bruce is almost… disappointed. When was the last time he’d actually spent time with his eldest son? No fighting, no capes, just– existed in the same space. Bruce couldn’t say. He never forgot how much he’d missed Dick, but the void feels so much larger now that it’s being filled again. Still, the constant, overhanging fear of another fight is enough to have Bruce breathe a sigh of relief when his eldest child is out of his proximity.
He quickly changes in order to avoid tracking flour across the house, his ever-growing to-do list taking priority now that Alfred’s wrath has been avoided. And with that squared away, the vigilante descends into the cave.
If Bruce is completely honest with himself, he doesn't know what he wants the truth to be anymore. Damian being his biological son… it would make gaining custody of him significantly easier. Hell, it would even make announcing Damian to the public easier. A surprise child can be easily explained away as a drunken one-night stand, and the media wouldn’t question it for a second. But it would also mean Bruce left Talia with his child.
In the end, Bruce decides it doesn’t matter. Either way, Damian stays.
Bruce pulls up the results and, just like that, at least part of Damian’s story proves to be true.
It feels surreal, to have the near irrefutable proof laid out in front of him. Damian Wayne is just that, a Wayne, no matter how impossible it feels. The first thing Bruce does is send a notice to his lawyers. Now that Bruce is sure Damian is his, there doesn’t need to be nearly as much effort put into their cover story.
The second thing Bruce does is completely shut down.
He thought he’d prepared himself for how it would feel, for the violation, the nausea. He hadn’t been prepared for the guilt, for the sinking feeling that this is what she wanted. That if the league couldn’t have Bruce as its successor, they’d take his son. That it’s his fault. That, if he hadn’t denied her, Damian would have never had to grow up a child soldier.
Why couldn’t he have at least put it together? Brought himself to think about it for more than two seconds and figured out her true motivation. Maybe then, Damian wouldn’t have had to run away on his own.
If that– if everything Damian claimed is the truth, what if the boy had never worked up the courage? When would Bruce have found out he had a son that needed saving?
Bruce prints the report and exits the cave. With this… with his lawyers probably already preparing for ‘Brucie Wayne’ to apply for custody, they needed to start talking about school, (If he places well, Bruce might be able to get him enrolled before school starts back up for the year.) about– everything. About if Damian is really okay with having Bruce as a father more than biologically.
He passes by Damian’s room twice before he finds the will to stop, peering in unobtrusively when he notices the door’s open. Damian is on the floor, staring at the miniature suits and the more-casual but still-fancy clothing blankly. Bruce sighs quietly to himself, of course Alfred would prioritize formal wear.
Bruce taps his knuckles against the hardwood frame, “Damian?”
The boy opens his mouth as if to respond, before closing it and furrowing his brows together.
“... Bruce,” He greets tentatively. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” Bruce kneels next to where the boy is seated on the floor. “If you’d prefer something else, we can pick out clothes together next time. Alfred won’t be offended.”
Damian frowns, picking up one of the mini suit jackets and sliding it gracefully onto a hanger.
“I do not require anything more than this.” Predictably, the comment only solidifies Bruce’s resolve to fix the boy’s (still fairly barren) wardrobe. What is it with his kids always refusing to let him buy them things? “Is there something you came here to discuss?”
The question sobers his mind, the paper held in his hands becoming almost heavy. Bruce doesn’t know what to say, it’s obvious enough that the kid already knows. But confirming, that’s something else. Especially when Damian has never met him, when Damian has no real reason to feel welcome. Bruce swallows nervously,
“The… DNA results confirm your relation to me.” He shifts so he’s seated fully next to Damian, their knees just barely touching. Shame and guilt gnaw away at him when Damian meets his eyes, but Bruce forces the words out anyway. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“You couldn’t have been,” The boy shrugs. “You didn’t know I existed.”
“Even still.” Bruce reaches out then, hesitantly putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders. When Damian doesn’t pull away, Bruce pulls him into his side. “I’m sorry.”
The boy shifts in the embrace, his smaller arms wrapping around Bruce’s middle.
“You’re here now,” Damian whispers, his boyish voice sounding older, somehow. “So I forgive you. Okay, Dad?”
Bruce’s brain blue screens, a rush of sudden, overwhelming emotions flooding through his system making his ears warm and his hands numb. Damian doesn’t move from his side, doesn’t make a single effort to backtrack or correct the address. Momentarily, all of Bruce’s insecurities fade to background noise, and the idea of raising Damian himself doesn’t seem so selfish anymore. This… isn’t like Jason or Dick.
In Damian’s case, the boy might actually want Bruce to be his father.
“Alright, Son.”
-
The indoor gym is a lot emptier than Dick remembers. Of course, there is still all of his acrobatics equipment taking up a good portion of the right side, but the left is missing Jason’s numerous weights, the punching bag that always leaks sand everywhere because his younger brother hits too hard for his own good. It’s missing Damian's practice swords, the authentic dojo mat the young assassin persuaded Bruce to buy because the ones they had just ‘weren't the same’.
