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It was supposed to be a standard recon mission. Minimal contact. Grab the artefact, hand it off to Zatanna, and be home in time for Damian’s 8 p.m. meditation session, which he enforced like a pint-sized warlord.
But of course, Jason touched the damn thing.
“Don’t touch the artefact,” Tim had said. Repeatedly.
“Looks cursed,” Dick had added cheerfully.
“It is cursed,” Damian muttered. “Do you all not see the demonic inscriptions? Are you blind?”
Jason had snorted and poked the glowing stone anyway. “Relax. I’ll be fine. I’m basically Lazarus Pit-proof at this point.”
There was a sound like a thunderclap and a ripple of air that made everyone’s teeth buzz.
Then the light cleared.
And where Red Hood had stood a moment ago, there was now a kid.
A very small, very familiar kid.
He wore a classic Robin uniform—green scaled leggings, red tunic, short yellow cape. His hair was messy, his eyes bright, and he looked deeply, deeply annoyed.
“What the hell, B?” he barked, sitting up amid the faintly glowing runes on the warehouse floor. “You said this was just recon. My ribs are not bounce-proof.”
No one answered.
“Why are you all staring at me?” the boy continued, pushing to his feet. “Did I forget my pants or something?”
Bruce took a single step forward. “Jason?”
The kid turned toward him with a scowl. “Yeah? Who else would it—”
He stopped.
Eyes scanning the faces around him: Tim, pale and frozen. Damian, dagger still half-drawn. Dick, already kneeling with something like grief behind his smile.
“…Why are there two Robins?”
Back at the Cave, chaos.
Zatanna was on speakerphone, calmly explaining that the artefact had momentarily displaced Jason’s chronological timeline—"He’s de-aged physically, and the spell likely suppressed his adult memories. Think magical regression with mild soul separation. It’ll wear off. Probably."
"Probably?" Tim had echoed.
Jason, meanwhile, had made a game of dodging medical scans.
“I’m fine,” he protested, yanking his arm back from the biometric reader. “What’s with all the poking? I’m not some kind of alien clone.”
“You’re twelve,” Tim hissed. “You’re twelve and wearing your old suit, and you think you’re still Robin. That counts as a medical emergency!”
“I am still Robin,” Jason shot back. “Unless you guys hired a new one while I was unconscious.”
He turned and locked eyes with Damian, who looked ready to murder someone.
Jason blinked. “Why is the demon spawn glaring at me like I keyed his car?”
Tim groaned.
“I told you to stop calling him that,” he muttered. “That’s Damian. He’s… your younger brother. Technically.”
Jason squinted. “He looks like someone shrank Ra’s al Ghul.”
“I will break every bone in your face,” Damian said flatly.
Jason grinned.
“I like him.”
Bruce said nothing. He sat in silence, staring at the boy who had once filled the Cave with so much life—and so much noise.
Robin Jason tilted his head.
“…Why are you older?” he asked suddenly. “You look… different. Like you got sadder.”
And Bruce—Batman—had to look away.
Because Jason wasn’t wrong.
The Cave was loud in the way only Bat-tech and Bat-stress could make it.
Scanners hummed. The biometric pad beeped every time Jason refused to sit still. Tim had pulled up three holographic displays to compare current brain scans with archived ones from the old Robin days. None of them matched, because—shockingly—turning into a twelve-year-old broke most baselines.
“Sit still, Jason,” Tim snapped. “This only works if you let the computer read you.”
“I am sitting,” Jason argued, bouncing his legs rapidly. “See? Sitting. Perfect form. A+ in posture.”
Alfred, watching from the edge of the room, coughed lightly into his hand. Bruce remained silent, arms crossed, looming near the Batcomputer like a statue carved from grief.
Zatanna’s voice crackled through the speaker again. “The spell appears stable. He’s physically twelve and mentally back to that point in time. It's not time travel, but a sort of magical stasis with suppressed memories. We’re lucky he didn’t turn into Lazarus goo.”
