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Chapter Text

It was the kind of organized chaos it always was with fights in Gotham. His siblings effortlessly took out the henchmen, while also demonstrating a clashing cacophony of fighting styles that made an annoying ache flare up behind Damian’s temples if he looked at it for too long. So he didn’t, instead taking out another thug with a precise blow to the jaw. He only spared a millisecond to watch the man crumble before he proceeded to sweep out the legs from under a woman approaching him.

“Robin, seven o’clock!” Red Robin called from across the room, and Damian quickly turned to see the smallish figure of a man hiding behind a stack of crates fiddling with a device in his hands. It looked like typical alien tech. They’d been having a string of cases relating to illegal trading of the stuff lately.

He launched himself over some boxes, giving himself a chance to strike from above. Within two kicks, the man was lying on the ground, the device no longer in hand.

Damian carefully went to pick it up. They didn’t know how it worked, and until they did, it was better to avoid accidentally pushing any buttons. Especially if the man had already started turning it on before he’d been struck down.

Nightwing’s call of “Robin!” reached him only after he’d noticed the shadow of an object being slung his way by a thug. One who was fortunately not only very strong, but also very bad at aiming. He sidestepped easily and gave the approaching enemy a forceful kick in the guts, clutching the device to his body to avoid it being taken.

Darkness engulfed his vision as silence rang in his ears and for a long moment, Damian feared something had temporarily taken his senses. But even after a few seconds, nothing changed.

The sounds of fighting had ceased completely.

No bright spots were dancing before his eyes, as would be the effect of a flash bomb.

The temperature had dropped considerably. The smell of wood, leather, and sweat had been replaced by the stench of urine, rotten food, and burnt plastic.

In fact, once Damian’s vision adjusted to the new environment, it turned out the location was completely different as well. Instead of the warehouse, surrounded by fighting, he stood in an alleyway, utterly alone.

The nightly sounds of the city Damian had become all too familiar with in his years protecting Gotham began filtering in. Shouts drifting from the windows of apartments, crying, the rumble of the occasional car driving past one or two streets down.

He looked down at the device in his hands. About the size of a game controller, encased in sleek metal with barely any buttons. Had he pressed any on accident? No, his hands weren’t even near them. So then why…

His eyes roamed over his surroundings again. He could recognize the street the alleyway opened into as being located just on the border between Crime Alley and the Bowery. The warehouse had been in Chinatown.

Teleportation, then. But also time travel – he could remember the moon had been at the first quarter when he had looked at it just a few hours ago, but it now seemed more like a waning gibbous moon being half-covered by the city smog.

Taking a deep breath, Damian pressed his hand to his comm. Nothing. Wrong frequency, perhaps. He tried another channel. Still nothing.

Great. This either meant time travel (most likely with a considerable jump) or dimension travel. Damian wasn’t quite sure which one he’d preferred.

He didn’t have the required tools on his person, and getting into contact with the necessary people would surely turn out to be quite the hassle. Damian cursed internally.

First things first, he stashed away the alien device into his utility belt. He would have to get to a safe location before examining it and seeing if he could perhaps get himself back the same way he came. If not, he’d-

Hurried movement at the edge of his vision made his eyes snap up to the rooftops. Not a second later, a birdarang was embedded in the building’s wall right at the fire escape. A small yelp followed. Then a muffled thump as Damian watched a small shadowy figure take a panicked step back and promptly fall on their backside.

The only light sources were a lamp inside the building behind Damian and the flashlight the shadow had dropped, but they sufficed. Even from this distance, it seemed obvious a silhouette as tiny as that could only belong to a child.

A child who, with great effort, proceeded to yank the birdarang out of the wall. They appeared to be staring at the object for a few seconds before small hands grabbed the fire escape’s railing in a flurry of movement. Damian blinked, only to find the child’s face pressed up against the railing as well when he opened his eyes.

The bad lighting and the shadows of the alley made it impossible to make out the child’s features. Well, besides the gaping mouth and the wide eyes locked on Damian.

“Robin?” The child’s shriek was so high-pitched the word came out barely recognizable. Fortunately, Robins kind of had to be good at recognizing when someone called out for them.

Just because it happened often didn’t mean Damian was particularly skilled at or happy to interact with civilians. It had turned out to be the kind of thing no amount of training would make him better at, no matter his efforts. Damian’s Robin would always lack the comforting aura of his predecessors. He’d been eager to hide this shortcoming, though. Hence the avoidance of such situations whenever possible.

For better or worse, the kid didn’t mind taking over the talking for now. “You threw a birdarang at me!”

Damian had to suppress a wince. His family would not be happy with him throwing projectiles at a civilian. Much less a child.

“I had intended it as a warning shot. Are you injured?” he asked in reply, moving towards the stairs to check on his accidental victim.

When he arrived at the fire escape landing the child was sitting on, he was met with a frown and a mouth pulled to the side in a critical grimace. Pale eyes studied him, screening him from head to toe now that he’d come close enough.

“You’re not Robin.” The boy – Damian could now see it was a boy – stated. Then, before Damian could respond with a biting remark, the kid gasped. “No, you’re Robin from an alternate universe!”

He watched as the boy broke out in a childishly elated grin. “That is so cool.”

“Keep your voice down,” Damian said then, for several reasons. Most important being the fact they were in a neighborhood very unsafe for children to shout around in at this time of day. Secondly, in case this reality’s (or time’s, whatever) Batman happened to be near, Damian didn’t want to call attention to himself yet. Last but not least – although he would never admit it to anyone – Damian was frankly feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment, be it the dimension (or time) travel, or this strange child in front of him, or a mix of both.

The boy nodded, instantly quieting down in shame, albeit the excitement bubbling under the surface was still clearly visible.

“Sorry, Robin,” he mumbled.

“You need to go home. Tell me where you live, and I shall-”

“You look a lot younger than this world’s Robin... At least two or three years. Did Batman adopt you later? Or did you time travel besides hopping dimensions?”

Damian stilled at the question, body going rigid as he stared at the boy. Really looked at him, properly, perhaps for the first time since the beginning of their meeting. The lighting (or lack of it) had made it quite difficult to pick out anything past the black hair and light eyes, but now that Damian focused on it, he recognized that eye shape, the way the boy furrowed his eyebrows, the two birthmarks just below the left ear.

Albeit hidden behind the still-lingering baby fat on the boy’s face, those features clearly belonged to Drake.

Because his day hadn’t been going bad enough yet, obviously. Of course, the strange child had to be his future brother.

They had learned to tolerate each other with Drake a while back, but that quiet acceptance didn’t extend to his brother’s toddler version. He had better things to do than play nanny for a bothersome little freak with a hobby of disregarding his health.

Timothy Drake or not, though, he still couldn’t leave a child to fend for themselves in Gotham. He had heard in snippets of the absolutely reckless behavior Drake had displayed as a child and the clear excitement over Damian’s presence wasn’t very promising now. In his stupidity, Drake would surely do something as idiotic as attempting to follow Damian if he left now.

He puffed out his chest as he straightened up. “I am not adopted.”

Drake- Timothy waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, you’re his ward, I know… When did he take you in? What’s your dimension like?”

“No. I am his blood son.” Damian ignored the rest of the questions, crossing his arms over his chest. “How old are you?”

Timothy raised his eyebrows in surprise and interest before forcing a mask of calm to come over his face. It’s clear he wanted to ask more but reigned himself in. “Why do you want to know my age?”

“Just answer me.” Damian scowled, eliciting a soft blush to darken Timothy’s cheeks – though it was hard to see in the dim lighting, the boy’s paleness certainly helped. And here Damian thought the vampire appearance had only developed after Drake had become Robin.

“Nine...”

Damian hummed as he took in that information. If Timothy was nine, that meant Richard must have been around fifteen or sixteen. That set him at around nine or ten years into the past. Batman would have been around for a while but was still far less experienced than in Damian’s present. Also…

“You should be aware of Batman’s identity by now, then.”

Timothy looked up at him in alarm, then quickly averted his gaze. Warily, he nodded, shifting and squirming under Damian’s gaze.

It felt weird to look at such an innocent, shy version of his menace of a brother.

“How do you know? Do- I mean- Do we know each other in the universe you’re from?”

Damian nodded. There was no use trying to hide it from Timothy now. He would have to have Timothy’s memory erased, anyway, right before he went back to his time and his reality. As for the others, he should avoid messing up the timeline too much, if this is merely a time-travel-scenario and not a parallel-universes one. He didn’t want to alter the past drastically lest he end up in a completely different present. Messing with the past had the tendency to turn out bad.

Timothy got even more excited at that. Damian hadn’t thought that possible, frankly. He could see the boy mouthing ‘so cool’ while he gripped Damian’s birdarang tighter. It was a wonder he hadn’t cut himself with it yet.

Suddenly, though, quiet contemplation scrunched up the boy’s face as he took in Damian’s quasi-permanent scowl. It seemed to elicit a sudden mellowness as Timothy went on to speak quietly. “Are- Are we friends?”

Damian turned away, looking down onto the street littered with trash and people smoking or chatting about definitely illegal things.

He heard a quiet sigh behind him that got cut off by a hoarse cough.

“You need to go home, Timothy. Following Batman around during his patrols is not only dangerous but will also make you ill.”

When he glanced back, Timothy was fidgeting with his hands, birdarang discarded in his lap.

Eventually, he nodded and got up shakily, leaning down to grab his flashlight as well.

The light fell on Timothy’s leg for just a second, but it was enough to reveal the dark spot on the boy’s blue jeans. The fabric was ripped at that spot as well.

Damian immediately grabbed a hold of Timothy’s twig arm, making the boy flinch vehemently. That reaction nearly made Damian hiss as he led the flashlight in his brother’s tiny hand to shine on the spot on his leg again.

It didn’t appear to be a particularly deep cut and it had already begun clotting. Still, a long slash nonetheless, though it didn’t require stitches. Proper disinfection would definitely be necessary, however, especially after it had happened in Crime Alley of all places.

“You’re injured,” he stated. “Most likely from the birdarang I threw earlier.”

Saying it aloud caused a twinge of embarrassment to rise within him.

“Oh.” Timothy considered the wound. “It’s fine. I can treat it at home. Can… Can I keep the birdarang, though?”

“You can’t be trusted to treat even a simple cut properly, Drake,” Damian bit out automatically. “And yes, you may keep the weapon. As long as you’re careful not to injure yourself with it.”

“Uhm, thanks? Thank you very much, I mean. But I can really take care of it. I’ve done it before.”

Belatedly, Damian realized he had just insulted a nine-year-old. One who hadn’t become Robin yet, and thus didn’t go around neglecting injuries and illnesses for days to finish up cases. Who didn’t backtalk Damian whenever he voiced an opinion. Who didn’t stay up for an entire week with only coffee as fuel and then proceed to act like a know-it-all despite that. (At least Damian sincerely hoped this child didn’t stay up for that long.)

Still, Father and Richard had drilled into him the importance of looking out for teammates. And Timothy was, as much as Damian disliked it some days, exactly that, even if not at the moment. Him being a civilian child made the obligation to help even bigger, perhaps.

Damian was only doing this out of obligation. No other reason.

He kept up eye contact with the unnervingly large blue eyes in a staring contest of sorts for a few seconds. There was just no getting used to how tiny Timothy was. And how different. So…childlike. Curious, but not in the paranoid-invasive way. And excited, but he also withdrew quickly into this quiet, shy, prim-and-proper persona. Damian didn’t know what to make of that.

“I will permit further questions to my person while I treat your injury.”

Timothy’s eyes lit up at that. He had seemed a bit on the fence about letting Damian handle it before, but that bit of bribing swayed him.

“Alright.”

Damian watched as the boy rolled up his pant leg to give access to the wound before taking a seat on the rusty fire escape stairs.

It was probably not the best place to treat an injury.

Not like they hadn’t had to do it at worse locations before.

Carefully as to not step on Timothy’s feet, Damian moved past him and crouched down on the step below Timothy’s.

The wound in front of him was a clean and sharp cut, as expected from a birdarang. A handful of other scratches peppered the pale and soft skin, some more faded than others. Clumsy injuries from following around Batman and Robin, surely. Childish and innocent. Nothing compared to Damian’s or future Timothy’s scars.

Damian pulled out a small first-aid kit from his utility belt and got to work. There was a small amount of dirt on Timothy’s leg, but the area around the wound seemed clean.

“When did you have your last tetanus shot, Timothy?”

“It’s Tim. And… when I was seven, I think?”

Damian took a deep breath and nodded begrudgingly. “Alright. Tim.”

Going off the guilty look in Tim’s eyes, he decided there was no need to point out that children needed a tetanus booster between four and six years old, not seven. He’d heard about the neglectfulness of Tim’s parents. Richard had brought it up once or twice as an explanation for whatever strange behavior their brother had displayed at the time. As if his dead parents’ previous actions were an excuse for his current failings.

“So why are you here? And did Dick Grayson still get taken in by Batman? Who’s your mom?”

Damian rolled the hand that wasn’t dragging a cotton swab with disinfectant over the wound into a tight fist. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to refrain from saying something harsh. After all, he did promise Tim would be allowed to ask questions.

“I am here because a device using alien technology was accidentally activated during a fight. As soon as I figure out how to operate it, I will leave. As for Richard, yes, he is my older brother. And my mother is Talia al Ghul, Daughter of the Demon.”

“...Daughter of the Demon?” Tim frowned, dragging out the words in confusion.

Damian finished cleaning the wound and quickly cut off a strip of adhesive plaster from the roll he carried around. It had small Batman and Robin symbols on it, supposedly to make it more popular with kids, at least according to Richard.

Tim certainly seemed to like it, giving him a smile as he went to apply it over the wound. It’s as if he’d completely forgotten about the confusion from just a minute ago.

Giving his handiwork one last appraising look, Damian stood up and looked down at Tim. “I will take you home now.”

Tim looked up at him, tilting his head to the side a lot like dogs tended to do – and that association was not one Damian wanted to have in mind when looking at Drake. But he had to admit, the eyes too large for the frail face, the eagerness, and curiosity all reminded him of the puppies he’d encountered at the shelters he volunteered at. And wasn’t that an incredibly disturbing and weird thought. This entire situation was turning out to be incredibly disturbing and weird, with his older brother currently being four years younger than him and all that that entailed.

“It’s dangerous for you to go alone,” he added as an explanation.

“I usually take the bus and then ride my bike home from the bus stop. It’s not that bad.”

“Tt. The bus barely drives at this time, Tim. Me transporting you would be much faster.”

The small boy looked away, considering it. “Okay.”

It was only now both of them seemed to realize the unexpected problematics of how Damian would carry Tim.

In the years they’ve known each other, Damian had done everything in his power to keep physical contact between himself and Drake to a minimum, though he had been slacking in recent months. Like the time he’d dragged an unconscious Timothy to his room after he’d passed out from sleep deprivation. Or when he had injured his leg and Red Robin had carried him to the Batmobile. Or when Richard had pulled both of them into a group hug. Damian still shuddered just thinking about that last one.

Tim, too, seemed unsure what to do, shifting his weight from one leg to the other after he’d gotten up, watching Damian expectantly with hands behind his back.