It’s missing Tim and Barbara’s exceedingly ridiculous mechanical sparring partners, Steph’s collection of combat high-heels. It’s even missing Duke’s treadmill, strategically the closest machine to Bruce’s sectioned space– and thus– the least likely to be destroyed by one of Tim’s robots. (Barbara’s either worked or didn’t, Tim’s were prone to explode upon failure.)
Dick should have just trained in the Batcave, awkward interactions with his father be damned. All seeing this place did was remind him just how lonely the manor must have felt for Bruce after he left. (Not for the first time, Dick is glad Jason found his way into their father’s life.)
He throws one last, depressing glance at the empty side of the gym, before setting down his water and spreading chalk all over his hands. Deep down, Dick always knew mending their relationship from what it’s been for the last some odd years was going to take time. Hell, the catalyst the first time around had been Jason’s death. So of course, realistically, Bruce wouldn’t be comfortable around him this fast.
But fuck, does Dick want to hug his dad.
It feels like seeing him is only getting harder, the emotions building in his chest to the point they’re painful. The (younger than normal) vigilante huffs into the silence, shaking the stiffness from his shoulders.
Dick spends most of his time futzing around with some of his old gymnastics routines, trying to get a hold of his shorter limbs and lighter weight. In some ways, his gymnastic moves were easier without his growth spurt, even if it felt like he couldn’t put nearly enough power into the moves for them to be viable. Still, as a couple of hours roll by, his control over his body massively improves– the old muscle memory snapping back into place.
He’s in the middle of a pommel routine when the sound of those glass double doors sliding open breaks his concentration.
“Ah, Master Richard.” Alfred bows politely, and Dick dismounts the expensive equipment with a flip. “Don’t mind me, I was only going to switch off the light if the Gym was not in use.”
“You’re all good, Alfie. I just didn’t want to bother Bruce by training down in the cave.”
“Surely I’ve misheard you, Master Richard.” The butler hands him his water bottle. “Because I could have sworn you insinuated your presence as being something other than a blessing.”
“My bad,” Dick gives him a diffident grin, accepting the bottle. “How… how have things been here? Collect any embarrassing stories to tell me about my new baby brother? Or, not my new new one, but my old new one.”
“Unfortunately for you, Young Master Jason is far less prone to embarrassing shenanigans, and more so to dangerous ones.” There is hardly any attempt to conceal the fondness in the words. “I’m afraid the most I can offer, is that he leaves the library a right mess.”
“How will we ever manage?”
“You tell me. Because it appears to me, Master Richard, that you and Master Bruce have become quite the cleaning duo.” Alfred’s usual British sarcasm softens towards the end, a genuine smile breaking through his usually blank (Professional, the man would protest) face. Funny how Alfred’s approval makes him feel like so much less of a failure.
If Alfred’s praising him, his efforts must be paying off more than he’s giving them credit for.
“Yeah. I guess so.” Dick smiles deviously. “Be careful what you wish for though, else you’ll be out of a job.”
“Perish the thought.” The butler will forever deny it, but he chuckles when Dick laughs aloud at the dry remark.
“Well, I’ll let you handle Jason’s book hurricane then.” Dick pulls one arm over his chest, stretching the muscle out. “I should get back to it.”
“Of course, but if you would allow me to ask one more question?”
“Sure thing, Alf.”
“Something’s changed for you, hasn't it?” Oh, Dick really should have seen this coming. It’s… just like he said, Alfred was a neutral party during all their fighting. He knew better than most why Dick had been so adamant on making something for himself. Bruce, while definitely trying his best to understand, always put too much of the blame on himself, always regarded Dick starting fights as something he could change, if only he learned to say or do the right things.
Truthfully, there are times Dick fought Bruce even when his father did do everything right.
Anger is not an emotion Dick is proud of. Even after all these years, when it’s hardly who he is anymore, remembering how he’d handled his early relationship with Bruce makes his heart sink. There were so many times when all he did was say the most hurtful thing he could think of. So many times when screaming ‘you’re not my father’ was easier than facing the new and complicated emotions welling up inside him.
But there were– good times, too. Of course there were. Some made even their worst moments feel worth it, towards the end. Still, if Dick could hasten the process…
He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, strategically avoiding Alfred’s gaze. “Am I that obvious?”
“My time in service to my country was not brief, Master Richard. I know well the type of happenings that cause a prideful young man to return home as you have. I will refrain from asking the details since you have not freely shared them,” Some of the tension seeps out of Dick’s shoulders. “But you should know that you are always welcome. Master Bruce would not hesitate to agree with that.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry I took so long.”
“You need not apologize.” The butler puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Not to people whose forgiveness you will always already have.”
“I missed you.” Dick disregards the hand on his shoulder in favor of dragging the stubborn butler into a hug. “Both of you.”
Alfred completes the embrace with a steady arm. “The feeling is returned, Master Dick.”
-
Bruce suits up the moment darkness fully sets over Gotham, determined to get something productive done after spending the whole rest of his day catching up on WE meetings and messaging back and forth with Barry about an ongoing case in Central City. (Speaking of the Justice League, there were only so many founder meeting requests Bruce could dodge from Clark before the Kryptonian became genuinely worried. Batman really needed to respond to him.) The kids would be okay for a couple of hours, and Bruce was overdue to check in on Barbara personally. He should really take some of the work off her hands if he's going to be back in Gotham. No matter how much she made it sound like she relished the work.
