Chapter Text
After Bruce finished his dinner, he, Tim, and Cass went into the Batcave. Barbara had decided to return home, wishing them luck on their search.
"I don't plan to stay up late tonight." She said as she left, a knowing smile on her face.
"Very wise of you, Miss Barbara." Alfred had complimented, giving them a pointed look.
Tim's shoulder raised to the tip of his ears, and he waved awkwardly. Bruce and Cassandra avoided his gaze like scolded children.
The three of them were notorious for the lack of sleep they got, all for their different reasons. Cass was often plagued by nightmares of her past, of the machine she used to be before she broke free. She would fend off sleep until it was physically impossible to keep her eyes open.
Tim had an official case of insomnia, so even if he wanted to sleep—it felt impossible most times. So he would nurse a cup of coffee (that had no effect on him anymore, thank you) and would work on as many cases as he could. A lot of people assumed Tim stayed awake for that sole purpose, but in truth it was the only thing keeping him sane.
Bruce was Bruce. He left at odd hours and returned at odd hours. He could run on days of no sleep. Tim knew, because he kind of knew everything eventually. And unlike Tim, he would work on cases to avoid sleep. Lately, Clark had been staying over in Bruce's bed, so his father figure had been more than willing to rest.
The budding relationship between the recently divorced popular journalist Clark Kent and the rich, infamous playboy Bruce Wayne was a shock to society that kept up with useless news. Even Bruce's kids raised their eyebrows. That was until it was revealed that Clark was Superman. Then the dots connected.
Superman and Batman were more than a bro-mance. Their tension could stifle a room, which Tim would always have to exit as fast as possible because ew. But now Clark was coming over for dinner once a month, leading Tim to learn how to focus on his food and not the ogling eyes they would give each other.
They trailed silently to the cave, Bruce wrapping his fingers around an insuspicous book lined next to others. When he tugged it forward, the shelf opened to an elevator that would take them directly down below.
Tim anxiously tapped his fingers against his leg, feeling the dropping motion swirl in his gut as they descended. There wasn't a rhythm to it, just like his thoughts. They bounced from one place to another.
Cass eyed him, tilting her head in silent question.
Tim looked down at his phone then back to his sister. "You'll see," he weakly warned.
Bruce watched the interaction. He was the first to exit the elevator when it opened, the stiffness in his back easing as he stepped into the underground of his home.
It was dim, per usual, and the faint squeaks of bats resonated to the three people as they walked. Tim was pretty sure Bruce had made friends with them when he was little. It would be the only explanation for why they didn't attack. With all the arguing, fighting, and crash landings the Batcave faced, the vigilantes should have been attacked a million times over.
His eyes trailed away from the pointed ceiling, slowly falling to the phone in his hand and the lack of knowledge they had about Peter. With a sigh and a few clicks, he pulled up all the information he had on the child. It connected to the biggest screen in the room, Bruce and Cassandra's attention shifting.
"He was first spotted in Gotham nine days ago by Babs when he entered the library," Tim spoke out loud, a pixelated photo of Peter appearing on the screen. It was security footage from the library, and Peter looked worse for wear.
He clicked through a few photos throughout the week. In some of them Peter looked grimy, dirt covering his clothes and face. Other days he was completely free of the crud, as if he took a shower and washed his clothes.
Most of the footage they had was from the soup kitchen in Crime Alley, where Peter was a regular visitor. The three of them watched videos of Peter staggering in for the first time, blood coating his face as he shivered from the cold. Jason had fixed him up and given him a few clothes that would keep him warm. Gave him food earlier than they served, which wasn't technically permitted.
Tim sadly watched as Peter frequented his hunched shoulders enough to hint that his eyes were darting around too. His stance was one like how people ate in prison, keeping a watchful eye out for anyone who wanted to pick a fight with them when vulnerable.
"I wonder what made him weary," Bruce thought out loud, picking up on the body language as well.
The video had no sound, but they could all see the way Jason would talk to him. Would try to coax the child out of his shell. Tim tried to ignore the fact that Jason looked more real there, a sparkle behind his eyes that didn't loom with a threat of a beatdown. Whenever Jason was in the manor, that sparkle fizzled dangerously, waiting for Bruce to say one wrong thing before a heated rage would overtake him.