Finally, Damian resolved the building tension by lifting Tim’s left arm over his head and throwing the boy over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Within seconds, he was holding the small body securely with a grip on the legs and the right hand. Even if the unusually light weight felt odd and the bony frame poked into him uncomfortably.

Tim immediately let out a yelp at being picked up, as well, and squirmed in Damian’s grip.

“This… This isn’t very comfortable, Robin,” he mumbled. Damian probably wouldn’t have heard him if not for Tim’s head being right next to his ear. “Could we maybe do a piggyback ride instead?”

Damian couldn’t suppress an eye roll, hidden behind his mask. He set Tim down again.

“Sorry,” the boy hurried to apologize, even as Damian was already turning around and picking him up again, letting him wrap his arms around his neck as his legs pressed against the Robin vest as tight as they could.

Not trusting Tim’s weak arms, Damian pulled out some rope from his belt to secure Tim to him with a makeshift harness. He made sure to keep a tight grip on the boy, too, even as he ran across the rooftops and swung between buildings.

Many of his moves elicited excited gasps or joyful shrieks from Tim. The more it happened, the more difficult Damian found it to connect the tiny boy on his back to Drake back home. The difference between the two was staggering.

By the time they reached Trigate Bridge, Damian’s feet were on the pavement once again. Bristol didn’t exactly have enough high buildings for parkour, after all. He still didn’t let Tim out of his grip, though. His weak and short legs would surely only slow them down.

“What’s your reality like?” Tim asked as they marched. Damian could feel the boy shivering from the night chill, but he couldn’t give him his cape without having to undo his rope contraption.

He almost put off answering with a dismissive click of his tongue. It would be neither useful nor necessary to tell Tim about the current familial situation of the Waynes. For one because he’d get his memories erased anyway, but also because it felt wrong to tell a child his parents would die within less than a decade.

Then again, if Tim’s parents were really never home, as Richard had told him… If he’d forget about it anyway…

“You can’t give this information to anyone else, understood?”

Damian could feel Tim nod against his back. Slowly and solemnly, as if he was taking an oath.

“You live with us. Father has a lot of children and a lot of family friends. We all aid him on his mission.”

“I’m a vigilante too?” Tim nearly let go of Damian in excitement, the huge grin obvious in his giddy voice. “That’s so cool. And I live with Mr. Wayne… So we’re kind of almost like brothers, right?”

Damian most certainly did not almost trip at hearing the happiness in Tim’s voice. It was simply unfamiliar to hear that sentiment expressed with such positive emotion. Drake (and quite a few others) tended to show displeasure in his presence instead, if the annoying remarks were anything to go off of. Which was ridiculous. He was the blood son, if anything, he deserved to be there the most.

“Yes,” he confirmed, putting care in not letting his voice crack.

“I’ve always wanted a sibling. I can’t imagine how amazing it must be to have so many.”

He didn’t know how to reply to that. Thankfully, he didn’t have to, as Tim was content simply leaning his head against the back of Damian’s neck and watching the scenery of Gotham at night growing more and more distant as they crossed the bridge.

Tim directed them to the bus stop he’d stashed his bicycle at. They walked the rest of the way to Drake Manor, with Damian pushing the small bike clumsily hand-painted in Robin’s colors while Tim sat on it, holding onto the handlebars.

Eventually, they passed Wayne Manor. Damian paused there for a minute, looking at the giant of a building with a scrutinizing gaze, trying to pick out any differences to the manor he knew.

Only the kitchen lights were on, signaling Batman either hadn’t finished patrol yet or was still working in the cave.

He should take care not to get his father’s attention in this reality. He could handle the alien device on his own, and the less people knew about him, the better. He would’ve preferred Tim not to know either. It would be a hassle to sneak into the Watchtower to contact someone who could erase the boy’s memory. Knowing Father, he would certainly object to the same treatment, even if it could potentially change his future. This version of Batman must be plenty inexperienced yet and stubborn enough to not make important sacrifices.

Before Tim could ask, Damian turned away from the manor and resumed the trek to Drake Manor.

It took them a bit to get there. In Bristol, being neighbors didn’t mean much – the lots were enormous. Damian had never been near Drake Manor, despite having lived in the manor next to it for the past three years.

Following Tim’s instructions, Damian entered the code into the electric lock at the gate. The black metal bars embellished with ornamental ironwork swung open slowly, and Tim jumped off the bike to run ahead and unlock the door. By the time Damian had abandoned the bike in the grass and caught up with him, he was only nearly finished.

“Thank you for taking me home,” Tim said with a smile, opening the double doors unceremoniously. “You… You could stay here while you set up your device? My dad has a toolkit. A-and it’s probably better to work here than outside. Or wherever you plan to go.”

Damian didn’t need his League training to be able to pick up the hope in Tim’s voice and body language. He was desperate to get Damian to stay, for whatever reason.

And… While not the most optimal, Drake Manor wouldn’t be the worst place to attempt to figure out how the alien tech worked. It was close to the Batcave, too. If Damian had to sneak down there for anything, it would be practical to start out from here.

“That would be acceptable.”

Tim’s face brightened. Before Damian could say anything further, the boy had already grabbed his hand and was leading him inside.

Chapter Text

Tim peered into his dad’s office, trying to be as quiet as possible. He’d even taken his shoes off before he tiptoed down the hall to make sure his steps were silent.

After all, any sound he made could be a distraction.

Robin was still hunched over the desk, tinkering with the strange metal device. The thing kind of looked like a combination of a radio and a brick, except a bit flatter. It had been taken apart, the top of the casing lying discarded beside Robin, who was busy combing through the mess of wires inside.

Tim frowned a little when he saw Robin still hadn’t taken his mask off. He understood the importance of secret identities, he really did, but boy was he curious to see what Mr. Wayne’s biological child looked like! He’d been meticulously looking for any similarities between them since he’d learned they were related – while Robin was even more serious than Batman (something Tim hadn’t thought possible), the grunts in place of answers (or in Robin’s case, the clicking of his tongue) were definitely a family trait.

After he’d lingered in the doorway for another minute just watching Robin work, the older boy finally looked up and glared at him. Tim felt warmth buzzing in his chest at the attention. He still couldn’t quite believe he was the only one to meet this alternate Robin. It made him feel really special.

“What is it?” Robin asked. He sounded rather irritated. Tim could understand. He had been working for several hours now.

The tone made Tim take an unsure step back regardless. Things always turned out bad when he bothered his dad while he was irritated. He didn’t want Robin to give him the silent treatment, too.

“Is it still not working?” Tim eyed the mess of component parts scattered on the desk but made sure his gaze didn’t drift for too long, else Robin got defensive. Again. “I made mac and cheese and was wondering if you’d like any.”

Robin gave him an unreadable look. Some expressions of his were still a mystery to Tim, which he found quite impractical. Dick Grayson was a lot more expressive, even with the mask.

“I’ll be down in five minutes.”

Nodding, Tim turned his attention to the rest of the room, scanning for anything out of place or messed up. He trusted Robin, he really did, but his dad was also super strict about no one being allowed into the office. If he found out they’d snuck in, he’d be furious. Tim didn’t want his parents to hide the keys to the ‘grown-up rooms’ somewhere else, because then he’d have to find them again and wouldn’t be able to use his mother’s walk-in closet as a darkroom for the duration of the search.

But it seemed like Robin had limited himself to the desk like he’d asked. How nice of him.

Tim hurried down to the kitchen and raided the cabinets to set the table for two people.

It felt so weird to do that. He usually didn’t bother much with proper table etiquette, not when he ate alone. Then again, this certainly counted as a special occasion.

He had just gotten around to plating up the food when Robin entered the room. Tim gestured to the chair across from his invitingly, just like his mother always did with guests, and waited until Robin had taken a seat before he sat down as well.

Pressing his hands under his thighs to keep from fidgeting, Tim glanced at his food, then at Robin. Would they just start eating? His parents sometimes insisted on saying a prayer first, when specific people came by for dinner. Maybe the Waynes preferred some sort of pre-meal ritual as well.

When nothing happened, Tim tentatively grabbed his cutlery. He looked at Robin with a pressed smile.

“Enjoy your meal.”

Robin used his fork to push around the food on his plate, watching the bright orange clumps as they moved. He pursed his lips and shot a penetrating glance at Tim.

Tim immediately blushed at that and looked down onto his lap. He’d been worried about serving Kraft mac and cheese to Robin – especially considering he was Mr. Wayne’s son, probably used to Mr. Pennyworth’s excellent cooking – but he frankly had nothing else. His diet mostly consisted of food easy to make, at least towards the end of the week when the groceries Mrs. Mac dropped off on Monday were all used up. The grocery store was quite a long way from Tim’s house and he hadn’t had time to ride his bike there after school. He had been too excited to find out if Robin was still there.

He had been. Apparently, the dimension-hopping device had been refusing to work after its first use. Robin was now trying to figure out how to use the thing and, if necessary, fix it. So far, with little success.

Tim had suggested going to Batman for help. Robin had promptly shut the idea down, saying something about being ‘perfectly capable of resolving this on my own’. As well as having to ‘preserve the timeline by keeping to the events as they had happened originally’.

“Is this what you usually eat?” Robin asked, inclining his head to convey the scrutiny Tim was under.

“I usually eat more balanced meals – more or less,” Tim gulped. “I’ve just run out of stuff to cook with. The housekeeper will bring new groceries in a few days.”

“We shall go shopping tomorrow. I need special tools for dismantling the device. We can buy some healthy ingredients as well.”

Tim studied the way Robin lifted his chin at the food yet gave in at last. He leaned forward, carefully mimicking Robin shoveling macaroni into his mouth. Occasionally he glanced up at the inter-dimensional traveler to check if he was still eating.

“You’ll also need clothes. Can’t keep running around as Robin if you don’t want to get noticed by Batman.”

“Tt.”

“I can give you some of my mom’s for the shopping. Those wouldn’t look too oversized on you.”

Robin glared but said nothing.

Tim chose not to push it. He impaled another piece of macaroni on his fork, peeking up from behind his plate when he muttered. “How long do you think will it take you to fix the machine?”

At that, Robin paused his eating, seemingly considering the question. A dissatisfied scowl made its way onto his face. “It appears it will take me at least a few days to figure out the mechanism behind the device.”

Tim couldn’t help but smile. That would give him so much time to hang out with Robin! Maybe even learn some more about the alternate reality this Robin came from.

“Then wouldn’t it be easier to reveal yourself to me?” Asking like this felt pathetic, somehow, but it wasn’t like he could use logic to figure out Robin’s identity this time. The guy literally didn’t exist in this world. And he knew next to nothing about his person, anyway. “Please?”

Tim thought it was only fair. Robin must’ve known everything about him, if they really lived together at Wayne Manor. As kind-of-almost-like-siblings.

“Tt,” Robin clicked his tongue again, a clear sign of annoyed disapproval – or at least that’s what Tim assumed it to be – and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and hands in tight fists, gaze fixed on his lap and away from Tim.

Tim thought about adding something to be more convincing. Perhaps a promise not to tell anyone or a mention of how Robin must know Tim was trustworthy by how trustworthy his alternate self (hopefully) was. Before he could come up with a plan of persuasion, however, Robin interrupted him.

“My name is Damian Wayne,” he said.

And that was that.

A small laugh bubbled up out of Tim’s throat. “It’s an honor to meet you, Damian.”

“Tt.” Damian jerked his head to the side dismissively.

After lunch, Damian locked himself in the bathroom to peel his mask off. Tim could barely keep from bouncing in excitement as he pretended to busy himself in the laundry room nearby, regularly walking out into the hall to see if Damian had come out yet.

When he finally did, towel in hand still rubbing at his face to get the remainders of the adhesive off, Tim greeted him with a huge smile.

People looked so much different when a third of their face wasn’t covered by a black domino mask. It was truly amazing.

Damian rolled his eyes at the sight of Tim. But he did stop in his tracks, looking down at Tim to allow him to study his features.

His eyebrows and nose were just like Mr. Wayne’s. The eyes were distinctly sharper, the deep green color accentuating the cunning behind them. His hair texture seemed different from his father’s, too, albeit Tim couldn’t exactly put his finger on how exactly. He figured Damian’s jaw would resemble the shape of Mr. Wayne’s, too, once the still lingering childlike qualities fully disappeared with time.

The intellect in Damian’s gaze made him seem so much older than Tim. He was much taller, too, though many had said Tim was tiny for his age, so the difference in height didn’t mean much. And the age gap between them couldn’t be that big in reality, not with Damian’s features still possessing somewhat of a prepubescent roundness. Not to mention his voice.

“Have you feasted your eyes enough yet?” Damian grumbled.

Tim turned on his heels as the boy walked past him. “You resemble Mr. Wayne a lot,” he said, because the people saying such stuff at galas always meant it as a compliment and he figured Damian would appreciate hearing it, too.

Damian puffed out his chest. “It’s only logical. I am his blood son and heir.”

“I know. But it still looks cool.”

Something tugged at the corner of Damian’s lips before he could suppress it. It made Tim smile as he hurried to keep up.

He liked Damian a lot. Sure, sometimes he was a little grouchy, but so was Batman. It was kind of part of the ‘billionaire by day, billionaire vigilante by night’ deal that Damian must’ve inherited from his dad. And anyway, he could tell Damian wasn’t all bad. He’d patched Tim up the previous night, after all, and he was still there keeping him company. He could’ve just as easily gone somewhere else by the morning. Tim was pretty sure there were better-equipped places for fixing dimension-hopping devices than Drake Manor.

Not that he was particularly eager to convince Damian of that. He liked having him here. And, secretly, he didn’t really want him to leave yet. At least not before telling Tim more about his home dimension.

Ever since Damian had mentioned they lived together in his reality, Tim had been buzzing to know more. Of course, if infinite alternate universes existed, there was also an infinite number of them where Tim was friends with Robin, but the concept still seemed so unlikely to him. Too good to be true.

He couldn’t ask Damian too many questions yet, though. Damian had to work on his device. Perhaps Tim could note down a few important ones to read aloud to him at dinner, though, so he didn’t forget to ask them.

×××××××××××××××

Drake Manor was awfully quiet. Damian had gotten too used to the loud and unruly family life of Wayne Manor. Despite his siblings having moved out by now, it seemed like they were incapable of staying away too long. Someone was always there to make noise. If not the Gotham vigilantes, then Jon dropping by to ‘hang out’. One had to actively seek out a quiet place to get some peace.

Tim’s childhood home appeared to be the inverse. Walls painted in lively colors, antiques and Tim’s belongings scattered in a mess throughout the rooms, it looked very lived in, even if it wasn’t. Not at all. While the boy had been at school, Damian had experienced firsthand how quickly the house became a big void empty of noise. Almost as if someone had sucked all air out of the place and sealed it tight.

It had felt wrong, the morose silence like an insult to Damian’s frustration as he’d worked on the wretched device. He had gotten as far as taking apart the thing after it refused to respond to any outside stimuli. Damian felt his hackles rise as the metal slab remained not much more than that – just a piece of metal with fancy wiring as stuffing. The urge to throw the thing out the window grew more and more each minute.