Still, he couldn’t ignore the main reason for this outing. His research into the Drakes made them more suspicious by the hour, and with at least part of Damian’s situation handled, checking on that loose end had moved up his to-do list.
He swallows the sigh before it forms. It’s–nice to be able to confirm something, even if it feels like the last thing Bruce wanted to be true. Damian is his son. No quotations, no extrapolations- his son. And Bruce had left him alone with the League of Assassins for over 10 years. Forced to grow up fast, forced to carry a responsibility he didn’t ask for, all because his father is a coward.
“Heading out?” Dick’s behind him then, hovering in a way Bruce can’t remember him doing before he left. “Need any backup?”
“I… appreciate the offer, Dick.” Bruce turns fully to face his eldest, his teenager currently sporting a loose t-shirt and horrible plaid sweats, and decides he doesn’t look anywhere near field-ready. “But it’s an in and out job, nothing that should require your assistance.”
Dick’s brows narrow, his arms coming up to cross disapprovingly. Bruce immediately backtracks.
“I just– would like you here. With everything that’s happened, it would–comfort me, for Damian and Jason to have you with them.”
“You think the League will come for him?”
“As Talia’s son, he would have had high clearance. If he’s truly gone rogue, they’ll want him terminated.” With the cowl in place, Bruce runs one last check of the batcomputer’s systems. Nothing seems out of place. “The updated security system should function properly, but if there is any chance the League can still get through–”
“Okay.” His son huffs, but Bruce can’t detect any anger in the breath. (Exasperation, maybe?) “I’ll stay. Just–promise you’ll call if anything happens.”
Bruce shifts under Dick's gaze, the sudden intensity unexpected. In that moment, it's hard to remember that Dick isn't his Robin anymore, that he isn't the little boy who stayed up way too late waiting for him on nights Bruce wouldn't let Robin out with him, and Batman defaults to how he'd always answered that request before.
“I will, Dick.” He promises. “Thank you for looking out for them.”
“Don’t thank me.” Dick crinkles his nose. “And I mean it, Bruce. If I find out something happened, and you didn’t call, there will be consequences.”
Bruce chuckles lightly despite himself. “Understood.”
Jack and Janet Drake hardly live far from the manor, but Bruce loads into the Batmobile anyway. With a visit to Barbara on his mental to-do list, it would be good to have the car on hand. He gives his son one final glance before taking the long way out of the Batcave and circling back to Bristol. Can never be too cautious. (A voice sounding suspiciously like Jason’s echoes in his head, Yes, yes you totally can.)
-
Tim has been feeling awful all day. Or, what he thinks has been all of a day. Everything was getting hazy, like he was only really conscious for a few hours at a time. Maybe– it’s actually been for weeks. Not knowing frustrates him, he’s supposed to be so good at keeping track. Maybe all of his talent died with Bruce too. Normally, he wouldn’t need to open his old blackout curtains to know if the sun was still up or not.
Normally, Tim wouldn’t be in this situation at all.
He pulls the black sheets off the windows violently, uncaring of how they might rip at the action. Dark, that’s–good? Tim was expecting it to be dark, he’d–wanted it to be dark. But with the window uncovered, all he can remember is how, when there was enough light, he used to be able to just make out where the Drake property ended and the Wayne’s began.
What if he doesn’t wake up? If magic really is involved and he’s stuck here forever? And just like that, all the questions, all the unknowns that have been piling up hit him at once. Do the others know he’s gone? Has the same amount of time passed for them? Who would have been able to get to him in the Batcave?
Another bout of nausea hits him, saliva pooling in his mouth gratuitously. That better not be a sign he’s gonna hurl, he’d sworn after he caught the stomach bug from Damian years ago he’d die before throwing up again. (There have been some very creative solutions in keeping that promise) His arms catch him before he completely topples over, supporting him against the window. The cool glass feels nice against his skin.
He forces himself to swallow thickly, using the wall to help guide him to the door. Items were strewn about the space, scattered clothes and old rubix cubes nearly becoming the death of him as he navigates his old room. A room so cold and hollow, no amount of mess could ever make it feel like a home. Funny, he doesn’t remember ever letting the place collect even a speck of dust before, always terrified his parents would come home to see it.
... He was a wishful thinker.
Tim bumps into a display table as he’s meandering through the hallways, setting it askew from its place perpendicular to the wall. It sends a perfectly innocent vase of flowers crashing to the ground. Not that he’s particularly worried about them, nothing alive could survive in the esteemed ‘Drake Manor’ for long.
They were fake. Just like everything else about this place.
A fake fireplace connected to an even faker chimney. Framed photos holding snapshots of framed family outings, each smile captured more forced than the last. Walls that looked made of stone only home to carefully carved foam made to emulate Old Gotham’s unique, gothic charm. It suited them, really. An imitation of a home for an imitation of a family.