“That is not comforting,” Tim muttered.
“Tell me about it,” muttered Jason. “Wait—did she say goo?”
“Zee,” Dick cut in gently, rubbing the back of his neck, “how long do we have?”
There was a pause on the other end.
“I don’t know,” Zatanna admitted. “Could be days. Could be weeks. The artefact’s signature is weakening, so I’d prepare yourselves. When it ends, it’ll be quick. He’ll shift back to his real age—and the memories from this time may not stick.”
Silence fell. Even the Batcomputer dimmed slightly, as if acknowledging the mood.
Jason looked between them. “You guys are all being really dramatic. It’s just a magic thing. B’ll fix it, right?”
Bruce didn’t move.
“…Right?” Jason asked again, smaller now.
Dick stepped in fast, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Of course,” he said warmly. “We’ve got you, little wing.”
Jason blinked up at him. “You haven’t called me that in a while.”
Dick's smile wobbled. “Guess I missed it.”
Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. Something’s weird. You guys are treating me like I have a terminal illness.”
“You do,” Damian muttered. “Chronological instability is a medical condition.”
Tim made a sharp gesture at him. “Not helping.”
Jason sighed dramatically and swung his legs off the scanner chair. “Fine. I’m going to the kitchen. If I’m dying, I want cookies first.”
He hopped down and stalked off. No one moved to stop him.
Alfred waited until Jason was out of earshot.
“I will see to him,” he said quietly, already turning. “He always liked to help with the tea tray. Made him feel useful.”
No one argued.
As Alfred left, the silence closed back in.
“…He’s exactly how I remember him,” Bruce finally said, voice low.
Dick looked away.
“That’s what scares me.”
Jason’s voice echoed before he even entered the kitchen.
“Alfred, I’m starving. Like, about-to-pass-out starving. Do we still have those peanut butter cookies you hid in the second drawer behind the tea tins—wait, why do I know that?”
Alfred gave him a dry look over his shoulder as he set a kettle on the stove.
“Because you made it your life’s mission to locate every secret snack reserve in the manor, Master Jason. You were... quite determined.”
“Tactical snack acquisition,” Jason corrected, hopping up to sit on the counter like he owned it. “You don’t forget that kind of training.”
Alfred gave the faintest of smiles. “Indeed.”
Jason watched him move around the kitchen, brow furrowing. “You look the same.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Flattery, Master Jason?”
“No, seriously,” Jason said. “Everyone else looks older. Even Bruce has, like, ten more forehead wrinkles. But you—same exact Alfred.”
“Preserved by tea and sheer exasperation,” Alfred murmured. “Would you like to help with the tray?”
Jason straightened, eyes lighting up. “Yeah! Wait—do I still remember how?”
“You always insisted on pouring the milk first,” Alfred said fondly.
Jason grinned, practically glowing. “Still correct.”
He hopped off the counter and fell into step beside Alfred, rolling up his sleeves with unnecessary dramatics. They moved in sync, passing teacups and saucers and napkins like it was something they did every day. Because, once, it had been.
Jason balanced a tray and peeked up at Alfred. “Hey. Do I still help with this? You know… now-now?”
Alfred hesitated for a beat too long.
“…Not for some time,” he said gently.
Jason looked down at the tray, suddenly quiet. “That sucks.”
Outside the kitchen, the Cave had quieted. Damian was reading aggressively in the armoury corner. Tim was reviewing footage from the warehouse for the fourth time, jaw tight. Dick paced like a man waiting for a bomb to go off.
When Jason reappeared, balancing a perfectly assembled tea tray with a flourish and a smirk, all three of them stopped.
“Afternoon service, gentlemen,” Jason said with a bad British accent. “Behold: cookies and emotional repression.”
Tim blinked.
Damian frowned.
Dick’s eyes welled up instantly.