Given all this, Damian didn’t mind Tim’s current presence in the room all too much. The soft sounds of the boy fidgeting with a camera offered a stable background noise. He also didn’t feel the need to flip out when that would’ve resulted in embarrassment in front of a child.

Damian bit down on his stuck-out tongue as he disconnected a wire from what looked like a resistor. He sure hoped it was a resistor.

The main problem the device presented was how it lacked anything to signify whether it had been turned on or off, as well as the nonexistence of any bar indicating the settings regarding goal dimension or time. Accidentally activating the device and sending himself even further from his timeline was the last thing he needed.

It looked like that wouldn’t happen anytime soon, though.

Damian tried not to get railed up over it.

If only Drake had ended up with this idiotic machine – operating such devices was just about the only thing he was useful for.

That thought made Damian look up from his work. At Tim, standing at the window and absentmindedly testing out the zoom function of his camera.

He pulled his mouth into a grimace as he observed the boy. Everything would’ve been so much easier if he could’ve just written him off as his same annoying self and ignored him. But this Tim was…so different. So clingy. So harmless.

This Tim liked Damian. Adored him, even.

An unpleasant, itchy feeling – like bugs crawling over him – overcame him at that incongruity. At just how mismatched the Tim he knew and the Tim in front of him were.

Another point for the alternate universe theory. This Tim Drake possessing a completely different personality sounded more likely than Timothy having been like this as a child.

It felt especially strange due to the simple fact that Damian had no idea how to deal with it. There was no point in investing an effort into interacting with the boy when he’d grow up to be unlikable anyway. Just like it wasn’t worth it to try with his timeline’s Drake, because he’d decided Damian was a nasty little pest the minute they’d met and hadn’t changed his mind in the past three years. Not to mention the fact he was bullheaded and did whatever he thought was right based on some arbitrarily over-complicated plan. He tiptoed around problems ad absurdum. To the point of inefficiency. And yet people berated Damian for rushing into things.

Why would Drake deserve to be treated with respect when he’d never seen Damian as an equal either? And Damian knew, he knew Timothy still despised him, even in spite of whatever forced truces they’d have to put up with for their family’s sake. He could tell.

But this Tim hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, he was visibly trying to help Damian, in whatever laughable ways he could. He was just a civilian child, as of now. It would be cruel to push him aside for another’s mistakes.

Contrary to popular belief, Damian wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t.

A shaky sigh escaped him and he quickly wiped at his eyes before things could escalate. This was ridiculous.

Tim looked over at him. He frowned.

Damian immediately straightened and looked to the side.

“This isn’t working,” he announced.

His words made Tim take an unsure step closer. He straightened up, too, chin tucked in, as if waiting for instructions.

So weird.

This peculiar behavior would surely keep sending shivers up his spine for quite a while yet.

“I will try to find currently existent and available links to the device that I can go off of to fix it. Starting with the company it originated from. I’ll need to establish what the situation in Gotham is like at this time.”

He sized Tim up, who had been nodding along, swaying on the balls of his feet. Ready to jump into action.

“Tell me everything you know,” Damian urged.

Tim’s eyes widened minutely at the realization Damian was expecting him to fill him in. He launched into it with vigor.

As it turned out, Tim had a lot to say. It was impressive how much he knew about not only Batman’s activities, but Gotham’s criminal underworld as a whole. He could tell Damian which gangs were on the rise and which were nearing their end thanks to Batman’s efforts. He presented several maps with patrol routes and schedules and guided Damian as he noted down everything he needed to consider when going out in costume.

And then the pictures came out.

They were more proof than new information, but they certainly helped Tim’s credibility.

Not to mention how well-framed some of them were.

Damian could always appreciate good art.

He had known Tim used to do photography, somewhere in the back of his mind. The only evidence of that in the manor was the camera in Tim’s room and the many pictures littering the walls and Alfred’s albums – though with photos, it was hard to tell who had taken them, and Damian had never wondered. His paintings and drawings, on the other hand, were easily attributed to him, by the characteristic style alone. Not to mention no one else really created art in the manor, aside from him. And, as he now knew, maybe Tim as well.

Picking up one of the photographs – one showing Father and Richard descending onto a group of Two-Face’s henchmen –, Damian shot Tim a glance of approval. It was brief, but it was there, and Damian decidedly would have preferred not to think about it.

“You combined the rule of thirds and the low-angle shot quite well here. You seem to have an eye for composition.”

Tim blushed embarrassed, wringing his hands to keep them occupied as he tried to return Damian’s gaze. “T-thank you.”

Damian nodded and placed the picture back onto the desk, careful to pick out another one to use as a visual guide for the list he was creating. Tim had given him some paper and double-sided tape after apologizing for not having any red string left (he’s used all of his for a board in his room). He’d quickly been assured that red string was, in fact, not necessary for such projects.

After they’d outlined the current situation in Gotham, Damian chose to focus on the vigilantes and superheroes specifically. With input from Tim and his own vague knowledge of how things had been before his arrival, he tried to jot down anything or anyone he needed to look out for when going out into the city.

While Justice League Members were rare to visit Gotham, Richard’s group of friends was certainly and unfortunately tolerated. Despite it being unlikely Damian would happen upon them out there at night, they posed a significant factor in Richard’s patrol times. Batwoman and the Cat also needed to be considered. Moreover…

“You said you were nine, correct?”

Tim furrowed his eyebrows with a searching gaze. “Yes. Why?”

Damian placed a hand under his chin, the other tucked over his chest. Assuming Jason Todd existed in this place (which he most likely did, given the two universes had so far been parallel in events, albeit suffering a time delay), he would have to be around eleven. Batman wouldn’t encounter him until what, one or two years later?

Just to be sure, Damian noted down ‘Todd’ on his paper. It earned him a curious look from Tim.

“Who’s that?”

“Tt,” Damian replied. At this time, Jason would most likely be a homeless child in Crime Alley. No one of importance in the happenings of Gotham.

In order to redirect, Damian used a method often employed by Alfred. Perhaps it would work regardless of the person using it.

“I believe it’s about time for supper. And after that, it would be best you retired for the evening. You have school tomorrow.”

Tim offered him a halfhearted, tight-lipped smile at that, scratching at his nose and letting his gaze wander around the room. “Alright.”

When the boy turned around and set out to lead him to the kitchen once again, Damian wordlessly followed. Quietly, he wondered to himself how his father had ever managed to train these terribly obvious tells of lying out of Tim.

Chapter Text

The dim yellow of a streetlight blinked sleepily in the shadow of a billboard. Originally, it had advertised a new apartment building project over in Otisburg providing new and safe housing for hundred-and-twenty-five families, but the message was lost to vandalism. Several gangs seemed to regularly graffiti over the advertisement. Unknown substances painted the bottom corners in unpleasant smells.

It fit perfectly into the decrepit environment.

The entire street looked like it could fall apart at any moment – streets in this part of Gotham all did.

Only a dull thunk indicated the dark figure landing on the top of the billboard. It perched on it like a vulture, easily balancing on the thin frame. Its eyes scanned the rooftops above.

No sign of an audience.

Not from up there, anyway.

Crime Alley never really slept, and its denizens lived with eyes wide open for any dangers lurking in the shadows. Even at this time of night, when the only ones sauntering through the streets were crooks, working girls, or their Johns. Everyone watched their steps, wide awake and ready for a gun to be pulled.

But they all expected the danger from gloomy corners, from dirty alleyways. Perhaps hidden in abandoned houses or waiting for them right out on the open streets.

No one bothered to look up.

It would’ve been stupid to, in fact. Looking up gave an opening for anyone attacking from below. The only ones sweeping down from above were the Bat and his Bird, and even they avoided the Alley when they could. Everyone knew that. Can’t be bothered to salvage a rot so deep and throughout.

That also meant the shadow could easily go on to grapple onto a neighboring rooftop soundlessly without anyone noticing.

It ran across and jumped onto the next one, feet skidding on gravel.

Looked down into the alleyway below. Then jumped again.

From rooftop to rooftop. Alleyway to alleyway. Only the sounds of shoes hitting brick or metal, sometimes a pebble being kicked echoing into the night.

Perhaps going about it like this had been a miscalculation. Maybe the kid was staying somewhere else, or hidden better. It was even possible the search was completely pointless, if the child was being looked after by someone.

It’s not like Damian had ever bothered learning the details of this particular case.

Just five more rooftops, then he would withdraw for the night. He could always come back another time.

Three rooftops to the North, his search finally yielded results. Namely, the sight of a black-haired boy slinking along the walls, towards the dumpsters behind a building that looked particularly well-off for Crime Alley standards. His movements were somewhat akin to a hunting cat’s, slow and steady, body hunched low, gaze focused. Damian had to admit the kid wasn’t half bad at sneaking. For a civilian, that is.

He watched the boy get to the trash and examine the padlock keeping the lid shut. The kid’s faded red hoodie was clearly visible on the security camera pointing right at him (which he had probably overlooked when glancing around for any), ensuring that even if his attempts at retrieving anything from the trash succeeded, it would be a one-time thing.

Damian watched with interest, crouched on the edge of the roof across from the building. The black fleece hoodie of Tim’s mother hid him well. Paired with Robin’s black pants and ugly running shoes of a dark magenta color (also courtesy of Mrs. Drake’s collection), he melted into the darkness.

It would’ve been of no use to wear his costume out tonight – Gotham had plenty of kids out on the streets. Robin, she only had one.

And calling attention to himself was the last thing he needed. Staying unmasked was safer for tonight.

He decided to strike while the boy was fiddling with the lock. Effortlessly, he swung down onto a lamppost, then jumped from there, until he was just across the street from the kid attempting to raid the trash in search for food.

Statistically, Damian knew it had to be a move of desperation. In this part of town, even the households not threatened by hunger avoided food waste. That was a luxury reserved for other neighborhoods.

His steps silent as he approached, he watched the boy, careful of his movements. He couldn’t afford to be noticed.

He took care to plant the tupperware container in a visible place. On an electrical box just outside of the kid’s alleyway – that way, the boy would hopefully see it when he left.

As soon as he’d deposited the container of mac and cheese leftovers, along with a fork (wrapped inside a plastic bag for hygiene’s sake), he was gone. Again settled on a rooftop. Waiting things out.

By that time, the kid had successfully picked the lock and was busy rummaging through the trash. His thin and bony hands – the kid was even more of a twig than Tim, Damian noted – worked quick and efficient as he tore open trash bags and looked through their content, disappointment souring his body language with each passing minute. His shoulders drooped, movements slowing before he finally shut the lid again, carefully not to make much noise. He looked around one last time before heading out of the alleyway.

And immediately happening upon the bag of food waiting for him on the street.

Damian perked up.

Down in the street, the boy ascertained himself of the street being empty of others, once again, before taking tentative steps towards the electrical box. He grabbed the bag and pulled it down from its place. Holding it close to his chest, he eyed the contents of the bag after pulling it open.

Damian observed as the kid ripped off the sticky note he’d placed on the lid of the box – noting the contents, as well as any noteworthy allergens. It’s something Alfred had done as well when Damian had first come to the manor, whenever he refused to leave his room and would receive his food there. Though he supposed Kraft mac and cheese couldn’t be all too dangerous, he’d once seen Richard spend an entire afternoon in the bathroom after having some cheesy store-bought concoction. That incident had taught him better than to trust American products.

He figured the gesture would make the food more trustworthy.

However, when the boy read the note, his shoulders curled in towards himself. He held the bag away from himself, ever so slightly, as he went to stuff the note back into the packet. Putting the food to where he’d found it with furrowed brows, the kid distanced himself from the free meal with brisk steps.

Finally, he chanced another suspicious look around before he removed himself from the scene.

Damian watched him go.

A scowl overtook his expression as he stood and turned southwards as well.

While he didn’t quite understand the logic behind that rejection, it didn’t bother him all too much. Since this entire operation had been merely a way to get rid of the mac and cheese leftovers so he didn’t have to eat that garbage (nor insult Timothy by not eating it), it did not matter who ended up consuming it in the end.

One container of mac and cheese mattered fairly little in the grand scheme of the time and space continuum. No one’s future would be changed by one more bag of leftovers abandoned in the street.

If Jason Todd insisted on going hungry, that was his business.

Damian had more important business in Chinatown, anyway. Like working on returning to his own time or dimension.

He flew through Gotham, only equipped with his grapple gun.

Tonight was for reconnaissance. Ignoring all the gunshots and screams reaching his ears went against his training, but it was nothing he hadn’t done before. He couldn’t afford to make waves. Not now.

Chinatown was on the other end of the city, but Damian was fast. He only had to be careful of Father and Richard’s patrol routes. This far in the past, Batman worked differently than he was used to. While he trusted Tim’s information (more or less – while Damian would begrudgingly admit Timothy was intelligent, he was a child nonetheless), it never hurt to be careful.

He crossed Robinson Park without encountering Poison Ivy and passed the bridge downtown.

The richer districts of the city were much more quiet at night, if not for the cars and the drifting of music from entertainment establishments. The lights dazzled like the blanket of the stars Damian would see out in the desert, except the city’s glow had an overwhelming, artificial quality to it. More alike a ditzy diamond necklace than the night sky.

Whenever he and his siblings crossed this part during patrols, they’d end up bantering. The contagiously lighthearted ambiance just seemed to have that effect on his more simple-minded siblings.

Now, alone, the echoes of the city below seemed distant and removed.

Quickly leaving behind the glamour and excellent visibility, he grappled towards the docks. He slipped down to the row of warehouses lining the edge of the city.

As returning to the same warehouse he’d been teleported from the day before would’ve had no point, he rather aimed his focus onto the office building just on the corner from the storage containers.

When the Bats had looked into the illegal shipments the week before, their investigations had turned up years of white-collar crimes by the same company. Before the group had gone into the alien tech business, they’d spent a long time meddling in insider trading, frauds, and more. All right in their rented offices in Gotham’s Chinatown.

The exact same offices Damian was standing in right now.

After disabling any cameras and alarms, he got right to work combing through any and all documents detailing the company’s exploits.

He would’ve had plenty of evidence to get them convicted of their earlier crimes. But he didn’t need that. What he needed was any indication of the crimes they would commit ten years after those. He needed details on the alien technology and weapons they would smuggle from incidents involving extraterrestrials over in Europe. The ones they’d sneak out right under the nose of Justice League International. He needed a lead to the origin of the device that had landed him in this place.

It was hard tracing a crime that hadn’t happened yet, though.

Damian grit his teeth as he opened another drawer full of paperwork. He could do this. He was good enough to do this.

He rounded up the names of everyone who worked in these offices. Wrote down any telephone numbers he found, highlighting the international ones. With some research, he would definitely happen upon something.

Their investigations in Damian’s timeline suggested the group hadn’t been actively smuggling until what was now three years in the future. But plans to become an elaborate illegal trade organization would have to have been years in the making by the time they actually carried out any of those plans.

Otherwise…

No. There was no ‘otherwise.’ Damian wouldn’t sit tight and wait around. He wouldn’t keep still.

If that’s what it took, he would build his own damned time machine to get back.

×××××××××××××××

“I told you to go to bed.”