Tim kicks the table back into place, the wood creaking at the force. What was the point of sending him here? To break him? He almost laughs. Whatever magic was keeping him here was apparently too stupid to realize he already was.
For… for everyone else this wasn’t the first time. Everyone, even the Justice League, have already mourned his father once. But when they lost Bruce the first time Tim had always believed, always knew his father was still out there. Doubt never touched his heart once.
Because it couldn’t, because accepting Bruce was really gone would break him. And faced with that reality, it did. He was hardly any help to Dick and Jason anymore, Barbara stuck picking up his slack while he lost hours in front of Bruce’s old suit. Tim knows they miss him too, knows their father’s death eats away at them like a parasite, but Tim can’t help but envy their ability to be productive in their grief.
Bruce was like that too, after losing Jason. Continuing his mission as Batman despite the pain doing everything it could to paralyze him. Would it destroy them like it destroyed Bruce? Did they… need him to save them too? Bruce… Bruce needed Tim to save him. He’s even said as much, over the years, that Tim saved him. That after Jason, he needed someone to remind him how to be human again.
Tim doesn’t think he really did all that much, Bruce was the one who made himself better for Tim’s sake. But if his brothers need someone to… remind them to be human again, maybe Tim can do it again? Something deep inside of him knows Bruce would want him to try.
It’s the first time in months that the spark to do something lights up inside him. The first time since Jason shot the supervillain that took Batman down that Tim doesn’t feel sick at the thought of being Red Robin again.
Speaking of, he still feels sick right now. (It’s a different kind of sick)
Batman had to deal with something like this once, right? Tim remembers seeing it in a file… a dream he had to kill himself to wake up from. Unhealthy… when has Tim ever claimed to be healthy? If it would get him back to his siblings–he could finally feel needed again. Of course they needed him, this… helping bats when they can’t be trusted to help themselves is what Tim’s hero persona was made for.
Let the supervillain of the week call him out for it, how he cares more about his so-called teammates than he cares for the people of Gotham. Tim wouldn’t let it bother him anymore, because protecting them meant protecting Gotham. Because having them alive would always save more lives in the end.
Let them call him pretentious, let Jason scream until his lungs give out. They needed someone to step up and make them choose to be better. If Tim could be that for Bruce… maybe he could be that for them. Bruce would never forgive them (or himself) if they fell apart because of him, he was probably rolling in his grave just thinking about it. Would they really be so much trouble for their father figure, even after his death?
Not on Tim’s watch.
He’s dragging a dining room chair out into the foyer before he’s actually thinking about it. Tim’s too squeamish for anything sharp and, seriously, he’s been choked enough for one lifetime so blunt force trauma really does sound like the most comforting option. Maybe he should just try and knock himself out first? Going, ‘full send’ as Steph puts it, right away seems dumb, even for his already foggy brain.
One quick, easy, knock on the head. That’s all. If he wakes up here, he’ll call for more drastic measures. As he climbs the tall (fake Bocote) chair, the dizziness he’s been feeling since he awoke intensifies. He doesn’t have time to question if it’s got something to do with the spell or not, because Tim’s world is slanting sideways as pins and needles attack his fingertips.
The young hero shuts his eyes tight, bracing for impact as another horrible bout of nausea returns full force at the free fall.
“Tim!”
Bruce?
His eyes shoot open, just in time to feel his fall cushioned by strong, armored, arms. It’s not the sickness causing the nausea anymore, not really. It’s Bruce in full Batman regalia hovering over him that truly causes his head to spin, Tim’s vision could never be blurry enough for him to mistake his father's worried frown. (When did his vision get so blurry anyway?)
“D-dad?”
-
Bruce sets the boy down carefully on the tiled floor, heart beating out of his chest as he checks the boy's head for injury. There’s no blood when he pulls his hands away, but as he tilts the boy’s chin up to shine a light in his eyes Bruce realizes he can feel the child's body heat through the batsuit’s gauntlets.
“Dad,” Tim repeats, one of his arms weakly attempting to grab the hand on his face. “You’re… here? How’mm I ‘suposta… whake up if yuh'r here…”
The boy wrinkles his nose. “Tahlking guh– got’ har-d.”
“You’re okay, kiddo.” Bruce brushes a strand of black hair out of Tim’s face. “Can you tell me where your guardian is?”
“Guar-di-an? Sho’re funny, Bruce.” Tim chuckles– almost derangedly– before his expression becomes somber. “I forgot u could b… fumny.”
The vigilante pauses, reaching up to make sure the cowl was still in place. Did Tim know a different Bruce? Was that who was supposed to be taking care of him? His blood was beginning to boil. How could anyone have let this happen? Have left a child alone long enough to let this happen?
Suddenly, full-on tears are streaming down the child’s face, Tim hiccuping through his words. “I don’ wanna forget, Dad. Why cann’ I jus r’member?”
“Tim, I need you to focus on me, okay? Eyes on me.” He cups one of Tim’s cheeks, his gloved thumb clearing away some of the tear tracks. “Who’s taking care of you?”
“No ‘un.” Bruce startles as Tim brings a hand up to poke at his face. (He tries to ignore how much it reminds him of Dick, the thought would only make him angrier) “Mot amymore.”