“…Oh my god,” Tim whispered. “He’s twelve and he’s still better at serving tea than me.”
Jason snorted. “Obviously.”
He set the tray down and plopped onto the couch, helping himself to a cookie and flipping through the comms like he belonged there.
Because once, he did.
And watching him slot back into it so easily—so brightly—felt like twisting a knife the family had almost learned to ignore.
Jason looked up after a moment, sensing the tension. “Why do you all look like someone ran over your dog?”
“No one ran over anything,” Dick said quickly, kneeling beside the tray and pouring tea into a cup with trembling hands.
Tim was less subtle. “You used to love doing this,” he said, eyes locked on Jason’s face. “Helping Alfred. Organising files. Keeping the Cave tidy.”
Jason blinked. “Yeah? That’s… not very cool.”
“You didn’t care about that then,” Damian said. His voice was softer than usual. “You just wanted to be helpful.”
Jason shrugged. “Still do, I guess.”
He sipped tea like nothing was wrong.
And the Batkids sat in the quiet, thinking of the man they knew—the man who never touched the kitchen, who never sat still, who lived in abandoned buildings instead of home—and wondered when exactly they had lost this version of their brother.
The next morning, Jason was in the training room by 7:00 a.m., teeth bared in a grin and a wooden practice staff spinning lazily in his hand.
“Alright, who wants to get their butt kicked by a middle schooler?”
Tim blinked blearily from the sidelines. Damian narrowed his eyes like he was watching a pigeon try to challenge a hawk.
“You should not be holding a weapon unsupervised,” Damian said coldly. “Especially not one you are too small to use properly.”
Jason twirled the staff once, caught it with one hand behind his back, and smirked. “Wanna bet?”
Tim muttered, “Don’t provoke him. He has something to prove and absolutely no self-preservation at this age.”
“I heard that,” Jason called.
“You were meant to,” Tim replied.
Jason flipped into the centre of the mat, bounced on the balls of his feet, and pointed his staff squarely at Damian. “Come on, baby Batman. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Damian didn’t hesitate. He dropped his robe, grabbed his own staff, and leapt.
It was chaos. Fast, fluid, and far louder than any of them had planned.
Jason was reckless, scrappy, and grinning the entire time. Damian was precise, sharp-edged, and completely humourless. They clashed over and over, neither yielding. When Jason got knocked back, he laughed. When Damian landed a strike, Jason congratulated him—loudly.
“You’re weird,” Damian finally snapped, breathing hard as they paused for water.
“You’re tense,” Jason shot back, tossing a bottle at him. “What happened to you? You always this stiff, or did I make you like that?”
Tim choked on his drink. Damian glared.
“I was raised by assassins.”
“Yeah? I was raised by Bruce and the Gotham foster system. You don’t see me walking around like I swallowed a broomstick.”
Damian looked like he wanted to kill him, but… didn't. Jason winked.
“Besides,” Jason added, adjusting his grip on the staff, “you’ve got good form. Bit rigid, but you’ll get there. Stick with me, kid.”
“I am older than you,” Damian said through gritted teeth.
“Not where it counts,” Jason shot back.
They squared off again.
Dick showed up ten minutes later, summoned by the sound of staff strikes echoing through the manor. He stood in the doorway, breath caught in his throat, watching Jason laugh as Damian tried to trip him.
It looked like joy. Real joy. Uncomplicated. Unscarred.
Dick had to sit down.
Jason caught sight of him and waved mid-spin, nearly catching Damian in the shoulder. “Hey, Nightwing! You coming in or just here to admire the view?”
“I—uh—” Dick swallowed hard. “You’re really good, Jay.”
Jason beamed. “I know. I’ve been training my butt off.”
Dick blinked hard.
Because adult Jason never smiled like that. Never beamed. Never asked for praise.
And here was this version, all raw enthusiasm and mischief, openly proud of himself.
“Tim, get in here!” Jason shouted, jabbing the staff toward him. “I want to see if the new guy can keep up.”