Tim jolted and would’ve probably thrown his camera off the roof of the warehouse if it weren’t for the strap securing it around his neck. He quickly lowered his hands, silently cursing the missed opportunity of photographing Batman defeating the Riddler.

Although his hood obscured Damian’s features, the scowl on his face was obvious. Towering above him like this, Tim could suddenly see Batman’s intimidation factor mirrored all too well in his son.

“Did you find anything useful?” Tim asked in lieu of a reply.

“I broke into the offices and retrieved names and some potential leads. I will need to look into it further,” Damian grumbled.

There was a certain hoarseness in Damian’s voice that Tim decided not to point out. He didn’t want to overstep any boundaries. They’d only known each other for a day now, after all.

So he also didn’t point out he’d noticed the mac and cheese missing from the fridge after Damian had left. Or how he highly doubted Damian had taken it for himself, after how uncomfortable he’d seemed eating it at dinner.

Tim wasn’t quite sure yet what to make of it, but enjoyed the mystery. He dearly hoped the explanation was more complicated than Damian having thrown out the leftovers because they were so bad. If he did, at least he hadn’t dumped it into Drake Manor’s trash. Tim had checked.

“Well, you’re – uhm, welcome to stay at my house for as long as you need. My parents will come home in three months, but only for four days, so… And it’s a lot easier than checking into a hotel. Since you wanted to avoid meeting people and all,” Tim hurried to say after the silence between them stretched for too long. He really hoped Robin wouldn’t find him too obnoxious. He was trying very hard to keep the hero worship to a minimum.

Damian looked at him. The glare resembled what Tim imagined being scolded by Mr. Wayne at a gala must’ve been like. He immediately became self-conscious about what he’d said, even though none of it had been anything to feel guilty for.

“I suppose that would be acceptable.”

Tim could barely suppress a grin. Robin was really going to live with him indefinitely! While he worked on getting back to his own dimension, but still. Tim couldn’t wait to get to know him better.

“Father really is an amateur at this point in time.”

Looking up at Damian and following his gaze, Tim’s eyes once again fell on Batman and Robin. They had moved on from arresting Riddler to talking to the police. Or rather, Batman was talking to the police while Robin helped the EMTs arriving on the scene attend to the hostages the Riddler had used in his scheme this time.

To Tim, both vigilantes seemed like professionals. Experts at what they were doing. He wondered how good they were in Damian’s dimension to merit that comment.

“What makes you say that?”

“They could have detained the rogue much faster. If Robin had used the maneuver we usually do in hostage...” Damian trailed off, shoulders hunching as he realized Tim had no idea what he meant. That Tim had little knowledge of battle strategy altogether. “Father knows better than this,” he settled on instead, “he’s well-read for his age.”

Damian seemed to either not notice or disregard the fact he was talking about an adult man the same way Tim’s parents explained away his shortcomings to guests at galas. Like when he accidentally ate too many of the hors d’oeuvre at a Wayne Gala when he was five and ended up vomiting (notably in the bathroom and out of sight of any gala guests, but that seemed an unimportant detail to the Drakes when Tim had happened to run to the bathroom – good children don’t run). It was always ‘Tim knows better than that’ and ‘he’s actually quite a smart boy for his age’.

Tim giggled at the comparison his head had come up with. It came out louder than he’d expected.

Less than a beat later, he found himself with Damian’s palm pressed firmly against his mouth. Damian’s other hand was holding him in a vice grip, having jerked him away from the edge of the rooftop.

“Quiet! Your inattention will undo all my efforts to stay invisible to Batman! You could ruin everything if you don’t learn to keep your voice down,” Damian hissed, his eyes aflame with anger.

Tim quickly pressed his eyes shut to not start crying under that glare.

“I honestly don’t know how you were never caught by Father,” Damian added. He peered down into the street as if checking if they’d been noticed, then turned back to Tim with furrowed eyebrows. “Promise to not make a sound?”

Tim nodded against Damian’s palm. His hand was starting to become warm, and while usually Tim appreciated any form of physical contact, he found this quite uncomfortable for some reason.

Finally, Damian released him.

Immediately Tim rushed back to the edge of the roof to watch as emergency services started to leave the scene. His heart, still hammering in his chest at a rushing speed from Damian’s surprise maneuver a minute ago, picked up in pace once again at the thought that maybe Batman and Robin had heard them and were just wrapping up down there before coming to meet them.

Damian would surely hate him if they did.

Tim watched with eyes still wide open in fear as Batman clapped Robin on the shoulder for a job well done.

Distantly, Damian’s words from the day before came to mind – the time where he said Tim also lived at Wayne Manor in his dimension, and that they were all crime-fighting vigilantes. He wondered if Batman also praised him like that. If maybe he even gave Tim hugs sometimes, the way he did with Dick whenever he rescued the teen from a kidnapping or a hostage situation.

Did Damian miss his family back home? Did he miss his dad? His brother Dick? Maybe even his Tim? Did seeing all their alternate selves make him sad?

Tim would certainly be devastated if he were in Damian’s place. He missed his parents every time they left, even if their trip was just a few days. When he was little, he would go to bed hugging a framed picture of them. He had since gotten used to it, matured, become a big boy. But being away from his family still sucked.

He glanced to his left.

Damian must’ve been feeling the same, if the longing look in his eyes was anything to go by.

The intimate moment between Batman and Robin was over before they knew it, though, and Batman’s shadow suddenly seemed to be looking up, his gaze searching the rooftops.

A hand found itself in Tim’s hair, pressing his head down. He obeyed and went willingly, crouching down into a ball by Damian’s feet to make himself as small as he could be. Even if his thick jacket made folding himself tiny quite a hard task.

Arms wrapped around his knees, he kept quiet as he listened for the swish of capes. Or feet landing beside them. He barely dared to breathe, afraid it would give them away.

Damian made no sound either. As if he wasn’t there at all. Tim was tempted to turn his head just to check.

After what seemed to be an eternity, the characteristic woosh of a grapple being deployed finally sounded. In the opposite direction of theirs. Another one followed, then the noise of capes fluttering in the air.

Two seconds later, Damian let out a near-silent sigh.

“The coast is clear,” he said, still whispering.

Tim let out a much more audible breath. He unrolled himself and his limbs splayed out over the rooftop as he regarded Damian’s grim expression. For the second time, his heart stumbled. Was Damian still mad at him?

But no, Damian wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was fixed far away into the distance, into the deep dark night only Gotham could produce. He almost reminded Tim of Batman this way. The only thing missing to complete the set would’ve been a gargoyle. Too bad they were at the docks.

“I cannot watch Father foolishly embarrass himself any further,” Damian announced.

Tim sat up, a frown etched onto his face. The words hung in the air for a long few moments.

Then Tim scrunched his nose, tilting his head sideways. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to witness the rest of Father’s patrol. Let’s return to your house.”

Smiling, Tim shook his head. This was just a tactic to get him home so he could get a few hours of sleep in before school, wasn’t it?

Chapter Text

Damian had never enjoyed accompanying Alfred on his grocery runs. While he quite enjoyed the company of the family butler (and grandfather), it was the mind-numbing activity of shopping that actually bothered him.

A gaudy, multicolored inferno. Rows of products upon products, pointlessly difficult to navigate. So many of the shelves stacked with absolutely useless garbage. It was little more than a bleak labyrinth of neon lights and linoleum tiles. Damian held a lot of respect for Alfred for his patience and capability in braving such establishments. Still, he hated spending time there, even in the man’s presence.

Shopping with Timothy was even worse.

Ever since they’d entered Bristol’s mega-supermarket, Tim had held back on actually putting anything into the basket, instead preferring to just trail behind Damian. Possibly due to Damian previously having expressed disapproval of Tim’s food choices. Who knew.

Selecting everything all on his own would take ages, though.

Like everything in Bristol, its supermarket was huge and luxurious, too. Which meant extra rows of gourmet goods and delicacies extended the already chaotic setup of the store. Not to mention the overly friendly clerks approaching them every two minutes asking them if ‘you boys needed any help’ or if they could ‘help find your mom for you’.

Damian didn’t know how much more it would take to chase him out of the store.

If they were offered another free sample of Belgian cheese or authentic French religieuse, he would snap. Maybe throw the sample display in the face of whatever teen had been forced by their parents to work for their two-grand-a-month pocket money.

It was ridiculous how the store offered French pastries but not the ingredients for the most basic dishes.

He stood in front of the section titled ‘foreign delicacies’ by a large white sign above the shelf. Behind him, Tim let out an exhausted sigh as he too fruitlessly scoured the lined-up products for the right one. Their shopping list crumpled in the boy’s hands.

Damian scowled and crossed his arms, shopping basket to his chest. They had already tried the produce section. And the freezers. With no success. How difficult could it be to find something in a supermarket with an otherwise clear, easy-to-understand shelving system?

Tim looked up at him with a frown, chewing on his bottom lip. “Maybe we could ask someone who works here?”

“This is ridiculous,” Damian said as he turned around and took off.

Damian did end up asking someone. They didn’t even recognize the word. Not even when he grit his teeth and repeated himself, pronouncing it in a way that sounded particularly English to him and happened to be a complete butchering of the word.

He refused to stoop down further to the level of these dimwits and begin describing mulukhiyah. He’d just accept they didn’t carry it.

All of a sudden, a twinge of guilt stabbed at his conscience for all the times he criticized Alfred’s mulukhiyah for not being as good as his mother’s. Clearly, the playing field had never been level.

Tim glanced up at him for further instructions as they left the confused store clerk behind. His pale blue eyes screamed ‘what now?’.

“We’ll make lentil soup instead,” He grumbled, then added, “and basbousa. As dessert.”

Tim looked like he couldn’t quite decide whether to let his confusion or his elation at the prospect of sweets show on his face. He settled on a wary smile.

Damian would use that inexperience. With Tim so young, he could exploit a child’s love for sweets and willingness to try them and get Tim to like Damian’s preferred dishes. Even once Tim’s memories of Damian were erased, his taste would hopefully linger.

In Damian’s timeline, Alfred made that dessert only rarely, due to his brothers finding the taste too sweet. It was highly unfair, as well, given how everyone had to suffer through Stephanie’s monthly fondue nights. Even when Damian always developed a stomach ache afterward. At least Damian’s favorite foods didn’t make anybody ill.

But... If adult Tim liked basbousa too, then perhaps Damian would not have to face the problem of basbousa-withdrawal once he returned to his present.

This small a change to the future would certainly be acceptable. It wouldn’t even seem intentional as long as one didn’t know.

Besides, Damian would at best be doing the family a service by getting Timothy to eat properly.

Following that decision, Damian and Tim split up. Damian went to retrieve semolina, the required vegetables, and the proper spices (Drake Manor’s kitchen had frighteningly little to offer in the latter department). Tim was tasked with the more basic, easy-to-find ingredients after Damian had revised their shopping list and entrusted him with the search again.

Returning to the produce section near the entrance of the store, Damian found the red lentils quite easily. He turned his attention to locating the spices rack, prepared for another headache-inducing journey across the store.

A display with snacks to-go caught his eye. Colorful, plastic-wrapped sandwiches and low-quality attempts at street food taunting shoppers right at the entrance, readily available for anyone just stopping by the store for a quick pick-me-up. Damian cringed at the sight.

At first. Then he stilled, an idea forming in his head.

He walked over to the cooled shelf, eyes tracing over fajita wraps and small boxes of sushi and neatly packaged macarons. His hand lifted to reach toward a simple egg and cheese sandwich, cut into triangles and sealed by plastic.

Damian usually avoided buying such nonsense. There was no point in it, anyway, not when Alfred’s sandwiches were of much higher quality.

But now that he thought about it, these prepackaged things had one benefit that trumped any other sandwich, in Damian’s current situation at least: It would be clearly visible if the food had been messed with. As long as the seal was not damaged, there was no way the food could present danger to anyone. Besides tasting mediocre, that is.

Jason should have no issues trusting the food this time.

Damian wouldn’t even need to provide a note, given everything important was already listed on the back of the packaging.

With little hesitation, Damian threw the sandwich into the basket. Grabbed two, just in case.

If Tim asked, he could just explain it away as fuel for his nightly reconnaissance.

×××××××××××××××

Tim clutched all the groceries he’d retrieved to his chest as he went over the shopping list one last time and mentally checked off everything he had grabbed.

It seemed like he had all of the ingredients. Now he just needed to regroup with Damian.

He walked through the aisles with his armful of things, on the lookout for the other boy. Several times, he got held back by concerned shoppers, mostly of the old lady variety, asking if he needed help finding a basket or, perhaps, his mom. Every time, he proudly proclaimed he was here with his brother and moved on after reassuring them everything was perfectly fine. While he felt a bit guilty over saying something that technically wasn’t true in this reality, Damian hadn’t explicitly told him he couldn’t say it. And he knew from experience none of the people in Bristol ever actually paid attention to what one was saying, as long as it wasn’t about business or personal insults.

Idly, he wondered whether Damian and Tim really did go shopping together, over in Damian’s universe. Probably not, because the boy appeared to dislike grocery shopping quite a lot. But Tim didn’t mind. It’s not like he particularly enjoyed it, either. They probably did a lot of other stuff together.

Like being vigilantes and fighting crime. Oh, Tim still couldn’t quite wrap his head around that one, but it was so exciting!

His arms were beginning to get sore from the weight of his groceries, though. The ache pulled in his shoulders, and he was ever-so-slightly slumping forward as he walked. By now, he could feel the lack of energy from spending all night out in the city. Not that he regretted it.

Hit with a sudden idea (and in turn, new energy), Tim turned on the balls of his feet and straightened up, determination set in his features as he steered towards the aisle with the sodas.

He reached his destination at record speed, undeterred by his previous tiredness. His eyes sharply raked across the rows upon rows of fizzy drinks, quickly fixating on the purple-blue cans of Zesti Cola right at eye level.

Now that would wake him up.

Carefully, he tried to shift the groceries he was holding onto just one hand, juggling them so he could grab two cans of carbonated and caffeinated goodness as well. Damian might want one too, after all.

The bag of sugar in his arms shifted dangerously close to the part of his elbow where he wouldn’t be able to hold it securely anymore. Tim fixed it by nudging it back with his chin. In retaliation, the rice pushed the butter to the side. In a way that made it impossible for Tim to free a hand and grab the soda.

“Woah, hey… Need some help there?”

Tim was just about to face the person and assure them that no, he didn’t require assistance locating his mother (or whatever they’d come up with this time), when the stranger’s voice finally registered.

Along with the quiet but persistent rhythm of the Joy Division song blasting through the person’s headphones. Tim’s eyes drifted up to the young man standing beside him.

His blood ran cold as he looked at Dick Grayson, standing there in all his civilian glory.

Oh no.

This was bad. Very bad. If Damian came looking for him and stumbled upon Dick… Or if Dick insisted on helping and they had to search the store for Damian together… Oh, Damian would be so mad at him for this.

He tightened his grip on his groceries – which he’d almost dropped when he’d come face-to-face with Dick – and made sure to appear as tall as possible, even rising up onto his tiptoes a little. He looked around, surveying the surrounding area much like Batman always did when arriving on the scene.