He was real enough that Peter would be giggling kidishly by the end of their interaction, lightheartedly kicking Jason's ankles. He would return melancholy the next day, but Jason had enough antics up his sleeve that Peter always left with a smile.
Tim looked at Bruce from the corner of his eye, watching as anguish overcame Bruce's features. He was sure it wasn't because of Peter, but rather the son he lost.
When Tim was (he'll admit, a tad insane) investigating Batman and his young duo's identities, he had been a littleenamored with the second Robin. He was the second duo to Batman, a child filled with so much energy and laughter that the first Robin's past antics had been forgotten about. Tim had loved his energy and the craving he had to defeat villains. And he was also Jason Todd, when Tim figured out their identities. The second ward of Bruce Wayne who knocked socialites off their feet. Literally.
Jason wasn't that person anymore. He rarely fell into a fit of laughter, rarely cheered with a big smile, and rarely interacted with Bruce unless needed. But in that video, there was a glimpse of who Jason used to be.
Tim's focus trailed from Jason's wide smile, the smile he hadn't seen since the Joker, and settled back onto Peter.
No matter how many times Peter returned and filled his stomach with food, he seemed to only get skinnier.
He cleared his throat, "Babs mentioned how he was spotted in an abandoned building. Well, I was looking at some surrounding cameras to see if I could figure out where he was staying before that."
Tim pressed a pattern of buttons. Several photos were lined next to each other, all with Peter entering or exiting a rundown bookstore.
"This place closed down a few months ago due to mold infestation." He gestured to the screen, ignoring the lump forming in his throat. "Based on the amount of images that show him entering and exiting, I know that's where he was staying before he moved on."
Cass gave his shoulder a supporting squeeze. "Depending on how bad it was, he likely needs to see a doctor for mold exposure." She signed.
"I only accessed images of him," Tim explained. "I hadn't checked anything else yet." He didn't know whether Peter had a primary doctor or even a family. But he had a hunch.
Bruce got to work on the computer, the world's greatest detective activated as he expertly worked the keys. Tim had practically claimed the spot as his by now, so to see Bruce using the technology efficiently reminded him that Bruce could be competent with technology when he wanted to.
"Do you think," Cass started to move her hands, "That he has an increased metabolism?"
"What makes you think that?" Bruce questioned, not once taking his eyes away from the computer.
Tim wanted to know how he did that.
She sat in one of the various chairs next to Bruce. There hadn't always been so many. Originally, it was a singular chair meant for Batman alone. Then he started to adopt kids. Kids who sassed him and did what they wanted without regard towhat he said, as Bruce liked to continually remind them.
"He's having at least one meal a day, yet he's rapidly losing weight." She pointed out.
They had all noticed that the jacket Jason gave Peter was hanging off his frame more and more. How he would tug his pants up continuously.
"There could be another factor at play that we aren't aware of." Bruce said, clicking on a file. "There's a chance he isn't holding that meal down. Or he isn't used to one meal a day."
He didn't want to dismiss her conclusions, but they had little information to go on. Bruce didn't want to make any assumptions that would affect them in the future. If it was one thing he learned in his long career as Batman (not emotional availability), it was how to gather all the facts before coming to a conclusion.
Tim hummed, considering both possibilities. Then his thoughts froze before they began. It was pathetic how they were conspiring over a clearly starving and homeless child. He should just be with them already, belly full and safely tucked under pounds of warmed blankets. Rather, Nightwing and Robin were out there, probably annoying the fuck out of a kid who just wanted to survive.
And Damian... wasn't the most socialable. There was a bite to him that Tim found himself often combating. He pondered if it would be the same for Peter.
"Yeah, but he's for sure a meta. One with a healing factor at least. That type of thing would take energy, so it would make sense if he needed more food than an average person." He settled on instead. When Bruce had a plan, he found it best to stay out of his way unless absolutely necessary.
For now, he would allow Bruce to do what he wanted. But if it took more than two days to get Peter into the manor, he would recruit his siblings to rule out B's plan and conjure their own.