Tim blinked. “I’m not the new guy.”
“You’re newer than me!”
“That’s not how that works!”
Jason grinned wider. “Only one way to settle it.”
And with that, they fell into a messy, playful three-way spar that left them all bruised, breathless, and laughing—yes, laughing—on the padded floor.
Later, when Bruce reviewed the surveillance footage, he didn’t say anything. Just watched it loop, again and again.
Three brothers. One too young, one too old, one too tired. Laughing together like it wasn’t all temporary.
Like it hadn’t already been lost once.
Like they still had time.
Dick hadn't planned to take Jason to the fair.
But Jason, bouncing on the couch and whining about "patrol being boring and no one letting him blow anything up," had somehow convinced Bruce to hand over the keys to the Batmobile—with a tracking device and strict instructions that they be home by dusk.
The fairgrounds outside Gotham were lit in neon pinks and golds, the air thick with sugar and fried food. Jason had pressed himself to the car window on the way there, eyes wide, nose almost touching the glass.
"Holy crap," he'd breathed. "This is awesome."
Dick smiled despite himself.
They hit the bumper cars first—Jason immediately got banned for being "too aggressive." Then the ring toss (Jason cheated), the haunted house (Jason cackled the whole way through), and finally the cotton candy stand.
Jason held the stick like it was a torch. “This stuff’s basically a sugar grenade, right?”
“Please don’t weaponise the carnival food,” Dick said wearily.
They sat on the curb, Jason’s feet swinging, both of them sticky and tired and laughing.
“You know,” Jason said after a while, licking blue sugar off his thumb, “I hope I don’t screw this up.”
Dick blinked. “What?”
Jason shrugged. “You guys are all great. Smart. Cool. Grown-up. I’m just… me. Loud and messy. I break stuff.”
Dick felt something in his chest go tight.
“You’re not going to screw anything up, Jay.”
“You sure?” Jason looked up at him. “’Cause sometimes I feel like I mess everything up before it even starts.”
Dick didn't answer right away. He just wrapped an arm around Jason’s shoulders and pulled him close.
“You’re doing great, little wing.”
Jason leaned into the hug.
“Even if I got us kicked out of the bumper cars?”
“Especially then.”
They stayed like that a long time. Until the sun dipped behind the trees, until the lights on the ferris wheel glowed like stars.
Until Dick realised he was already mourning the goodbye.
It was around sunset when Tim and Damian showed up.
Dick hadn’t expected them—hadn’t called them—but of course they tracked his location anyway. It was Gotham. Trust was conditional.
Tim jogged toward them first, dressed down in a hoodie and sneakers, with Damian striding two steps behind in what had to be custom-tailored casualwear.
“We’re here to supervise the child,” Damian said by way of greeting.
Jason lit up. “Oh hell yeah! This just got way more competitive.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “Competitive how?”
Jason pointed to the prize booths. “You three. Win me something. Anything. Bonus points if it’s stupid-looking.”
Dick smirked. “You’re on.”
They split up like they were on a mission.
Five minutes later, all three of them had lost every game they tried.
Tim glared at the bottle stack like it had insulted his intelligence. “This is rigged.”
Damian looked personally offended by the weighted ring toss. “This violates physics.”
Dick dropped his bean bags and sighed. “I used to be good at this.”
Jason cackled. “You guys suck.”
“Want to try, big shot?” Tim challenged.
Jason popped his knuckles. “Step aside.”
He picked the balloon darts—classic, easy enough. On his first try, he hit dead centre.
Then again.
And again.
The carnie looked mildly stunned as Jason pointed at a ridiculous plush bat—comically round, with flapping wings and googly eyes.
“That one,” Jason said, then turned around and tossed it at Damian.
“For you. So you remember I’m better than you.”
Damian caught it reflexively. He stared down at it like it had personally insulted him, but didn’t throw it away.