Good. Damian wasn’t here yet. It was just him, Dick, and Dick’s shopping cart full of snacks, drinks, and cleaning supplies in the aisle. Judging from the cans of Zesti Cola already piling in Dick’s shopping cart, it became pretty obvious the teen had been there for a while now.

Tim felt his face burn in shame at not having noticed.

Dick’s grin full of teeth faded a little as he took in Tim’s wide-eyed look. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Tim cut him off, frantically nodding his head.

“Yes, please! Thank you!”

Between the vehement motions, he could barely see Dick grab a can of soda off the shelf, sporting a very concerned frown.

He quickly navigated the offered soda onto the pile of groceries in his arms. One can would have to be enough. Sorry, Damian. He’d make up for it by not blowing his entire operation siccing Dick on him.

“Thanks again!” Tim called and took two hurried steps to leave. Dick’s bewildered expression, however, made him pause.

“Sorry, my nanny was really mad at me the last time I talked to strangers. I’m not supposed to. She’s just a few aisles over and if she sees me interacting with you she’ll think you’re a creep. Bye!” The pace of his speech sped up to an incomprehensible ramble towards the end. It was a deliberate move, supposed to sell his nervousness. Though Tim was pretty sure the full-body tremble already did that pretty well.

Dick’s face suffered through a string of emotions one after the other in quick succession. Shock, confusion, terror, and defensiveness, just to name a few. (This is why Tim preferred Dick’s Robin to Damian’s when it came to communicating with the mask on.)

“But I-”

“Bye!” Tim stressed before scurrying off. He felt bad for not pointing out nobody could ever possibly perceive the civilian Dick Grayson as a threat, but that would’ve defeated the purpose of his lie.

For a good ten seconds (which seemed to drag on for ages), all he could see was the beige linoleum under his feet, and the shelves and moving feet passing by in his peripheral vision.

Tim picked up his pace.

He breathed a sigh of relief three aisles over when he saw Dick hadn’t followed him. That quickly turned into a tiny, breathless shriek as Damian stepped out from behind a shelf, however.

The ever-permanent scowl on the older boy’s face returned as he took in Tim’s distressed appearance. Calculating eyes fell on the chest rising and falling with quick breaths and the little fingers clutching groceries so tight they turned white at the tips.

Damian’s hands balled into fists and he scoured their surroundings with the focus of a predator. Only after that did he turn back to Tim, an edge of anger in his voice when he opened his mouth.

“Where have you been, Timothy?”

Tim dumped the groceries in his arms into the shopping basket Damian was holding out to him. He earned a curt yet approving nod once Damian judged the items Tim had added matched the required ingredients.

“Dick. Dick is here,” Tim whispered. He’d leaned in towards Damian conspiratorially as he spoke.

A strict look warned him to back off.

He did.

If at all possible, Damian’s grim scowl deepened, accompanied by an irritated pull of his mouth.

He pulled up the hood of the oversized navy hoodie Tim’s mother had once bought and never worn again (she’d gotten caught in the rain unprepared on a trip to Norway with his father and had been forced to purchase at a souvenir shop, hence the large red ‘NORWAY’ letters on the piece).

Going by the determined glint in Damian’s eyes, Tim was fully ready to bolt to the self-checkout and leave.

But that is not what happened.

With purposeful steps, Damian headed towards the part of the supermarket Tim had come from.

All Tim could do was try to catch up while he fought down the buzzing feeling of complete awe in his stomach. What he was seeing was Robin in action. Movements deliberate yet natural. Completely aware of all surroundings, using the layout of the store to always stay in areas of low visibility, concealed by shelves and displays.

Tim had already noted previously how Damian always carried himself like Robin, but seeing how that translated into action was so much more impressive.

Damian must’ve been training since he was little. It was kind of like being Robin was in his blood. Which it kind of was, now that Tim thought about it. Oh, Damian and Mr. Wayne surely worked incredibly well together – Tim would’ve given anything to get to witness it.

Suddenly, Damian tensed. They had just reached the coolers positioned right next to the soda aisle – Damian had automatically pressed himself to the side of a cooler, crouching ever-so-slightly. But now he was frozen in place and rigid, leaning back as if suffering the whiplash of a minor explosion.

Tim ducked under Damian to look at what the boy was staring at. He regarded Dick Grayson’s figure for a long second before raising his eyebrows at Damian.

“What is it?”

Damian still didn’t avert his gaze from Dick. He scrunched his nose in an expression of utter disgust.

“That is not Richard.”

Tim didn’t dare stick his head out from behind his hiding place again. He was a lot more conspicuous than Damian.

But yeah, he was pretty sure it was Dick Grayson currently comparing two huge bottles of soda out in the aisle.

Then his brain finally caught on. If Damian was his dimension’s Robin and his Batman had a lot more kids, he supposed things had to be quite different there. Including Dick’s appearance, possibly.

As known to every Gothamite with a penchant for celebrity magazines, Brucie Wayne’s teen ward had been going through a bit of a 70s-80s phase for quite a while now. In fact, it couldn’t even be called a phase anymore. Many news outlets praised his dedication and attention to detail regarding his style, while others wondered if his exceptional taste would eventually mature into something more alike his father’s impeccable fashion sense.

Tim highly suspected this quirk of Dick’s didn’t exactly transfer over to Damian’s universe. At least, if the boy’s disturbed look at the sight Dick offered – a short-sleeved button-down shirt colored by lilac and mint green patterns, short shorts, white training shoes, and a walkman – was anything to go by.

At least he didn’t have a mullet anymore.

Tim decided not to point that out, lest he make anything worse.

“Does he look different in your reality?” he asked innocently instead, letting Damian steer him away from the scene in a quick retreat just so he could rant about Dick’s outfit choices. Tim wrote it off as a win.

By the time Damian finished, they were halfway home (after having bought some clothes for Damian and spare parts for his device as well), having conquered the daunting shopping run with merely a few mental scars.

×××××××××××××××

Colorful spots were beginning to appear on the white computer screen the longer Damian stared at it. Dancing and taunting him as an itch developed behind his temples, this feeling of something crawling under his skin, urging him to move, to act, to do something, anything. He balled his hands into fists, but the tingling only worsened.

He pressed his eyes shut. The letters on the screen had seemingly been burned into his mind, as they were still visible to him even so.

A link he found connecting the alien tech-trading company to a Slovenian crime syndicate had led nowhere.

Pushing away the chair from the desk, he got up and turned away from his work. He took deep, measured breaths, counting the seconds on his inhales and exhales to return to a state of calm again.

The itch had escalated into a full-blown headache by the time he was done. It didn’t hurt as much as it was highly uncomfortable, something behind his skull just feeling oddly off while his joints irked him with the newfound need to pop them.

He did, shaking out his limbs as he settled down again. He pulled the broken time travel device to himself.

By now, he felt fairly certain he had traveled back in time. Without hopping dimensions. He had found no evidence to support the latter being the case. The timeline so far seemed to line up well with his, without any major changes.

Tim still thought he was merely an alternate dimension’s Robin, however. It was best to let him keep believing that. It spared him some trouble.

Damian carefully took the device into his hands. It had become a mess of wires, by now, but he knew precisely how to put it back together. He’d be able to leave the minute he found and fixed whatever was wrong with it.

He placed the object back on the desk.

For a short while, he just stared at it. Lips pressed together into a thin line, eyes rigidly fixed as if concentrating, even though his head came up empty of thoughts. His eyes almost unfocused before he pulled himself together.

He was better than this, dammit.

The room remained eerily silent and warm. So unlike the cave, cold and constantly filled with the chatter of bats.

He’d already been away two days.

Secretly, he wondered how things were back in the present. If they knew what had happened to him. If they were sad, if they tried to fix things, like last time.

Or if this time around, they didn’t bother.

It was a stupid thought – a weakness, a senseless doubt – and he would never dare to voice it. But a part of him couldn’t help but think it, anyway.

Things had been… Things had been well, recently. They’d been good. Tolerable, even with the unpleasant ones of his Father’s children.

But now Damian was gone. And they… If they, for whatever reason, wouldn’t want to bring him back, they didn’t have to. They could just leave him here.

Some days, Damian wondered if his family merely tolerated him. If they genuinely wanted him at all. Over the years, Richard and Alfred and Stephanie and the others had taught him to belong; taught him he belonged. He had to go against everything he’d been raised with to mold himself anew for them, and he’d been fully aware his presence had been an unwanted burden at first.

He also knew he hadn’t made it easy for his family. Many times, he still didn’t prove an easy child.

Maybe his family had just learned to hide their disapproval better.

Possibly, Drake or Todd were actively sabotaging efforts to retrieve him to their own benefit. Damian could imagine them doing that.

Not like Damian required even the slightest assistance getting home.

In fact, maybe this was a test. They trusted him to get back on his own. Expected him to.

Which he was perfectly capable of doing. Without outside help.

That is why he wouldn’t contact any Justice League members until the very last moment. Not until he’d figured everything out by himself. And even then, he’d only require the erasure of young Timothy’s memory. If his father wanted proof of his capabilities, he’d go above and beyond to show just how much he excelled.

He’d do it quick and efficiently and without falling prey to any distractions. He’d show them all how good a Robin he really was.

All he had to do was figure this device out. No big deal. He’d done much more difficult things before.

The balls of his hands pressed into his eyes as he supported his head by putting his elbows on the desk. Stars appeared in his dark vision as he applied pressure.

Then there was the whole thing with Tim. Young, innocent, utterly incompetent Tim, who was obviously becoming attached to this stranger in his house. Who trusted Damian merely due to the Robin title. Like many other kids did.

Who Damian couldn’t look at without being reminded of Drake’s broken body lying between the shattered glass of Todd’s uniform display case. And all the other murder attempts and harsh words the two of them had exchanged since then. A pattern woven so tightly into their relationship that Damian felt he’d never get rid of it. He’d never be able to separate Tim Drake and a unique sort of hateful violence.

But despite all the memories connected to that face, Damian knew this wasn’t the same Tim. Not yet, anyway.

He had never been particularly good with kids. Well, he’d never been good with people in general, but kids even less so. Jon, of course, was the exception. But he was durable. A comrade, and not just a civilian or a victim, like the other kids Damian encountered.

It was weird to think about how Jon was just a year older than Tim was right now. This Tim… This Tim bore little resemblance to Damian’s friend. He was so small. So frail.

Richard had ingrained in him deeply the importance of protecting others. It had become an instinct over the few years he’d spent as Robin, one he couldn’t shake, not anymore. It’s what had pushed him to carry Tim home two days ago, the same thing that had him searching Crime Alley for Jason yesterday. Even now, as he sat there reflecting on his situation, he couldn’t help but pull his father into the equation – Batman’s inexperience and all the people who couldn’t be saved because of it. All the people he could easily defend from harm if he stepped in and sacrificed the future in turn. A future which would bring pain and suffering upon many.

He shook his head minutely to get rid of the thought. That wasn’t how it worked.

It’s not only protecting others that made him a good Robin. It was following principles set by reason, as well. That included making sacrifices demanded by reason.

He’d just stick to what he could do. Repay Tim for his help by cooking for him. Try to do good from behind the curtains with Jason. Richard would’ve certainly done the same if it had been him here.

Though maybe Richard would also want to meet his past self, if only to talk him off that eyesore of an outfit. A chill ran down Damian’s back as he thought of the sight he’d been confronted with that afternoon. He would have preferred to forget it quickly.

Deciding he’d stewed in his thoughts long enough for one day, he abandoned the desk, leaving behind all his private concerns along with it. He couldn’t afford to get hung up on them, much less to let it show.

Instead, he walked out of the office and down the hall. Tim had offered him the guest room closest to his own bedroom. Damian entered it, immediately turning his attention to the clothes they’d discarded onto the bed right after they’d returned from shopping.

He picked out the hooded black running jacket they’d bought and set it aside. Then he dug through the pile for the gloves he’d dragged Tim around the entire store for – it had proven difficult to find a pair that was comfortable yet protective, even if Damian would secure his hands with boxing wraps underneath it anyway. Finally, he grabbed the combat boots from under the bed and got to work.

In quick motions of a knife, he got rid of the sleeves of his jacket – after all, it would only be layered over the Robin suit to disguise the characteristic red of the vest. And to cover his bright yellow utility belt.

He systematically went through everything, adding or removing clothing pieces or equipment as needed.

In the end, he ended up with a monochrome mismatch of his Robin uniform and sports store equipment. The sight would have made him wince if he hadn’t had to fare with far worse before.

The lack of a cape would throw him off-balance for a while, but he’d get used to it quick. Most importantly, the outfit didn’t look like a Robin costume anymore. He had needed something protective for the more dangerous parts of pursuing his lead, but sporting the brightest colors known to man would have been a surefire way to get noticed not only by his targets, but by Batman as well.

He changed into his uniform, exchanging the green boots for the black ones, as well as the gloves for the more simple pair; he pulled the now sleeveless running jacket over his Robin vest and finished everything off with a black neck gaiter to use as a mask. He had to resort to that after lacking the adhesive to make his domino stick – not to mention it could be removed easily to grant him a more ‘civilian dressed adequately for the dangerous Gotham streets’ look, rather than a vigilante appearance.

A small addition of Mrs. Drake’s makeup would conceal his features, but his katana would have to be left behind as well. Fighting wasn’t a priority now and he could defend himself just fine with lesser weapons.

Beholding himself in the full-body mirror standing in the corner, he couldn’t help but observe his hood and mask combination resembled the League’s uniform ever so slightly. Fortunately, the plastic quality of the nylon jacket kind of destroyed the comparison again.

He let out a huff of breath. Then grabbed the rest of his equipment and readied himself for another night of scouring Gotham for leads.

Exiting his guest room and stalking down the hall, passing Tim’s door made him stop in his tracks. For a few seconds, he deliberated the idea in front of the door, then realized how stupid he must have been looking.

“Tt.”

He knocked on the door. When no objections or calls to enter reached his ears, he slowly eased the door open.

Tim looked up at him from the carpet like a deer in headlights despite the warning the knock had offered. One had to wonder if that look was possibly permanent on the young face, what with the wide blue eyes and all.

Damian frowned at the boy’s cross-legged position on the ground. He sat in front of his backpack, rummaging through the many pockets, seemingly looking for something. Or stuffing something inside?

He ignored the piles upon piles of papers and photos and other knickknacks cluttering the room, posters, and a pin-board with red string covering the walls. There wouldn’t be enough time to unpack that right then.

“You aren’t going out tonight,” Damian said. His eyes flashed with something dangerous. “I’ll tie you to your bed if necessary. I will catch you if you leave.”

Tim raised his chin in defiance. “Can you tell me about your reality in exchange?”

Damian leveled him with a look his father often gave the press when confronted with inappropriate or rude questions. Tim’s shoulders fell, but he didn’t give up, going by the cutting gaze.

“Tomorrow. If I’ll still be here by then.”

Tim nodded in agreement. “Goodnight then,” he said, making no attempts at climbing into bed or even moving from his spot.

Damian turned to go, sparing one last glance to peek back into the room. “I will find you if you’re out.”

“Okay. I won’t be, I promise,” Tim replied, completely honest this time. That, or all his tells disappeared overnight. Damian highly doubted the latter.