He met Cass's eye and knew she was thinking the same thing. They stealthily nodded at one another. Tim and Cass already accepted Peter as their little brother, and they were willing to do anything to protect him.
Tim remembered the first time Peter was brought up in the text chain; Barbara and Cassandra's string of messages interested him. There were plenty of children that they helped around Gotham, but Tim firmly believed they all felt differently about Peter for a certain reason.
They all subconsciously knew he would become the next Wayne.
Their dinner that evening confirmed everything it needed to for Tim. Peter was destined to join their family, one way or another.
Cass and Tim directed their attention to Bruce as he sighed, the older man leaning back in the chair as he crossed his arms. The movement was controlled—too controlled. It was the posture he took when something didn’t fit the world the way it was supposed to. They followed his gaze to the screen, confusion sparking in Tim at the blankness of it.
“No way,” Tim muttered under his breath, already pulling up secondary windows. “Did the system crash?”
Bruce didn’t answer immediately.
“I used the face tracker,” he said at last, voice low. “The full version. Cross-referenced with every civilian database, missing persons registry, birth records, hospital intakes, school enrollments, foster systems, immigration logs, and black-site archives.”
Tim’s fingers paused mid-motion.
“That’s… everything,” he said carefully.
Bruce nodded once. “It can identify a person from a partial reflection in a window. It can pull a name from a thirty-year-old security feed. It can match a face altered by surgery, trauma, or age regression.”
Cass shifted her weight, eyes narrowing slightly.
Bruce gestured to the screen. “It returned nothing.”
Tim stared at the blank display, disbelief giving way to something stinging.
“Nothing as in… no match?”
“Nothing as in no record,” Bruce clarified. “No near matches. No flagged similarities. No statistical approximations. The system didn’t fail.”
“It refused,” Cass said quietly.
Bruce looked at her.
“The system looked,” she continued, voice calm but certain. “And found no pattern to follow.”
Tim swallowed. “That’s not possible.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “I checked manually.”
Tim’s head snapped up. “You—”
“I went through the raw data myself,” Bruce said. “Facial geometry. Bone structure. Proportions. Micro-asymmetries.” His gaze hardened. “There is no one on Earth with that face.”
Tim didn't know what to say.
"Why do you think I was taking so long?"
The teenager honestly hadn't been paying attention to what Bruce was doing, too caught up in different variations of how things could turn out swirling through his thoughts.
The cave felt colder.
Tim let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Okay. That’s unsettling. But maybe he’s undocumented? Off-grid birth? No hospital, no paper trail?”
“I accounted for that.”
“Cloned?” Tim offered weakly. “Artificially grown? Some kind of experimental—”
"The most plausible."
Cass’s hands moved—precise, economical. "He bleeds and cries. He starves. He's real."
Bruce nodded. “Yes. He’s real.”
Tim froze, fingers hovering uselessly above the console. Of all the answers Bruce could have given, agreement wasn’t the one he’d braced for. He looked back at the data—at the absence where a child’s life should have been—and felt something stony settle in his stomach.
“You’re saying someone made him,” Tim said. “On purpose.”
Bruce didn’t deny it.
“Cloning technology exists,” Bruce continued, voice steady but stripped of comfort. “So does artificial gestation. So do enhancement trials. Most of them illegal. All of them cruel. And children are… adaptable.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Which makes them attractive subjects.”
Tim swallowed hard. “And disposable.”
The room went still around them.
Bruce turned slightly toward him, the edge in his posture easing just enough to acknowledge the truth he anchored them to.
“Yes,” he agreed. “And disposable.”
Not a construct. Not a prototype.
A child.
Tim exhaled shakily, pressing his palms flat against the console as if grounding himself. “If he were grown or engineered outside standard systems, that would explain the gaps. No birth record. No genetic matches. No facial overlap. He wouldn’t resemble anyone because he wasn’t meant to.”
“He was meant to function,” Bruce said.
The word landed wrong—clinical, ugly.
Cass’s gaze hardened. “They trained him.”
“Conditioned reflexes. Threat response. Situational awareness beyond his age. None of it instinctive. All of it learned.” Bruce let his words hang in the air. "Though I don't want to confirm anything before seeing his behavior in person."