Jason handed a second one to Tim. “For trying.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Dick laughed when Jason tossed him a neon blue shark with a crooked fin.
“You could’ve kept one for yourself,” Dick said.
“I did,” Jason replied, popping a stolen piece of funnel cake into his mouth. “I got bragging rights.”
They wandered back toward the food stands together, the plushies tucked under arms, half-finished snacks in hand.
And for a little while—under the glow of fairy lights, with cheap toys and stickiness clinging to their fingers—they were just brothers.
No capes. No ghosts. No grief.
Just a moment stolen back from time.
Back at the manor, Bruce waited in the Cave with the monitors dimmed. He’d tracked their location the whole night—watched from silent satellite footage as his sons stood in line for cotton candy, as Dick pulled Jason into a safe older-brother side hug, as Damian reluctantly held onto the plush bat like it might be weaponised at any moment.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t even log the mission.
He just watched, and remembered, and grieved.
Because the boy he had once called son was laughing again.
And it was only a matter of time before the clock took him back.
The artefact, stored deep beneath the Cave’s containment vault, pulsed faintly green.
The spell was unravelling.
And Jason Todd was running out of time.
Jason didn’t sleep in. He never had.
But the morning after the fair, the manor stayed quiet longer than usual. Bruce found himself hesitating outside Jason’s door just after sunrise, hand raised but not knocking.
He wasn’t sure what he was afraid of.
Maybe that the door would open and Jason would already be gone.
Maybe that it wouldn’t.
When he finally opened the door, he found Jason still asleep, curled sideways in a tangle of sheets, one leg kicked free, hair wild. The ridiculous plush bat—Batblob, according to the tag—was tucked under one arm.
Bruce closed the door quietly and left him there.
Downstairs, Alfred brewed coffee. Tim nursed a headache in the corner while Damian stared into his tea like it had personally offended him.
“Do you think he remembers?” Tim asked, voice rough.
Damian didn’t look up. “He will. He has to.”
“I’m not sure that’s kinder,” Alfred murmured.
Before anyone could reply, the elevator chimed.
Jason stepped out barefoot, yawning, dragging the bat plush by one wing.
“Did someone say pancakes?”
Everyone turned. Stared.
Jason blinked. “What?”
Dick bolted from the hallway and threw his arms around him.
“Uh,” Jason said. “You okay?”
“You’re still here,” Dick said.
Jason blinked again, slower this time. “...Shouldn’t I be?”
The smile faded from his face.
Tim watched as Jason reached up, touched his own face, his hair, the too-small t-shirt he was wearing.
Then he looked down at the plush in his hand.
His fingers tightened around it.
“Oh,” Jason said softly.
And just like that, he knew.
He didn’t say anything else. Just walked over to the table and sat down.
He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
And no one knew how to ask what it felt like to lose yourself and remember all at once.
Jason barely spoke for the rest of the morning.
He ate half a pancake. Didn’t finish his tea. Carried the plush bat around the manor like a ghost—like he wasn’t sure if he was the ghost.
Tim followed him through the hallway at one point and watched as Jason paused outside the weapons vault. He stood there a long time, staring at his own Red Hood gear behind glass.
He didn’t open the case.
Didn’t need to.
When he turned around, Tim didn’t say anything. Just offered a small, strained smile.
Jason gave him a tired one in return. “I think I remember everything.”
“How much is everything?” Tim asked quietly.
Jason shrugged. “The fair. Sparring. Alfred’s tea. The smell of the Cave. I remember how happy I felt. Like I’d made it back home.”
Tim looked at the floor. “You are home.”
“Not like that.”
Jason didn’t say anything else. Just kept walking.
Later, Damian found Jason sitting cross-legged in the Batcave, surrounded by spare batarangs and a half-organised supply kit.
He was labelling everything.
One by one. Precise handwriting. Neat stacks.
“…You don’t have to do that,” Damian said, approaching cautiously.