“Good.”

And then he left, going to face the night on his own.

Chapter Text

Damian was disgruntled to find homeless children proved much more difficult to tame than stray cats.

Squatting in the window of an abandoned office (and aspiring drug den, from the looks of the discarded needles by the corner), he observed eleven-year-old Jason Todd as the boy ogled the sandwich sitting in the trash can. Neatly on top of the piling garbage.

It was still packaged, no visible blemish or mold to be seen.

Since the last time Damian had seen Jason, the kid seemed to have gotten a hold of a leather jacket. It had clearly weathered many years of wear before its new owner, and Jason was swimming in it, but it would provide better resistance against the elements than the sole hoodie he’d had before.

The kid also looked a lot more tired than the night before, though. Not to mention the limp he was sporting. While the determination he moved with concealed it well, Damian could pick up on the shiver that shook and rattled the boy’s frail body.

All this, and Jason must have still been on the tougher side of the young kids camping out on Crime Alley’s streets. His distrustful gaze and lean muscle wrapped however thinly around his bones must’ve been doing him a lot of favors. He moved with a spring in his steps and worked with quick, skilled fingers.

No wonder Damian’s father had made him the second Robin.

Damian thought of the iron fist Red Hood would end up ruling Crime Alley with. Looking at Todd’s younger version – probably regularly fishing up newspaper from the pavement to stuff his sleeping bag with and dragging all his possessions around Crime Alley in a backpack slung over his shoulder – it was hard to imagine him growing up into the strong outlaw protecting kids with guns blazing. Kids just like his young self.

Jason grabbed the sandwich from the trash can.

He turned it around in his hands, brows pinched.

Then he looked around. Up to the rooftops, as well. Were Damian less skilled at hiding – and were the Alley a better-lit part of town – Jason might have noticed his audience.

“Fuck off! You’re achieving fuck all with this, I ain’t doing nothing for you!” Jason called into the night.

The measured volume and the shaky lilt of his voice betrayed his insecurity. Damian knew he couldn’t actually see anyone around; it was merely a gut feeling telling Jason someone was watching. Or perhaps he was just erring on the side of caution.

No reply came. Damian knew the closest people out to be a street away, having passed them on his way to Jason.

Jason’s shoulders slumped. He pressed his mouth into a thin line as he looked down to regard the sandwich in his hands again. Despite the darkness, Damian could recognize the inner turmoil of hunger versus distrust raging inside his small frame.

He understood the suspicion Jason’s lived experiences had cultivated in him. His mother had tested Damian’s survival skills numerous times, not to mention the League’s hands-on method of teaching him about recognizing poisons. The carefully honed instincts others would mistakenly call paranoia were a result of hard work and great efforts.

Nonetheless, this wariness was highly inconvenient for both of them right now.

Damian considered involving Tim. He was small and weak. Todd would be more prone to trusting him, rather than someone older like Damian. Drake also had a considerable skill for undercover missions, one that might have stemmed from a childhood talent for it…

Catching the idiocy behind the thought, Damian quickly scrapped the idea, berating himself for even thinking it. How stupid. If Todd refused to appreciate Damian’s efforts, he could just find his own food. Like he had done in Damian’s original timeline. He would live to meet Batman either way.

Damian wouldn’t keep uselessly endangering his future for some brat.

He soundlessly climbed from the window and slid back down into the empty building, uncaring to see if Jason would end up eating the sandwich or not.

It was halfway across the room that he heard the gunshot.

He was back at the window in the blink of an eye. Assessing the situation with gaze jumping from one point to the other, he braced to leap out the window if necessary.

The deafening sound had come from a house across and two buildings to the left. Damian would have estimated it to have originated on the fifth or sixth story. Yells followed the shot, the distinctive bangs of objects being thrown, of glass shattering. Then another shot.

Possibly a domestic dispute escalating. Or the business of one of Gotham’s many gangs.

A few apartments in the street lit up with sudden light at the sound, several windows showing shadows looking out for commotion in the street.

Damian’s eyes darted to the spot where he’d last seen Jason. The kid had thrown himself to the ground and crawled behind the dumpster for cover. He seemed to be eyeing the alleyway a few houses down, which promised better protection but would be difficult to get to.

Muscles tensed and adrenaline flowing high, Damian kept tabs on Jason’s location even as he turned his focus to the building the shots had been fired in.

The door was thrown open, a large man charging out with mad fury radiating from him. Posture braced for a fight and steps rushing with assured determination. His large fists held a blood-soaked bag and a glock each.

Staggering steps and swaying, uncoordinated motions betrayed the man’s intoxicated state.

With the first step the man took into the street, he raised his weapon, ready to gun down the first person he came across.

Again, Damian glanced back to Jason. He wasn’t shaking badly – just enough for it to be mistaken for his previous shiver – and made an effort to stay quiet by taking deep and even breaths. His eyes were wide and alert, but he didn’t move to peek at the scene around him. Not even as the man took off in his direction.

Damian‘s heartbeat rang in his ears as he watched. His muscles were wound up, ready to jump. It was only a cold thought throbbing behind his eyes that froze him to the spot.

Jason would survive this. He’d have to, if he were to meet Batman soon. No harm would come to him, at least nothing serious. Damian hadn’t changed the timeline in any significant way; things would work out. He couldn’t start messing up now by stepping in.

By now, the man was only a good twenty feet from Jason. His hand still holding the weapon up high, itching for a target to shoot. The crazed shine in the guy’s eyes offered no comfort or reassurance.

A defenseless homeless kid was the perfect target for pent-up frustrations. With no one there to mourn, it’d be a victimless crime.

But Jason wouldn’t perish here. A shooting like this wasn’t even a rare occurrence in the Alley, he probably bore with it every other day. Damian could see in his reaction he had experience.

Fifteen feet.

Damian gulped, leaning out the window to see better.

His gut churned.

Jason…

Jason wasn’t supposed to be here.

The realization hit Damian like a brick to the face, and he jolted as his eyes widened ever-so-slightly in shock.

By planting the sandwich for Jason, he’d made the boy linger in the street longer than he actually would have. Longer than he did in Damian’s original timeline. A timeline in which Jason got away before the gunman even fired his first shots, survived just fine, and became Robin.

Twelve feet.

Damian had done it. He’d altered the timeline of events.

A breath caught in his throat. It felt like a cork barred the airflow to his lungs, his chest aching with tension.

Jason could very well die here.

Ten.

The man slowed. He’d soon notice the small lump cowering in the corner of his vision.

Damian threw himself off the building.

He whipped out and shot off two birdarangs mid-air.

The air rushing past his ears was the most familiar sound to him. It felt incredibly good, despite the circumstances. Just like the sensation of his boot meeting flesh. A well-landed kick to the side of the man’s back. A tight grip on his arm with the weapon. Damian shoved the guy into the ground, twisting the gun out of his hand before fully knocking him out. All swift, routine moves.

It took him a few seconds of staring at the unconscious gunman to actually register what had just happened.

Shocked silence rang through the street.

Merely his panting offered some noise. It died out quickly, too.

“Who… Who the fuck are you?”

Damian bit back a growl as he quickly turned away.

He’d made a huge mistake.

Dread seeped into his bones while all-encompassing anger burned through him. He’d- He’d acted too fast, once again. Didn’t think it all through. It was the same thing everyone always told him. He knew better. Yet he’d still done it.

Feeding Todd like a stray, and for what? A misguided attempt to help?

Nevermind, he could still fix this. The guy was knocked out, no serious harm done (besides the birdarangs embedded in his arm, but those would heal…more or less). He likely hadn’t even seen Damian’s face.

As for the onlookers in the windows… Maybe they’d think he was just Robin. Even in the dim lights of the apartments, his figure would be obscure enough from a distance. He lacked a cape, but Robin could have lost it during patrol for a number of reasons. Or it could be written off as a test run of a new costume. His height and figure made for enough of a resemblance.

If rumors spread, that was fine. Stories got blown out of proportion or altered all the time. Without proof, tales were just that. Tales. And people rarely had proof of Batman’s activities.

Well, besides Tim Drake. But he better be at home at this time.

Damian would still prepare for the worst. If push came to shove, he’d have to be capable of erasing any trace of his vigilantism. On a digital level, that was doable, but memories… Not so much. Not in an uncomplicated way. Not if people like Father caught wind of it, anyway.

He’d dug his own grave. It would take him nothing short of surpassing all he’d been capable of before to climb out of it.

His hands clenched and he slumped forward. A tally formed in his mind of everything he’d have to do to minimize damages. Prioritizing and getting his thoughts in order made up a practiced method of clearing his head. Within seconds, he could reorient himself and will his shallow breaths to even.

All that still left Damian with one immediate problem, though.

Scowling, he looked up at the source of all his troubles. And was met with thin, malnourished hands holding onto the gun the man had dropped.

“I asked you who you were,” the boy repeated, correcting his stance as he and the gun stared Damian down. It still didn’t look right, arms tiring from holding the heavy weapon extended for so long, fingers twitching and fidgeting.

Damian needed to leave. The longer he stayed here, the more trouble his presence would cause.

“Give me the gun,” he said harshly, reaching out a hand to take Jason’s weapon.

“Right.” Jason proceeded to whack the gun against Damian’s outstretched arm. It didn’t hurt much, given Jason’s inferiority in both muscle and experience; but followed up by an attempted punch to the gut, the moves admittedly caught Damian off guard.

Having dodged, he grabbed the boy in retaliation. Then he held Jason up by the collar of his jacket, at arm’s length.

The gun clattered to the ground with a metallic thunk after Damian had eased it out of Jason’s hand and turned the safety on. It remained in place with Damian’s foot pressing down on it.

“What’s a kid like you playing hero in the Alley for?” Jason spat, going for a kick with little success.

“I saved your life, for one,” Damian growled. “And I brought you food.”

“That was you?” Jason raised his eyebrows. “Here I was thinking some rich guy had decided drugging boys was more fun than buying them from pimps.”

Damian pulled his mouth into a disgusted grimace.

“Now let me go. And stop playing dress-up in Crime Alley. It’s not a fucking playground.”

Finally, Damian complied, instead busying himself with retrieving the birdarangs and making sure the man he’d knocked out wasn’t some important gang member. One never knew. It always started with one pissed-off guy and resulted in several pissed-off guys going to war over the first one.

The way the smell of alcohol and sweat wafted off the guy, though, Damian doubted the guy could be classified as anything but a drunk bastard. A low-level thug at most.

“You’re sure you’re not with some gang?”

“I’m not.”

Jason narrowed his eyes.

“Then why are you hiding food all over the place, if it’s neither to get me hooked on some shit nor to recruit me? All part of the make-believe hero shtick, huh?”

What had Batman ever seen in this kid? Aside from an annoying little rat, that is.

“Eat the sandwich I gave you,” Damian commanded while working.

“What’s with the tone?” Jason snorted. From the corner of his vision, Damian could see him picking up the sandwich package from the ground. “Is that costume supposed to be the Batman?”

“Tt.”

“So you’re a fanboy running around and imitating some urban legend.” Jason took a bite of the sandwich. Internally, Damian celebrated the small victory, even if the attempts to feed the brat had gotten him into all this trouble in the first place. “Why pick Crime Alley? You don’t seem like you’re from here.”

“Most of the trouble’s here,” Damian grunted. He gave Jason a disapproving sideways glance for speaking with his mouth full.

As soon as he’d finished searching the unconscious man, he grabbed the grapple gun from his belt and skimmed the rooftops for a suitable spot to swing from. He had gotten the food to Jason, after all. And there were so many new issues to tend to.

Jason let out an amused huff of air. “You’re not wrong.” His eyes wandered to the grapple. “You’re really devoted, huh? That thing doesn’t look like it would work, though. Where’d you get it?”

“It works perfectly fine.”

“Sure it does.”

Damian bent down to retrieve the glock. As he came up again, he paused at Jason’s eye level for a brief moment.

“Do not tell anyone about me. I will know if you do.”

“You’re doing a shit job at copying that Batman crap.” Jason cocked an eyebrow in self-assured disbelief. “If you don’t stop running around dressed like that, you’re going to get beaten up. Or worse.”

Puffing out his chest and straightening, Damian folded his arms in front of himself. “For your information, Batman is real. And this was not an attempt at imitating him.”

After Jason still didn’t seem convinced, he continued. “I can also pay for your silence. I will keep up bringing you food if you keep quiet about my existence.”

He watched as Jason furrowed his brows and looked up, as if looking to the stars for advice. The boy pocketed his hands. His eyelids seemed to be growing heavier with each passing minute, tiredness likely washing over him after the adrenaline drained from his system. The fog from his breaths as he laughed at the suggestion dispersed quickly under the warm yellow light of the street.

“Sure, whatever.”

Damian gave a short nod in response. “I’ll come at around the same time tomorrow.”

“And where?” Jason asked, albeit Damian could still see the glint in his eyes telling of him not taking the offer seriously.

Thus, the only response his brother received was an indignant huff and a barely audible “I’ll find you” before Damian shot off his grapple gun and turned to leave.

He didn’t bother looking back at Jason’s disbelieving expression as he flew off onto a neighboring rooftop, either.

All previously restrained panic broke onto the surface as soon as he’d made it out of sight. Nausea and increasingly rapid breathing notwithstanding, Damian raced across the rooftops of Crime Alley until he reached the outskirts of the Upper East Side. There, he aimed for the tallest building in sight and didn’t stop until he’d made it up there, the rest of his surroundings dwarfed underneath him.

Silently, he wrestled himself into a state of outward calm and tried to steel the thoughts flooding his mind. Recalled every single technique anyone had ever taught him to manage his emotions, be it anger or fear.

So Jason now knew about him. And so did the inhabitants of two dozen Crime Alley apartments.

He’d need to adjust his plans to account for Jason. As long as he kept an eye on him, he would also be able to erase any memories that would endanger the timeline. Just like with Timothy.

Online traces of his vigilantism could be easily erased, and it was no real trouble to keep the rumor mill at bay or in the area of the vague and implausible. Sure, he would have preferred to expend the energy into getting home instead, but it was too late to get hung up about that.

Now, the hard part would be maintaining the timeline. Get the important things to happen as they had happened originally. There, the problem of Damian not knowing nearly enough about how things had happened the first time around arose.

Perhaps he could get the device to go back in time again and undo the changes he’d brought on. Or alter the state of reality now with some other machine. All outlandish and complicated endeavors.

Damian let out a shaky breath at that. It would be…very difficult and time-consuming, all that. He had no doubt he could do it, of course – but it would take him weeks. Months, even. A long time before he saw his family again. He thought of Richard, of all his pets, of Jon. Of the rest of relatives and friends.

What would become of them if he messed up here? What would become of him if he stayed here too long?

He chased the latter thought away. Annoyed, is what he would be, most likely. What with young Timothy and Jason causing so much trouble. And him having to exist as a mere ghost to all but them.

Thinking too much about such things never did anyone good, though. He had to focus on resolving his timeline issues.

No matter what he’d end up doing, though, he’d have to get the time-travel device fixed first. Everything else would come after that. Until then, he’d just have to try not to make everything even worse.