Tim shook his head. “God. He’s like eight.”
“And already in survival mode,” Bruce said. "Which means there could be individuals after him."
That silenced Tim completely.
Cass signed again, slower this time. "He escaped. He wasn't discarded."
Bruce’s eyes followed her hands. “That matters.”
Tim frowned. “How?”
“If he’d been released,” Bruce's voice was gravely, “he’d be tracked. Monitored. Retrieved. Escape implies error. Or urgency. Or compassion from someone inside the system.”
Cass tilted her head. "Or fear."
Bruce nodded.
Tim straightened suddenly. “Then we’re on a clock.”
“Yes.”
“Because if they lost him—”
“They’ll want him back,” Bruce finished. “Or silenced.”
Cass’s hands curled briefly at her sides.
“He hides like prey,” she signed. “But he watches like someone who knows hunters.”
Bruce looked back at the blank screen—the void where a childhood should have been documented.
“Then we do what we always do,” he formed, unyielding in what he was about to say. “We take away the hunters’ advantage.”
Tim glanced at him. “By finding out who made him.”
“That. And by making sure they never touch him again,” Bruce corrected.
Cass nodded once, sharp and certain.
“He’s real,” she repeated. “That’s enough.”
Bruce’s expression softened—just a fraction—but his resolve sharpened all the same.
Before they could continue their conversation, Nightwing and Robin entered through one of the rear entrances.
The difference was immediate.
Nightwing didn’t look tense—no tight shoulders, no clipped movements. He peeled his mask off as he walked a faint, thoughtful crease between his brows like someone still replaying a conversation in their head. Robin followed him, cape settling neatly behind him, posture alert but not combative.
Bruce straightened. “Report.”
Nightwing stopped near the main console. “We found him.”
Tim’s breath caught. Cass went utterly still.
“And?” Bruce asked.
Dick huffed out a breath, something between relief and disbelief. “He didn’t run.”
That earned him everyone’s full attention.
Tim straightened from where he’d been leaning. “You’re kidding.”
“No,” Dick said. “Roof of a seven-story walk-up. He was sitting near the ledge just kicking his feet, watching the street like he was counting people.”
Cass signed quickly. "He's aware of things more than the average person is." She had almost been caught spying on him in crowds on multiple occasions, ducking out of the way before he made eye contact with her.
“Very,” Dick agreed. “He clocked us before we even landed. He didn't even bother to back away from the edge. I ended up sitting with him for a bit.”
Bruce frowned. “Why did he not flee?”
“Because I didn’t approach like a threat,” Dick replied calmly. “No sudden movements. No orders. I talked first.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What did you say?”
Dick smiled faintly. “Nothing important. Complained about this and that. Asked him a few questions.”
Tim blinked. “That worked?”
“He laughed,” Dick said softly. “Just a little. Like he forgot not to. Or I guess—he was laughing at me. He was also really sassy. Jason level I'd say.”
Cass’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. Tim was beginning to worry she would find a new favorite.
“And Robin?” Bruce asked.
Damian stiffened. “I attempted to gain his trust.”
Dick shot him an approving look. “He did. In his own way of course, which I think the kid actually took to."
Tim crossed his arms. “So how did you get him off the roof?”
Dick’s smile widened, this time genuine. “I didn’t push. I offered food.”
Tim snorted. “Of course you did.”
“I told him there was a place a few blocks over,” Dick continued, “served burgers shaped with bat-nuggets. Said it was safe to eat at and would be warmer than outside, because you know—every homeless kid's dream, am I right?"
Tim looked horrified. "No way you just said that?" He spoke it as a question, looking Dick up and down.
"But am I wrong?"
Cass cut their bickering short. “And?”
Dick exhaled, his demeanor wincing by a fraction. “He hesitated. Asked if it cost money.”
Bruce's jaw tightened.
“I told him I had it covered,” Dick was twirling a pencil on his finger attempting to balance it. “No strings. No questions. Just burgers.”
Cass signed, "He trusts food."
Dick nodded. “He trusts choice.”
Damian added, “He evaluated the risk for thirty-seven seconds.”