“I know,” Jason said. “I just like it. Feels like something I can still do right.”
Damian stood there awkwardly for a beat. Then, after a pause, set down a sharpened throwing knife beside him.
“I used to think you were a reckless idiot.”
Jason huffed. “Used to?”
“…Less now.”
Jason smiled.
Damian looked away.
Then he crouched down beside him and began helping sort gear in silence.
Jason didn’t stop him.
That night, Bruce found Jason in the empty dining room, lights dimmed, the plush bat on the table beside a cooling cup of cocoa.
Jason didn’t flinch when Bruce entered. Just looked up slowly.
“I kept thinking the spell would wear off and I’d forget again,” Jason said. “But I didn’t. It’s all still here. And it hurts.”
Bruce sat down across from him.
“I know.”
“I wasn’t ready to come back,” Jason whispered. “Not yet. Not after feeling what it was like to be loved like that again.”
Bruce said nothing.
Then, slowly, he reached across the table.
Jason stared at his hand for a long moment.
Then he took it.
And didn’t let go.
It started with little things.
Jason picked up Alfred’s broom again the next morning, swept the hallway without being asked. He brought the empty mugs from the den to the kitchen. He refilled the Cave’s medkit and wrote down what was missing.
No one told him to.
No one dared stop him.
When Tim found him stitching up a tear in one of Bruce’s spare capes, he hovered awkwardly in the doorway before saying, “That’s not your job, you know.”
Jason didn’t look up. “Didn’t say it was.”
“You’re allowed to rest.”
Jason nodded slowly. “I know. But this is easier than thinking.”
Tim didn’t argue.
That night, Dick brought out an old box from the attic. Inside were photos, notes, even one of Jason’s old report cards—A-minus in English, A in gym, zero in classroom patience.
They all gathered around it: Steph and Cass joined them too, pulled by quiet whispers and curiosity.
Jason sat between Damian and Tim, arms crossed, looking at the past like it was a story written about someone else.
“You were so small,” Steph said, nudging his shoulder.
“I was twelve,” Jason said dryly. “You make it sound like I was a pocket-sized gremlin.”
“You were,” Dick said.
Jason snorted.
They passed the photos around. One of Bruce and Jason standing in front of the Batmobile. One of Alfred handing Jason a plate of cookies, Jason beaming.
Another—creased from folding—of Jason asleep on the library couch, a book on his chest and Alfred’s coat draped over him like a blanket.
Jason stared at that one the longest.
“…I don’t remember this,” he said.
“No,” Bruce said quietly from behind them. “But we do.”
Jason looked up.
And—for the first time in days—he smiled.
Just a little.
But it stayed.
The Cave was quiet again.
Not in the way it had been when Jason was gone—silent and aching. This was different. A hush that came after something soft. Something real.
Jason stood at the edge of the platform overlooking the Batmobile, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze distant.
Dick approached slowly. “You good?”
Jason didn’t answer right away.
“I think I get it now,” he said eventually. “Why you all kept fighting to pull me back. Even when I didn’t want it.”
“You didn’t remember,” Dick said gently.
Jason nodded. “I didn’t remember what it felt like to be safe.”
They stood in silence for a while.
Then Jason laughed, low and rough. “You know the worst part?”
“What?”
“I miss being twelve. Even with the chaos. Even with Damian trying to stab me, and Tim hovering like a batmom. It was… easier.”
“It was real,” Dick said.
Jason nodded again.
“And now I’ve got all of it in my head. Him. Me. Us. And I don’t know what to do with it.”
Dick clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You live with it. And maybe… let us keep living it with you.”
Jason looked up at him.
And for the first time in a long time, he looked like he believed it.
Later that night, Jason placed the plush bat on his bedside table. Next to it: a photograph of a twelve-year-old boy grinning with a tray of cookies, and a post-it note in Tim’s handwriting that simply read, “You stayed.”
He turned off the light.
And for once—Jason Todd slept easy.