In the best case, the device might even have sent him to an alternate dimension, like Tim believed. Then he didn’t have to worry about timelines at all.

Having calmed down considerably and collected his thoughts, he got up again, satisfied to have this frankly embarrassing stint over with.

Now he could shift his attention to the research and recon he had actually intended to do tonight.

×××××××××××××××

At five in the morning on the dot, Tim’s alarm came to life with an unapologetic, shrill beeping. On any other day, his alarm ringing would have been followed by Tim shutting it off as fast as he could manage half-asleep, then drifting on the edge of sleep for twenty more minutes until he finally dragged himself out of bed (his parents would have killed him if they caught wind of him skipping school).

But Tim’s life had been distinctly different – much, much better – in the past few days. Which is why he’d even set his alarm to such an ungodly hour of the morning in the first place, and also why his eyes snapped open the minute he registered the sound.

He needed a second or two to orient himself, his mind still hazy from the dream lingering in the back of his mind – it had included Damian and him and a big Wayne family dinner with everyone there, but the harder Tim thought about the details, the more he forgot.

No matter. Seeing Damian in real life was much more exciting, anyway.

Throwing the covers off, Tim quickly climbed out of bed and hurried out into the hallway. The cold floor under his bare feet shocked him into a more awake state, even if his limbs still felt heavy due to his unfortunate tendency to get into the worst sleeping positions.

He tiptoed past the many empty rooms until he arrived at the closed door of the guest bedroom Damian slept in. Suppressing an excited smile, he leaned in to open the door.

At first, he’d expected Damian to be a light sleeper. As an experienced Robin, he must’ve learned to be very attentive and easily alarmed, after all. He always noticed immediately whenever Tim entered the room. What was that if not proof of his abilities?

Tim had found, however, that Damian’s sleep was actually quite hard to disturb after nights spent out in the city. Or maybe he just had some extra sense for danger while asleep, and he didn’t wake because Tim wasn’t a bad guy. Maybe he even trusted Tim. They were brothers, after all, where Damian had come from.

The door creaked when he pulled it open. He grit his teeth at the noise, even though he suspected not a lot of things could wake a Robin exhausted from patrol.

Especially if said Robin wasn’t in his bed.

And Damian was nowhere to be seen.

Tim looked around the room. His eyes darted from one corner to the other while he scanned every single furniture for traces of Damian. He even stepped inside to look under the bed and the desk, just to be sure. But no luck.

The bed was still made, clothes still scattered around the room in the exact way Damian had left them. The framed picture of Batman, Batgirl, and Robin also still laid on the pillow, in the spot Tim had put it in after Damian had gone out the previous night. He’d selected the picture he thought captured the trio’s essence the best, even, so it could offer as much comfort as possible to Damian, if he really was missing his family.

Tim looked at the clock hanging above the door. Just to make sure it really was morning already. Damian should’ve returned by now. Tim knew, he had done extensive research on the patrol times of the Bats. They usually returned by four; half past four at the latest. Unless there was some kind of emergency, but there hadn’t been one, as far as Tim was aware. Gotham had gone the entire week without Arkham breakouts or natural disasters. So far.

Dread washed over him at the thought. His fingers became all tingly and it felt like a knot had gotten stuck in his throat, making it difficult to swallow.

He rushed out into the hall and down the stairs, fully awake now. Opening every door he passed, he didn’t stop until he’d searched the entire house for Robin. For any trace of him. But no such luck.

Only after he’d returned to his starting point did the entirety of his panic catch up to him. The tension coiling up in him during his run suddenly released like a flood and threatened to overwhelm him.

What if Damian had gotten injured?

One night Tim didn’t go out – only because Damian had asked – and something like that happened. There were a million possibilities, really. A large group of thugs catching him off guard, or a rogue, multiple rogues having escaped from Arkham…

Or what if Batman had discovered him? If any of Gotham’s vigilantes had come across Damian while on patrol, he’d be in big trouble… They sent kids wandering around at night home, or to a foster home if they were orphans. They might even have thought Damian was a villain. Or some sort of evil clone sent to defeat his father. He did look quite like his father, making it a real possibility-

Tim gasped and let himself slide to the ground as another idea entered his mind.

What if Damian had found his way home?

Once the concept took root in his mind, there was no getting rid of it. Tim felt his lungs press out shallower and shallower breaths as he clasped his hands on his mouth in an effort to keep the air inside.

Damian had alluded to it, the night before. Had promised to tell Tim about his home dimension, but only if he was still in this universe come morning.

Did that mean Damian had known he wouldn’t be here? But that made no sense. His device had still been utterly broken. Damian had admitted himself that it wouldn’t get fixed for a long while.

Maybe… Maybe it had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, then. A golden opportunity he couldn’t help but have seized. In that case, Tim really couldn’t fault him for leaving without a goodbye. He fully understood Damian wanting to get back to his family.

Before he knew it, a broken, shaky sob had fought his way past his lips. Another followed. Then a third. Soon, Tim’s entire body was being wrecked by his trembling and shaking, by the blubbering and the waterworks.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, leaning his head onto his knees, but it just wouldn’t stop.

He couldn’t breathe. It felt like his tears had flown into his mouth and he was choking on them.

Then the anger appeared, planted itself somewhere between and under his ribs. Anger at himself, at his parents, at Damian. And then, shortly after, all-numbing guilt for feeling this way.

Tim wasn’t entitled to Damian’s presence. And Damian didn’t leave just to mess with Tim, he did it because that was his one way to return to his actual family. To his own Tim. This wasn’t like with his parents, who traveled away merely because they loved rare artifacts more than their son.

Irrationally, though – and Tim knew very well it was irrational and unjust – he couldn’t help but shake the thought that Damian at least should’ve said goodbye to him. He didn’t mind him going away – he hated it happening but had at least known to expect it – as much as he felt upset over the abrupt quality of his departure.

Maybe Damian had wanted it this way, though. Maybe he’d wanted to make it easier for Tim. Had he kept his promise and stayed long enough to tell Tim about his dimension, a dimension where even Tim was a vigilante, Tim didn’t think he could bear to know all that could’ve been.

Hearing about a universe where he had so many siblings to hang out with would have probably ruined this reality for him.

Which was stupid, really. It was ridiculous to be jealous of an alternate self. Tim had everything he’d need here, too. There were so many children much worse off. His mother always chided him for not being thankful enough, already.

He tried to think of that as he squeezed his eyes shut to stop crying. It didn’t work.

His head hurt from trying to sort out what he was feeling. Many of the emotions he couldn’t even name, much less explain away.

His sobs picked up again, this time with a confused hitch of breath in between them. It sounded even uglier than before.

Tim tried to just not think anymore and focus on the crying. That alone took plenty of effort. He still couldn’t breathe. The lack of air made him panic, and the panic shot his brain into overdrive.

It was such a stupid thing to sob about, he kept repeating. He had expected it. The suddenness of it just caught him off guard, that was all.

Between tears, he turned his head to look at the picture he’d framed just for Damian.

It was a nice picture. Of Batman treating Batgirl and Robin to burgers, leaning against a wall and watching the kids with a small smile as they ate, seemingly absorbed in a vehement discussion. Tim thought the scene depicted Batman’s love for his son quite well. He for one would have loved to have a gaze like that directed at him.

Kind of a shame Damian would never get the present.

Damian having left so much of his belongings there presented a small solace, at least. Tim could keep his Robin cape, and the boots. And the katana.

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his pajamas. His bawling had petered out a bit, if only due to the lack of energy. The last time he’d cried had been so long ago he’d completely forgotten how exhausting the entire ordeal tended to be.

Still hiccuping with quieting sobs, he tried to collect himself. Even if no one was there to watch, he usually knew better than to put on such a meltdown. It was such a childish, pathetic, embarrassing thing to do.

His face burned as he caught a glimpse of his puffy red eyes in the room’s mirror. In all regards, he looked like a mess. Even with no other witnesses but himself, he knew it would take a while to forget this humiliation.

Especially once he realized he wasn’t its only witness.

Turning his head to bury his face between his knees again, his gaze landed on a shadow that hadn’t been there before.

Teary eyes met alert ones as Tim stared up slack-jawed at the figure standing at the door.

Damian tilted his head forward. His forehead wrinkled as he knit his brows together, and he took a step into the room only to stop in his tracks again.

“Timothy.” His voice carried a hint of uncertainty, voice rising slightly at the end of the word. Damian cleared his throat in an attempt to conceal it.

Tim’s head bobbed. His hands kneaded the fabric of his pant legs as he bit down on whatever sound had gotten stuck in his throat. The pressure of all the air in his lungs from the lack of exhales suddenly threatened to burst free in another wave of tears. Seeing as his face and shirt were already covered in tears and snot, though, he did his best to suppress it.

Going by the two fat tears that rolled down his cheeks when he tried to blink them away, he had little success.

A shaky sigh escaped him. That was a good word to describe how he felt right now, actually: shaky. Like he was actively struggling to keep his atoms together, molecules moving and repelling each other as they tried to make him fall apart.

Damian’s gaze remained pinned on him with that strange air of reluctance and...something else. He lifted his shoulders to his ears and swayed indecisively on his feet. Tim could see his fingers twitching ever-so-slightly, an aborted movement to raise his arms, though that might just have been tears blurring his vision.

“What’s wrong?”

“I… I thought you left,” Tim croaked out, and those simple words broke him out of his silent shock. His body released most of its tension, slumping completely.

Damian. Damian was here.

He hadn’t left Tim behind yet.

Expression pinched, Damian pressed his lips into a thin line as he approached, dragging his feet ever-so-slightly. His ninja-like outfit – while incredibly cool, Tim thought – helped little when his expression made him look like a fish out of water. At least compared to his usual stoicism.

“I didn’t,” Damian said simply. Tim almost thought he’d leave it at that, but instead, he actually knelt down in front of Tim, studying him closely. The piercing gaze was nearly enough to draw Tim out of his rolled-up position and chase him out of the room.

Instead, he shrunk under the scrutiny. He must have looked pathetic.

“You’re alone all year round. Nobody cares for you.”

And it was a statement, not a question, yet Damian’s eyes were narrow with consideration, not contempt.

Even so, Tim flinched. He couldn’t begin to discern what went on behind that hard emerald gaze.

Another hitched breath left his lips. “I’m sorry?”

Damian closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if this talk was taking a lot of effort out of him. It probably was. Tim’s parents always hated having to deal with his tantrums, too.

Then Damian opened his eyes again, albeit averting his gaze from Tim this time, to a corner of the room. “It’s why you cried when you thought I’d left for good, isn’t it? Because you’re lonely.”

The question seemed to have drilled a gaping hole into Tim’s chest. From one moment to another, a cold emptiness replaced all feeling under his ribs. The sensation spread out all over him, freezing him to the spot.

Somehow, warm blood still found its way to Tim’s cheeks. He hid his flushed face by placing his arm on his knees and burying his nose in his elbow.

How could he possibly answer that? What could he tell to this boy who must have known and cared for a different version of him? Someone who didn’t know anything about this Tim?

Per the definition of the word, he supposed he could be considered alone. But lonely? It was so much more complicated than that. Tim couldn’t say how, exactly, but it was.

It’s not like he ever stopped and sulked around about his parents being away. He knew they loved him. They would have been there if their jobs weren’t so demanding. And he had his school, too, plenty of classmates he communicated with every week. Sure, none of them were particularly close with him, but they were on friendly terms. He had people to talk to. And most importantly, things to do, things best done alone. Like indulging in his hobby of studying Gotham’s nightlife.

In summary, being alone didn’t bother him. And that meant he wasn’t lonely, either.

He opened his mouth to object, but Damian had conjured a tissue out of somewhere and held it out to him. Quietly, he accepted and began cleaning his face while Damian looked on with a crinkled nose and lips curling downwards.

“I’m not lonely,” he said finally, voice high and childish and unsteady. “I’m okay.”

Damian didn’t dignify that with a response. A quizzical expression had taken over his features again. Tim wondered what he was thinking so hard about.

Getting up, Damian turned his attention to the heap of clothes on his bed. As he stripped out of his jacket and Robin vest, he spoke again. “I already told you it would take me some time to fix the device. You will not be rid of me soon.”

Tim moved to place his palms on the floor by his sides, fingers splayed to push himself up. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the older boy. Damian was hard to understand, sometimes, but Tim got what he was saying now just fine.

His lips curled upward in a wobbly smile.

Damian kicked off his combat boots as he pulled his uniform’s top over his head. “You need to get ready for school, Drake. I will show you how to make basbousa afterward.”

Alternate Tim had a great older brother, Tim thought.

Chapter Text

“You said you’d tell me about your universe today.”

Damian glanced away from his work. At Tim, who was currently munching on a basbousa square, elbows on the table and head in his palm.

He dipped his head in assent before turning back to his laptop screen.

It was an old model (probably a newer one for this time’s standards) lent to him by Tim and took ages to process anything Damian tried to do with it. All morning, he’d busied himself with concealing their credit card expenses – in case Tim’s parents bothered to check their son’s finances – while keeping an eye out for and deleting any online mention of his vigilante persona.

His hacking skills came in especially handy when he finally decided to break into the Bat channels to grant himself the ability to surveil them. Better to keep tabs on them than to be caught off guard.

As an unintended but greatly appreciated side effect, it also served as great distraction from the morning’s events.

Damian cringed as he thought back to how utterly overwhelmed he’d been by a crying Tim. He’d dealt with plenty of crying children before, but the child being one of his siblings had been an unwelcome variation. He’d never been as involved in the child’s life as this time around. He found he quite disliked this deviation from the norm.

As the youngest, he’d never had to stoop down to a lower maturity level for his siblings. Not to mention he rarely comforted any one of them – that is, besides Grayson. But even with him, silent support was usually the way to go.

With a nine-year-old Timothy, that obviously wouldn’t have worked. Children needed…kind words…and physical contact… None of which Damian gave readily. Especially to Drake.

Which is why it had felt like half a triumph when Damian had realized the reason for Tim’s tears. Identify the issue and solve it. It was as simple as that, right?

Wrong. Because as it turned out, Tim’s problem was currently somewhere on the other side of the map and would not be returning for a while.

Damian did not feel equipped to deal with a child’s psychological shortcomings caused by parental errors. In fact, he felt no inclination to, either. While he had been offered therapy many times, he rarely found himself in the role of listener, his family neither expecting nor allowing him to take on the duty of dealing with his siblings’ psychological issues. And he liked it that way.

When Tim had returned from school, quiet relief replaced the swirling thoughts and concerns. Not a trace of the morning’s sorrows could be seen in the boy. On the contrary, the way Tim had swayed around the kitchen and eagerly assisted Damian in cooking spoke of a highly improved mood.

From the corner of his vision, he could see large blue eyes pinning him with an expectant gaze. Damian pushed aside the laptop with an irritable sigh.

“What is it you want to know?”

Tim chewed on his sweets, considering. He rocked back and forth on his seat until he swallowed and straightened up, meeting Damian’s gaze head-on.

“How… How did I become a vigilante in your universe? I mean. How come I live with Mr. Wayne? Are my parents dead?”