Everyone looked at him.
“What?” Damian said. “I counted.”
Bruce absorbed that. “And he went?”
“Duh,” Dick couldn't stop from rolling his eyes. “But he, uhm, kept his distance. Walked a little ways from us. Also chose streets with more light, but there wasn't a lot of working bulbs. Kid also sat where he could see the door.”
Cass signed again. "He's smart."
“He ate,” The oldest sibling looked like he struggled with the next words that came out of his mouth. “Fast. Like he expected someone to take it away.”
Tim ground his teeth together, his nails embedding themselves into his palms. Peter should already be with them. They shouldn't be fucking waiting.
Bruce turned slightly, gaze drifting back toward the monitors—the city beyond them.
“And now?” he asked.
Dick sobered. “I didn’t push after that. Like you said, I didn't want to come on strong and scare him away. We walked him back near where we found him. Got him a thick blanket. Told him we’d be around.”
Bruce folded his arms, decision already forming. “Good work,” he said. “That means we proceed carefully.”
Cass nodded. "He opened a door. He is willing to let people in."
Bruce folded his fingers together. "Let's just hope it stays that way. I won't let him live like that for much longer."
"Tt," Damian muttered, lifting his chin away like he was fighting a snobbish sentence.
"What?" Tim asked, already feeling annoyance brew within him.
Damian looked him up and down. As if evaluating his worth. Tim fucking hated when he did that.
He took off his domino mask, looking directly at Tim as he plainly spoke. "He seemed content with the Red Robin toy. It was discouraging, to put it simply."
Tim felt a smile spread across his face. He walked closer to Damian, appeased that his younger brother was jealous. "You're mad because I'm the favorite!"
"Do not be ridiculous, Drake. I could never waste an emotion on you." There was a scoff in his voice. "Now I am not sure whether he would be a good addition to the family."
Before they could get into another verbal argument, Dick wrapped an arm around Damian's neck and pulled him close. "Awe, Dami! You thought he would be a good addition to the family?"
Damian's lips pinched like he wanted to refuse the claim. Instead, when he found Cassandra's gaze, he kept the burning retort to himself. The girl already viewed Peter as a part of the family, and he wouldn't purposely slight her if he could help it.
Bruce watched the interaction with a resigned look of a father who long ago gave up on stopping his children from fighting.
Jason clocked him from half a block away.
It wasn’t hard. The kid was a small, hunched shape on the concrete steps, like if he stayed still enough the city might forget he was there. His knees were pulled to his chest. Hands locked around his elbows. Chin resting on one bony knee like it weighed too much to hold up on its own.
Too thin of a jacket, the only one Jason could offer the kid. No gloves. Where were the gloves that Jason had given him?
His jaw tightened.
Gotham days cut cold this time of year, the kind that slid under your clothes and settled in your bones. It wasn’t the dramatic kind of chill—no snow, no ice storms. Just enough to hurt if you stayed still too long. Just enough to punish you for not having somewhere to go.
His time in the league had taught him how to make his footsteps untraceable, even in the combat boots he had on. But Jason made his steps louder, not wanting to startle the kid who seemed to pick up on everything with little fanfare. He didn’t want to startle the kid. Didn’t want to see him bolt again, eyes wide and feral, already halfway gone before Jason could even open his mouth.
Peter didn’t look up.
Of course he didn’t.
Jason fished the keys out of his pocket, let them jingle on purpose. Not loud. Just enough warning. He watched Peter out of the corner of his eye—saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his grip tightened around himself.
Yeah. The kid was freezing. Jason was certain Pete knew he was there, but was either frozen in place from the temperature or was in a world of his own.
Jason stopped at the door and turned his back slightly so he wasn’t looming. The metal scraped loud in the hushed street and when it clicked open Jason felt that familiar tug in his chest—the one that always came when he unlocked this door too early for someone who needed it.
He pushed it open.
Warm air spilled out, smelling like soup base and old coffee and something faintly medicinal. Familiar smells.
“Morning,” Jason said, keeping his voice rough but low.
Peter looked up then. He had big, brown eyes. Too old for his face. Too careful.