“Okay.” It’s definitely not okay. “I’m gonna lift you up now, alright?”
“Awright.”
Bruce doesn’t wait any longer, though, he’s careful not to jostle the boy too harshly in his arms. Something is obviously wrong, the slurred speech is concerning enough but– it almost seemed like the boy had been hallucinating. Even if Bruce gives the dazed child the benefit of the doubt, if he assumes the boy did somehow recognize Bruce through the batsuit, it still didn’t account for Tim’s repeated use of ‘dad’.
He backtracks through the manor, the only thought running through his mind to get this child help. What was he doing standing on a chair like that anyway? … Bruce figures it’s a question with no good answer.
Abruptly, Bruce is forced to reevaluate everything he’s seen or heard about the Drakes up until now. Janet and Jake Drake are out of the country, Bruce had confirmed that before he’d stepped foot on their property. Why on earth would they think it smart to leave the boy alone in Gotham? Even Bristol Gotham? There’s a reason all the manors in the area have security systems as advanced, if not more advanced, (Okay, maybe Wayne Manor was an outlier there) than Gotham City Bank.
The vigilante seethes silently as he opens the Batmobile’s passenger seat door. He sets Tim down as gently as he can manage with the awkward angle, strapping him in securely. The seat belt doesn’t fit him nearly well enough. Even being designed for Dick, it still felt like it was more danger to the boy than help. Bruce takes a deep breath and leaves the strap on regardless, it was better than nothing.
As Bruce is settling Tim into the car, the boy’s eyes flutter shut. His incoherent mumbling comes to a complete stop when Bruce finishes adjusting the strap as best he can. And Bruce, Panics. Panics, because Tim is showing every sign of having a head injury and no sign of being awake.
“Tim, kiddo. I need you awake for me, bud.” Bruce puts a hand on the boy's shoulder, shaking it slightly. Tim’s breathing is even (if slightly elevated) for the first time since Bruce had found him, but it does nothing to calm Bruce’s heart. Not right now. “Tim, wake up, please.”
“Mmph,” Not a word, but a good sign. He lifts Tim’s chin up, searching one last time for any sign of surface level injury.
“Need you awake, Timmy. Just for a little while.”
“Mmn tryin', Dad.” Tim squeezes his eyes shut tightly. “Mm’ tryin' sho bad.”
“Good, that’s good. Just like that then. Just until we get to where we’re going, is that okay?”
“Sho’kay. I got’it.”
“That’s right. You got it.” He pulls away reluctantly, climbs into the driver's seat as quickly as humanly possible, and punches in the directions to Leslie’s clinic.
Bruce strips what he can of the batsuit as the Batmobile speeds to their destination, all the while sparing no small amount of glances to his child passenger. In any other situation, he'd be terrified someone outside of his family knew his identity, already running over every possible outcome, every possible way to lie or charm his way out of the situation.
But Tim isn’t just any situation. He’s a kid with a dangerously high fever hallucinating his father (at this point Bruce is terrified there is head trauma) and potentially recognizing Bruce Wayne as Batman. A deep, deep part of him hopes the ‘Bruce’ part was another hallucination. The rest of him hopes it isn’t, if only so it will mean the boy is still partially lucid.
Free of most of the bulky kevlar, Bruce digs his civilian phone out of his pocket. Depending on how bad it is he might not be getting home any time soon.
“Dick,” Later, when Tim is alright and he’s panicking slightly less, Bruce will regret how terse the name comes out.
“Everything okay, B?”
No, but Bruce doesn’t say that.
“Something’s come up, it’s possible I’ll be home late–” The Batmobile jerks as it runs over a particularly deep pothole in Park Row’s progressively worse roads, and Tim lets out a heartbreaking whine at being jostled. He hesitates for all of two seconds before he’s tearing off his last gauntlet and reaching out to brush a lock of sweat-soaked hair from Tim’s face, temperature checking his forehead. It’s still burning up. “How are things? Damian and Jason alright?”
“They’re… fine. Bruce, is there someone with you? Are you sure you don’t need backup?”
“I have everything under control.” What a lie. “Contact me immediately if you need me, I’ll find a way to be there.”
“You worry too much.” Dick chuckles, but for the first time since the teenager came into his life, the sound is hollow. Bruce’s heart, if possible, drops further into his stomach. He’d definitely said something wrong. “Damian’s a great kid, B.”
“I have no doubt.” The batmobile swerves this time, and Bruce just barely steadies Tim before he falls over in the chair. “Listen, Dick. Thank you for offering, I didn’t mean to–”
“Just– be safe, B.” The teenager exhales defeatedly. “Please be safe.”
“I’ll be fine, chum.” Bruce tries his best to sound reassuring. He is– unsure of the result. “Take care.”
With the call ended, the vigilante sits the boy back up straight, caressing his too-warm cheek tenderly.
“You’re okay.” He whispers, heart pounding with anxiety when all Tim does is press weakly into his hand. “You’re okay, kiddo, it’s almost over. You’ll be alright.”