“They won’t open for a bit and it's my day off,” Jason added, like this was no big deal. “But I’ve got a key.”
He stepped aside.
Didn’t say come in. Didn’t reach. Didn’t rush. He knew Peter would follow him in.
The kid hesitated. Jason could practically see the math running behind those eyes—risk versus reward, warmth versus escape routes. Jason waited.
Eventually, Peter slid off the step and slipped inside like a ghost. The older of the two shut the door behind them, delicately this time.
Inside was calm. The chairs were still stacked with light slanting through the windows. One of the volunteers glanced up, startled.
“Oh—Jay!” she said. “You’re early.”
“Kid was cold,” Jason replied easily. He grabbed a stack of chairs before she could ask questions. “I’ll set up.”
She smiled at Peter. Jason shifted just enough to break the line of sight, not blocking her—just redirecting attention. The smile faded into something gentler.
"Hey, Pete. Good seeing you again." Annie acknowledged.
Peter waved his small hand, offering a polite smile. "Nice to see you, Miss Annie."
"Honestly, hun. You ain't gotta—"
Jay cut her off by handing her a chair. With their faces turned to each other, he shook his head.
She nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen, setting the chair down at a random table.
Jason crouched a few feet away from Peter but remained in his peripheral vision. “You alright?”
Peter nodded. Then shook his head. Then nodded again.
Jason pretended not to notice the contradiction.
He dug into his jacket and pulled out the gloves. He’d brought them on purpose. Pretended he hadn’t.
“Forgot to grab these yesterday,” he easily lied. “Guess they’re yours now.”
Peter stared at them like they might explode.
Jason set them down on the table instead of handing them over. Gave him the choice.
Peter took them. Slipped them on. Flexed his fingers.
Good.
Jason busied himself with chairs, moving slow but staying visible. He didn’t disappear. Wouldn’t. Kids like this noticed that kind of thing. Noticed when adults vanished without warning.
They ate before the crowd showed up. Soup, bread. Jason made sure Peter’s bowl got refilled without saying a word about it. Watched the way he ate—meticulous and calculated, like food might get taken away if he went too fast.
Jason hated that. Hated the world for teaching him that.
“You sit there every time,” Jason noticed lightly, nodding to the corner seat.
Peter stiffened.
Jason added quickly, “Smart. Good sightlines.”
Peter relaxed just a bit. "It's a comfy spot."
When the room started filling, Jason saw the signs before Peter said anything. Shoulders creeping up. Eyes trackingmovement faster. Breathing shallower.
He looked like he was bracing for something.
“You wanna head out before it gets loud?” Jason asked quietly.
Peter nodded.
Outside again Jason closed the door behind them, the click deliberate. He didn’t walk off. Instead, he leaned against the brick beside the kid, close enough to be there, far enough not to crowd. The anxiety that had risen in Peter began to melt as they separated themselves from the numerous people.
Peter hugged his elbows again. Jason internally cursed himself. The kid was fucking cold, why would he bring him outside? He shrugged his leather jacket off and put it over Peter's shoulder, stopping the kid as he tried to remove the item.
"Keep it on as long as we're out here, kid. You'll turn into a popsicle." Jason had a thick, long-sleeve shirt underneath, so the temperature didn't affect him as much as it did Peter.
Jason glanced at the too-small frame, the way the chill still clung to him despite the gloves and additional jacket. Something hot and ugly twisted in his chest. Not anger exactly. Something worse. Something protective.
“You sleeping okay?” He asked. Jesus, he sounded like Bruce.
Peter shrugged. “I moved.”
Jason nodded. Yeah. That tracked. But Peter didn't know that he knew.
“There’s a drop-in center a couple blocks east,” Jason offered after a beat. “No intake crap. Nice room upstairs. I can show you sometime. Or not.”
Peter thought about it. Long enough Jason knew he was taking it seriously.
“…Later,” Peter landed on.
Jason smiled, just a little. “Later works.”
They stood there for a few minutes in silence, Peter's face morphing like he was fighting himself internally. Then his face lit up. He pulled something out of his pocket and showed it to Jason. Jason soaked up the shift in mood, always trying endlessly to cheer the kid up by the end of his visit.