Bruce repeats it like a mantra, even as the weaponized vehicle slows to a stop. Even as he’s scooping the boy up and kicking off the last piece of the suit. Tim makes another, truly heartbreaking noise as he settles in Bruce’s arms, his shivering frame clinging to him like a lifeline. God, his fever is terrible.
With exactly zero grace, Bruce bursts through the clinic’s back door, praying dearly that parking the Batmobile so close out of panic and worry wasn’t going to bite him in the ass later. It has cloaking on, he reminds himself, focus on the kid.
Leslies startles at his brazen entrance, eyes widening. “Bruce–”
“Please help him.”
The rushed plea is all she needs to put the questions off for later, guiding Bruce to one of her only private rooms. She helps him deposit Tim onto the bed, checking his temperature with the back of her hand. As she starts to examine him Bruce moves to leave, knowing full well Leslie will scold him for being in the way if he stays. But Tim catches his wrist, in a move so fast and accurate it startles the nervous hero.
“Bruce…” Tim slurs, his grip as tight as his body would currently allow. “Please come back. Please… want my dad back.”
Bruce curses under his breath, taking Tim’s shaking hand into his. All of his calls to Janet and Jake had gone to voicemail, he couldn’t even offer him the comfort of knowing they were coming–or even worried about him. Bruce feels the rage come back with a vengeance, but he pushes it down to smile reassuringly.
“I’ll stay, Timmy.” Bruce hopes he doesn’t mind the nickname, he’s used to Jason and Dick adoring them. (Maybe Dick not so much. Not anymore.) “I’ll be right by your side, just focus on feeling better.”
“I–I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m so useless.” The boy’s eyes fill with tears as he tries to shake his head. His small hand twitches in Bruce’s hold. “I couldn’t–even though it’s my job–I couldn’t protect–”
“Shh. Tim, Kiddo, no. Please don’t say that, this isn’t your fault.” Deep breaths, Bruce. You can’t be angry yet. Not in front of the kid. “You’re sick, not useless. And you’ll be better in no time with Leslie taking care of you.”
“Damn right.” Leslie smiles confidently, but Tim’s hauntingly sad blue eyes don’t leave Bruce. She takes it in stride, readjusting the pillows above him on the bed. “Help me sit him up.”
Tim protests when Bruce lets go, but just as quickly quiets when Bruce slips a hand under his shoulders to help lift him up. Their impromptu doctor finishes settling the pillows in a more comfortable manner and Bruce's hand is immediately recaptured as soon as Tim is resting back against them. Leslie must see what he did because she shines a light in Tim’s eyes.
Bruce sees her shoulders sag slightly with relief as she pulls the flashlight away, but she still checks one last time for any bumps or bruises. She doesn’t find any, and Bruce feels himself breathe just a tiny bit easier. The slurred speech and hallucinations must be due to the fever.
“Got some medicine here, should help with that fever of yours.” Leslie hands Bruce a water bottle, the action drawing Tim’s eyes to her. “Think you can take two pills for me?”
The boy’s nose scrunches up, but when his eyes are on Bruce again, he sighs defeatedly.
“Fine. But– just two.”
“Just two.” She promises, and Bruce holds the water to his lips as steady as his nervous hands will let him. (Which is pretty steady. He is Batman, after all.) Tim coughs slightly, but both pills are swallowed obediently.
“You did great, kiddo.” He praises softly, running a hand through Tim’s hair. “Thank you.”
Tim hums, clearly pleased, and promptly passes out against his pillows. Just like he did in the car– out like a light. Bruce doesn’t pull away, and this time, he lets the boy sleep. Leslie continues her exam, looking over every inch of the boy she can get to without disturbing him before pulling back and setting up an IV. Bruce can’t even begin to describe how much it unnerves him that Tim doesn’t wake up or flinch when she inserts the needle.
“He’s moderately dehydrated. This will help.”
“And the fever?”
“I’m… not sure. He doesn’t show any other signs of a cold or flu. I’ll run the tests anyway, but it’s possible the fever is a result of dehydration or even stress. There are some beginning signs of malnutrition as well, his food intake will need to be monitored.”
Bruce sucks in a breath sharply, squeezing Tim’s hand. “Thank you, Leslie. I’m sorry to spring this on you.”
“No, you did a good thing, Bruce. Moderate dehydration is extremely dangerous in children, but I’m worried about keeping the IV in for too long. If he’s up for staying awake for a little while I’d like to remove it as soon as possible and switch him to an ORS solution.” She pauses, running a cool cloth over the boy’s forehead gently. “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”
He looks away when she tries to meet his eyes.
“Bruce, you’re barefoot in my clinic at 12:45 am on a Wednesday.” She crosses her arms, more out of exasperation than frustration. “I think I deserve some kind of explanation.”
Bruce winces, shuffling his feet together on the ground. He’d been too preoccupied with getting the batsuit off to worry about getting anything on. (Better to show up with no shoes at all, than fully armored combat boots.) Really, he’s not even barefoot, not if you count socks.
At least he remembered to put on a coat, she’d probably call Alfred in a panic if Bruce walked in with nothing but the Batsuits undershirt and a hastily thrown-on pair of slacks.