"Look what I got!" He screeched as he waved the Red Robin figurine around. "Doesn't he look so cool?!"
An actual smile wormed its way onto Jason's face. He was glad Peter still had moments to be a kid, even though his life was fit for anything but.
"The coolest, Pete." He never thought he would say that about his replacement, but then again, a lot of things in his life happened that way. And because he isn't supposed to know about Nightwing and Robin visiting him, he asked, "Where'd ya get him?"
Peter's mouth opened to animatedly tell Jay about his night. How two strange vigilantes visited him and took him to a place called Bat Burger that sold everything fucking bat-themed. But before he could work those words out, an explosion knocked everyone off their feet.
The world split open.
The sound hit first—an ear-splitting crack that tore through the street like the sky had been punched. The ground lurched beneath them, concrete buckling as a wall of heat slammed outward. Jason barely had time to register the orange bloom before instinct took over.
“Peter—!”
The blast threw them apart. Jason hit the pavement hard, his side screaming as debris rained down in a violent hail. Windows shattered above them, glass screaming as it fell. Somewhere nearby a car alarm wailed, then cut out abruptly as flames rolled over the hood.
Fire surged up the side of the building across the street licking greedily at the air. Smoke poured thick and black mixingwith the gloomy clouds that overhung Gotham.
For a second he thought he was back there—back in Joker's clutches and—Jason forced himself upright, ears ringing, vision blurred at the edges.
“Peter!” he shouted, panic ripping the name out of his chest.
He spotted him a few feet away—too small amid the chaos, knocked onto his side, the Red Robin figurine skittering across the pavement before disappearing under rubble. Flames boxed them in from two directions, heat searing and impossible.
Another explosion detonated farther down the block.
Screams were erupting from all around them, the people in the soup kitchen running out with panicked movements. They weren't the only people who were running. It seemed like Jason and Peter were the only people who weren't.
Jason’s blood ran cold. He knew the force of those fires and explosions. Fucking Firefly.
“Hey—hey, eyes on me,” Jason said hoarsely as he crawled to Peter, shielding him with his body as a chunk of masonry crashed down inches from them.
The jacket he placed on Peter was a few inches away, thrown off the child's body from the force. Jason grabbed it and placed it over the kid's head, shielding him from the debris and smoke.
Peter was shaking. His eyes were wide, unfocused, breath coming too fast.
“I—I can’t—” Peter gasped, clutching at Jason’s sleeve.
“I’ve got you,” Jason said, voice ironed flat through sheer will. He scooped Peter up and ignored the pain screaming through his ribs. Fire roared around them, heat pressing in like a living thing.
Jason staggered toward an alley, boots slipping on broken glass. A flaming beam collapsed behind them, the shockwave slamming into Jason’s back and knocking the air from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, curling around Peterinstinctively.
Smoke poured in all around them, thick and choking. Jason had to will everything within his body to stay in the present, to not slip into past memories with horrid laughter and taunts. What a shitty day.
Peter’s small body went limp in his arms.
“Hey—no, no, no,” Jason said urgently, cupping Peter’s face, smearing soot across his cheeks. “Stay with me, kid. Pete. Look at me.”
Peter’s lashes fluttered. His breathing stuttered once—twice.
Then he went slack.
Jason felt it like a knife between the ribs.
“Dammit,” Jason growled, pulling Peter tighter against his chest, shielding him as embers rained down. Sirens wailed in the distance—too far, not fast enough.
Jason bowed his head over Peter’s still form, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
“Hold on,” he whispered fiercely, surrounded by fire and ruin. “You’re not doing this. Not today.”
He desperately needed his family to get there. And fast. Jason pulled out his phone and called the one person he knew wouldn't disappoint him.
"Jay!" Dick's worried voice entered on the other line. "Are you okay? Don't worry, we heard about Firefly. We'll be there—" The acrobat had started to rant, unaware of the true damage.
"It's Peter," Jason said. "He's—I don't know? Passed out? We—"
His frantic words were cut off by another explosion, one that threw Jason to curl himself tighter around Peter. His ears were ringing now, the only sound he could make out despite wanting more.
"Little Wing?! Answer me!"