“Take a pair of our slippers home will you? You’ll step on a needle walking around Crime Alley like that.” Leslie lets silence fall between them at his nod, waiting. Bruce breaks under her stare.
“His name is Tim Drake. He’s my– neighbor.”
“So, not adopting this one then?”
The billionaire grunts intelligently, and Leslie seems to realize she won’t get more out of him than that. After his haphazard explanation of Jason’s arrival, she probably expected it. If he thinks about another mop of black hair running around the manor with any kind of yearning, it’s quickly squashed by how desperately Tim seemed to be wanting his father. (That, and the idea of putting another kid in danger because of him. No more kids on the streets. Please, no more kids on the streets.)
“Alright, keep your secrets. But he’s going to need proper care and supervision for the foreseeable future.”
“I called his parents, but I haven’t been able to get through. Even left multiple voicemails explaining the situation.”
“They aren’t home?”
Bruce shakes his head. “Out of the country.”
“Babysitter? Live-in nanny?”
“Tim said there was no one.”
Leslie frowns at that, hard. He, for one, agrees. Tim has obviously been alone a long time if he was able to get this bad, (His parents have been out of the country for months) and it breaks Bruce’s heart to think about how lonely it must have been in that big house. Bruce was lonely, and he’d had Alfred.
“Well, I do happen to know someone who would take real’ good care of him.” Leslie’s smile turns soft, eyes fixated where Bruce’s hands are caught in the child’s grip. “He seems to like you well enough.”
“I can’t just–take him home,” Bruce says, exasperated. “That’s actually kidnapping, Alfred would murder me.”
“Funny, I seem to recall those two things having zero effect on you when you brought home a certain fowl-mannered 12-year-old.” She teases. “But–seriously, Bruce. I would contact child protective services–one of your lawyers, if you really can’t trust them. He’s far too young to be left alone like this.”
“I know. I– I know, Leslie. But I won’t assume the worst until I can talk with Tim properly. This could be a misunderstanding, a bad babysitter or any other number of possibilities.” Despite every bone in his body screaming otherwise, Bruce knows it’s the right choice. Besides, it’s not like he’ll be leaving Tim alone or giving him back until he’s sure. Being thorough wouldn’t do any harm, it could even prevent tearing a happy family apart if Tim’s parents really didn’t mean for this to happen. (Even if that would never excuse it, a part of him whispers.) “If things turn out bad, I’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”
“Or.” Leslie drags out the word. “Or, Tim knows you and you’re a registered foster parent already. It might be tough living next door to his old place, but there’s plenty of space between the manors.”
“There is no ‘or’ Leslie, I wouldn’t be a good fit. I can barely handle the kids I have.”
“Please, those boys adore you.” (Bruce highly doubts that.) “And don’t think I don’t see the way you look at him. Tim needs someone to love him, Brucie, you’ve got love in spades.”
Maybe. But when has Bruce’s ‘love’ ever helped anybody? All it seems to do is drag Dick down, trap Alfred with him when Bruce knows how much the man misses England. It’s forcing Jason back onto the streets, it’s the reason Damian was born to someone who would never have the capacity to love him the way he deserves. (Bruce… can’t quite find it in him to regret that last one. Damian is here now… maybe he… maybe Bruce can make it up to him. Damian deserves for Bruce to make it up to him.)
He doesn’t want it to hurt Tim too.
Even ignoring all of that, Damian was still an unknown. If he hurt Tim, Bruce would never forgive himself.
But. Tim might still be in more danger at home. Not just from his neglectful, absent parents, but from the League. Bruce was so caught up in the problem in front of him he’d neglected to do much actual investigation while he was at the Drake Manor. A… temporary arrangement might be okay–only, it already sounds like a lie in his own mind.
“I’ll think about it.”
Leslie whoops.
-
“I think we screwed up.”
Jason raises his head at the sound, the book resting precariously over his eyes jostled by the movement. It falls into his lap, closing with a soft thud. Jason… doesn’t remember the page number.
Dick sighs tiredly into his hands, seemingly waiting for Jason’s response. Considering the hero was in a decent mood this morning, (and every other time he’d visited the library today) the dramatics were an interesting change.
“We tend to do that a lot.” He settles on, fully abandoning his book in favor of his brother. “But what is it this time, Goldie?”
“Dad called, said something urgent came up and he’d be home late. But I heard– in the background I heard– God Jay, I swear it was Tim.” Gracelessly, Dick fumbles his way through Jason's hazardous sea of books, his words stringing together incomprehensibly.
“Whoa, whoa. Slow down, Tim? Why would Bruce be–” Jason’s train of thought screeches to a halt, before crashing entirely. “What does he mean late? Are they okay?”
“I don’t know.” Dick says miserably. “I– I don’t know. I didn’t–hear any words, but I know his voice, Jay. I know it was him.”
“Okay. Okay, I believe you.” Because it really feels like you need me to, right now. “Do you know where they are?”
Dick drops himself on the floor by Jason’s feet, head angled aimlessly toward the ceiling. He stays like that, silent as a bat, longer than Jason likes. When he speaks next it’s barely a whisper.
“Leslie’s. I checked B’s tracker after he hung up.”
Shit.
“It doesn’t have to mean something went wrong, Dickie.” Jason stares back when Dick gives him a look. “It doesn’t. You know how paranoid Bruce is– hell, he’d take me to Leslie if I so much as coughed when I was younger.”
“Jay–”
“I’m serious, Boy Blunder. Tim’ll be fine.” He needs to be fine. Jason doesn’t know what they would do if he wasn’t. Dick deflates, shrinking into himself.
“It’s… not just that, Jason.”
Alarm bells ring in Jason’s brain the moment his full, unmarred first name leaves Dick’s mouth. ‘Jason’ is hardly something he hears from his brother if they’re alone, most of the time even if they aren’t alone. Dick closes his eyes, breathing out heavily through his nose, and Jason can’t take it anymore. He slides out of Bruce’s chair, joining his brother on the floor, “Then what is it?”
“Do you know what Bruce was doing in the cave last night?”
“I know he wasn’t sleeping.”
Dick sighs. “He was overhauling the cave’s security.”
“What? Why would he need to…” Jason blinks once–twice–before it hits him. “Damian.”
“In Dad’s eyes, some kid completely bypassed his security–”
“And Damian is from the League, which either sent him with a way in or taught him enough that he was able to get in on his own.”
“Bingo.” His brother gives him a tired set of finger guns. “Perfectly good security system compromised, and the thought never even crossed our minds.”
No wonder Bruce wanted them out of the manor so badly. If he thought the League could get in at any second, he’d want them all as far away as possible. Jason does his best to ignore all of his own feelings on the matter, honing into Dick’s last sentence.
“Don’t do this to yourself, Dick.”
His brother has the gal to look innocent, “Do what?”
“This.” Jason gestures vaguely in Dick’s direction. “Hate yourself for every oversight we make.”
“And what if our next oversight gets one of us killed? What then? We can’t keep relying on Bruce to clean up our mistakes. That’s not why we’re here. We should have been the ones to take Tim out of there. We should have done something regardless of where it left us.” His brother pauses, eyes glued to the ceiling. “I just don’t get why Bruce is still the one doing all the saving.”
“Dick…”
“When you collapsed in the tower- when I ran away to sulk like a child. He’s always the one there for us– when we’re supposed to know better now. So how come it feels like the same thing all over?” Light glints against something wet on his older brother’s cheek. “I can’t lose him again.”
Jason doesn’t think any of them could. Which, damn, that’s gotta be one of the unhealthiest things about them. One of them falls, and it tears them all apart. Still, Jason could agree they definitely did better the first time around. Maybe it was the horrible thought that another miracle might happen that made it all the harder, or maybe it was the intrusive thoughts of making a miracle happen, but the year Bruce was in the timestream never quite felt like this. (He tries to ignore that another miracle did happen, thinking about it would just make his head spin.)
“Dick Bruce is– Dad is always going to be ‘there’ for us.” Jason leans against his brother, just a little. “No amount of time travel is going to change who he is.”
“But what if being ‘there’ for us gets him killed again?”
Oh. Oh. That’s what this is about. They’d only been able to touch on it briefly at the tower when Damian showed up, and before being–here, Dick shut down whenever anyone brought it up.
Bruce died saving Dick’s life, and he’s lived with that burden ever since.
No one blames him, no one. Jason would maim them if they did. It’s just that– Jason couldn’t maim Dick. Nightwing did everything right, everything he could have done, but Batman saw the shot coming before he did. And no one could blame Nightwing more than Dick.
“Then he dies.”
“What are you–”
“Then. He. Dies. I know you’re terrified, and I’m not saying we– let him, but this needs to stop eventually.”
“But this is–”
“We need to let him go eventually.”
“I can’t!” The two heroes still at the outburst, shock coloring both of their faces. Dick’s breaths come out sharp, heavy. They’re all Jason can hear. “I can’t. I’ve lost too many parents already.”
Jason sucks in a breath, directing a few choice words at himself in his head. Before Bruce, Dick had already watched his father die. Already lost a set of parents that loved him. Jason switches tactics. They’re not going to lose Bruce so early this time around- they're not. Frankly, Jason doesn't give a shit if that makes him a hypocrite, but he also knows, one day their luck is gonna run out. One day their goodbyes are gonna be for good. This– obsession they all have, with keeping the family together, Jason sees why Bruce always tried to stop it. It was only hurting them more, in the end.
He forces his mouth to move, “Do you ever stop to remember… that he smiled?”
Dick flinches, shrinking in on himself.
“Bruce would never regret dying to save you. Altering things like this, I’m all for it. I miss him, I want him back, but Dick, he was happy when he died. If that changes this time around because we hold on too tightly, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Can we– drop it?” His brother shuts his eyes tightly. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Whatever.” Jason reaches up to grab his abandoned book from the chair, keeping his place on the floor as he opens to a random page and hopes for the best. “Keep this up though, and I’ll be forced to sick Damian on you.”
When Dick chuckles, it’s only slightly weak. “Thanks for the warning.”