Damian stared at Tim point blank. Considering he’d have to erase Tim’s memory either way, it mattered fairly little just how much he told the boy. Despite that, he doubted telling the plain truth would have any benefit – that is if he didn’t want a repeat of the morning’s incident. Same for any question related to the interpersonal workings of the Wayne family, as hearing of the murder attempts would likely elicit a similar result.

“Father took you in because your parents were incapable of taking proper care of you.” Not much different from the state of affairs in this universe. “But you sought him out first. You begged him to make you Robin.”

Usually, Drake rolled his eyes at such wording, exasperated by Damian’s tireless contestation of his position in the family.

Now, however, indecision flickered on Tim’s face before it reddened with embarrassment and he hung his head, eyes averted to the plate of food in front of him. His hands fell onto the table as he folded them in front of himself.

“I did?”

Damian drew in a breath. This was not his Drake. He needed to keep in mind this nine-year-old didn’t know anything about what his future self would come to be like. In the same vein, he could not handle deprecating comments about it. Nor did he deserve them.

“Father was in dire need of your help, I heard,” Damian tacked on. “Your work as Robin was…important and necessary.”

It’s what Richard had told him, once, in an attempt to get Damian to let off on snubbing his brother. A lot of what had happened before his arrival in Gotham had remained unclear to Damian over the years, but he’d been informed of Tim’s role at least partially. It didn’t mean much to him at the time, but now, faced with a Tim before his Robin days – so utterly vulnerable and harmless and trusting – Damian was beginning to comprehend the significance of it all, even if just barely.

This Tim was weak. Smart (Damian had seen the walls full of investigations), sure, but not malevolently paranoid. Zealous, but not quite as obsessive yet. He wasn’t who Damian had despised for years. He wasn’t at all the same Tim who welcomed Damian into the family with sharp words and spiteful looks, much less the Tim Damian would have hurt without remorse. Damian couldn’t help but wonder what his Tim had given away to become who he’d become.

Tim visibly brightened at the praise. His entire body seemed to recover from its previously wilting state. It was frankly staggering to see how expressive this tiny child could be. And a child Tim Drake, at that.

“...You heard? So you weren’t there?” He asked then, eyes narrowing in thought as he regarded Damian. His smile faded, somewhat, expression suddenly as serious as a nine-year-old on a sugar high could get. “Did something happen to you? Were you injured? Or away from home?”

Damian raised his eyebrows, but Tim left him no time to reply.

“You must’ve been unable to be Robin, right?” At that, Tim nodded to himself, as if confirming his train of logic still made sense. “I’ve seen how Batman gets when Robin’s injured. He must’ve been too intimidating to victims without Robin there, so maybe I stepped in to take over while you couldn’t. Is that what happened?”

Schooling his expression into a neutral frown, Damian considered how he should go about this. Tim- Tim had unintentionally gotten alarmingly close to the truth, albeit mixing up details he couldn’t have guessed correctly. It would’ve almost been impressive, had it been someone else and not Drake.

Before unpacking the mess of the situation that had been Tim’s start as Robin, Damian resolved to stall for a few seconds by taking the time to enjoy a piece of basbousa himself. When he reached for the plate, Tim pushed it towards him in a forthcoming gesture.

As he chewed – the dish had indeed turned out quite well, despite Timothy’s help – it seemed Tim couldn’t bear the silence stretching for too long.

“Then when you returned, you became Robin again. Though all of this doesn’t factor in Dick. Or the others you mentioned. Did they appear after you returned as Robin? What about Dick, why couldn’t he take back the role when you were injured? Why did he give you Robin in the first place? Or-”

A glare from Damian silenced Tim’s ramblings, the boy turning a reddish color as he got a hold of himself.

“Sorry.”

“Richard passed down the mantle once he’d deemed himself too old to remain Father’s partner. Your other speculations were, while based on mere assumptions, not entirely incorrect. Though I was not the second Robin,” Damian scoffed.

“Was it one of our other siblings?” Tim smiled. At Damian’s nod, he almost leaped out of his seat in excitement.

“Can you tell me about them?”

“No.”

It looked like Tim wanted to ask more, wanted to know all about the family his alternate self was part of, but the impatient scowl Damian directed at his laptop screen (which had been pinging with alerts regularly ever since Tim had gotten home) set him off the idea. Instead, he settled on eating another piece of basbousa.

His mouth stuffed full of delicious sweetness, he watched with curious eyes as Damian worked. Even after days of his presence, Tim’s awe over everything happening hadn’t dissipated the slightest bit.

Damian threw a last exasperated glance in the small boy’s direction before he busied himself with deleting yet another blog post off of one of Gotham’s many forums. One about a possible Batman sighting near Crime Alley yesterday.

Right. As if Gotham’s Dark Knight had the body build of a teen.

He’d informed Tim of the previous night’s incident in passing, simply stating that he’d been spotted without explaining just what exactly had happened. Having had to prepare for school, Tim had accepted the answer that morning.

It seemed the lack of explanation was no longer satisfactory.

“So how did you blow your cover yesterday? Did you meet Batman?”

From the corner of his vision, Damian saw as Tim pulled a face, small brows furrowed in contemplation as he fidgeted with the plate between his hands. Flushed cheeks puffed up and large eyes watching his every move, he couldn’t help but think Timothy bore an eerie resemblance to a hamster at this point in time. Much more preferable than the wet-rat-look his present’s Drake seemed to have taken a liking to.

“I did not blow my cover,” Damian huffed. “I corrected the mistake easily. It was but a slight inconvenience.”

A smile tugged at Tim’s lips, eyes twinkling in amusement as Damian hurried to defend himself.

What a brat.

“I saved a child from getting attacked and revealed myself to some onlookers in the process. I have been tending to damage control since.” He made a dismissive motion toward the laptop.

Tim hopped off his chair and rushed over to Damian’s side to look at the screen.

As he took in the mess of blog posts and code, wonder overtook his face. Damian puffed out his chest at the surge of pride that filled him at the fact that Drake was, essentially, bowing to his skills by displaying such a mix of admiration and open bemusement.

Maybe this temporal trip did indeed have some good parts to it.

Averting his eyes from the screen to look up at him, Tim spoke. “What if people talk about you, though? Offline, I mean? You can’t stop that.”

“Obviously, I know that’s unavoidable,” Damian scoffed. “I plan regular visits to Crime Alley to meet with...a potential ally. Redirection and denial will help cover up the truth, and I require people on the inside for that.”

Tim’s eyes widened. His gaze flickered between the screen and Damian for a second or two, then stuck to his brother. He straightened, hands behind his back, a perfect gala smile painted on his face.

“An ally?” Then, without missing a beat, he added. “Can I meet them, please?”

×××××××××××××××

“I swear it! The guy was dressed like some fucking ninja and shit and straight-up killed the other dude! My aunt says she’s seen another two of them men lying around in pools of blood this morning!”

Dick exchanged looks with Babs, pulling a face. While incredibly disturbing out of the mouth of what could be a seven-year-old at most, such words were nothing unusual at Gotham playgrounds. Especially not when passing through Burnley. He’d learned to just keep walking.

Though the ninja part sounded less than reassuring. If Ra’s was planning something again...

“No, that was Robin. I was outside, I saw everything right front and center. He had the cape and everything.”

Now that made Dick look over. Robin did not kill, thank you very much.

His eyes landed on a group of young kids, the smaller ones sitting on the swings while the older ones knelt in the grass, various objects spread out between them. Which looked suspiciously like wallets, upon a closer look. Dick would’ve guessed a fair number of the children were also homeless, though, so he didn’t judge. Bruce’s charity work and programs could only do so much.

“Robin isn’t real, Jason!” a girl spoke up.

“Yes he is! I’ve met him!” another objected. She played with a wallet as she spoke, nimble fingers easily removing the cash and scanning for any gift cards. Stuffing an ID back into the wallet, she mused, “Though I don’t think he kills people.”

Damn right he doesn’t, Dick thought, watching on in open curiosity.

Word in the street was as good a source of information as any. Even more so in the case of children. But if what the kids were talking about did have some truth to it… The thought of murderous ninjas spelled bad news too, but the idea of a Robin-lookalike going around killing people in front of children filled Dick with far more dread. Robin was a protector. Especially of children. If someone used his symbol to lure kids in...

One of the boys interrupted Dick’s spiraling thoughts. A small, scrawny little thing, like any of them. But what he lacked in size, he certainly made up for in vivacity as he made his defense. “And he didn’t kill yesterday, either. He just knocked the guy out. Saved my life.”

“But the guy from yesterday wasn’t Robin, dumbass,” the small boy who’d spoken first said, “they were dressed all black. Robin’s all bright and shit. And they had no cape, either.”

“Paolo. Jason was right there. You’re too small to see shit out of the window, and your aunt lies all the time. Like that one time-”

Dick elected to tune out the little girl’s further tales, the topic quickly drifting to something else. The least he could do was to not eavesdrop further on little kids after they’d defended his name.

Besides, what he’d heard had given him enough to think about.

Babs elbowed him in the ribs (lightly – she knew where all his bruises were) to get his attention.

“You’ve got some passionate fans, Boy Blunder,” she laughed, eyes also pinned on the group across the street.

“I do...” Dick nodded absentmindedly, brows furrowed. He racked his mind for incidents involving him knocking a man out in Burnley or nearby the night before – in the hopes that they really were just talking about him – but came up empty. He had knocked out groups of men, sure, but no lone one. Especially not around here. Batman had dragged him to investigate something downtown yesterday night.

“And a copycat.” Babs amended.

He sighed. Robin had amassed a fair number of fans over the years, especially kids. Robin costumes were natural to follow. But so far, those had only been spotted on Halloween, not at this time of the year. If people began going out at night dressed as Robin, seeking trouble… What a mess that would be.

Regardless of whether they played the role of the victim or the attacker. Frankly, Dick still didn’t know what to believe – besides hoping someone who looked like Robin hadn’t killed, of course.

“Yep. Looks like it.”

Babs grabbed his arm and began pulling him along to set him into motion once again. No one appreciated teens blocking the sidewalk, and besides, they had a cafe to get to, she reasoned.

Throwing one last glance at the children, Dick let himself be dragged along.

“Maybe it isn’t a copycat. Maybe they’re really just mistaking someone for me,” he mused.

Babs quirked an eyebrow. “Because an unknown vigilante setting up shop here is any better. B is going to get fixated on this again.”

She was met with an eye roll and a laugh.

“Of course he is. Not that he’s going to get anywhere fast with just Alley kid talk.”

Dick received a knowing look in response and could barely suppress a grin. One thing applied to all of Gotham’s nutjob cases, vigilante and rogue alike: they were persistent. Everyone knew that. Whoever this mystery ninja-Robin was, they would hardly call it quits after one appearance.

He watched as Babs pulled out her phone, fingers moving furiously over the small screen. “Hmm. The internet certainly hasn’t caught wind of it yet. B will really have to go digging. Or wait it out.”

Dick didn’t even fight the laugh that bubbled to the surface at that.

Bruce waiting with an investigation? Never in a million years.

×××××××××××××××

Jason didn’t really expect Batboy to show again. He’d put in the work and covered for him, just in case, but only because he didn’t really have anything to gain by not doing so.

As much as the kid believed in his own abilities, he was just some middle-schooler dressing up and prancing around in a costume, not fucking Superman. He wouldn’t find Jason after they hadn’t set a meeting point the day before.

So, all considered, it didn’t really faze Jason when the other boy didn’t appear at the arranged time.

Besides, things were okay, somewhat. He’d reached the stage of constant hunger when the clawing emptiness in one’s stomach was just there, but didn’t really hurt anymore; his sleeping spot still hadn’t been discovered by anyone; and earlier, he’d been clean enough to be able to sneak into the library without the old snappy librarian throwing him out.

He hadn’t relied on the older kids in a long time, and he wasn’t going to start now.

He sat with his back to the wall, riffling through his backpack in search for a soggy protein bar. The elderly lady manning the corner store had gifted him with a handful after Firefly had wreaked havoc in the area and the firefighters had flooded her shop. The bars still tasted edible, albeit a bit mushy.

His search came up empty. Maybe he’d given away the last one when he’d handed some off to a working girl earlier that day. Jason had recognized her as the sister of one of his former classmates – from back when his ma had been alive and he’d gone to school – and managed to have quite a nice conversation with her during her break.

Tilting his head back to lean against the dirty brick, he took a deep breath. It wasn’t like the protein bar made much of a difference. It wasn’t a big deal. With the money from the pickpocketing he and the others had divided among themselves today, he could-

A tiny boy blinked at him from the rooftop across the street.

Wrapped all up in a large dark coat and face half covered by messy strands of black hair, he blended into the dull gray architecture of the Alley perfectly. It was only his pale face, donning a yellowish color from the ancient streetlights, that made him visible to Jason in the first place.

When he noticed their eyes had met, the boy broke out into a bright smile reaching his ears. He waved, small hand moving in a blur.

Jason raised his eyebrows in disbelief. He needed a few seconds to process what he was seeing. Namely, a child, probably no older than eight, standing on top of a building, dangerously close to the edge, and looking down at him.

Quickly scrambling to his feet, Jason looked around for the closest fire escape. The kid would fall if he didn’t get him down soon. If watching a child plummet onto the pavement was not on his agenda today – and it certainly wasn’t – he needed to get to the tiny idiot as fast as possible.

“Don’t move, kid, you hear me? Stay right-”

The words died in his throat as he saw a dark shadow appear behind the kid. A new, even stronger tide of adrenaline washed through him, body jolting in panic at the stranger.

That is, before his brain caught up and he recognized the black costume the taller figure wore.

The kid from the day before. Batboy, or whatever. Who he had lied to his friends for, and who nearly made him jump out of his skin in alarm just now.

He better get a five-course meal in exchange for putting up with the guy’s bullshit.

Before he knew it, Batboy had somehow made his way to ground level, with the small boy in tow. Both were unharmed, despite having somehow gone from the top of a large apartment building down into the street in a matter of seconds.

Jason wondered where the dude had learned his parkour.

Is that how the notorious Batman moved, as well? Could all the stories about him being one with the shadows and the night hold true?

If so, the kid did a damn good job copying his idol.

Now, closer to the two boys, he could take a good look at the duo.

The older kid seemed to have stuck to the same homemade jogger-vigilante costume he’d been in the day before. While the lighting wasn’t any better than it had been back then, the lack of stress or threats to his life actually allowed Jason to pick out the little details of the boy’s appearance better – be it the trained fighter’s stance he’d seen his fair share of in the streets or the bright utility belt peeking out from under the boy’s black jacket.

Huh.

In comparison, the boy next to him stuck out with his small stature and almost worrying paleness. The soft black hair still hid his eyes somewhat, the lower bit of his face covered as well by the collar of his coat. A coat that looked suspiciously well-made, probably quite expensive. Disregarding the grime and dirt coating it, that is.

The boy looked between Jason and Batboy with what could only described as reverence, though of an unsure quality. Like he was on guard. Jason didn’t know what to make of it.

He responded to the kid’s staring with a tentative smile.

“I have brought you food, as promised. I trust you’ll continue to keep to our arrangement?”

Jason looked over at Batboy, who’d pulled out another prepackaged sandwich (from a large backpack strapped to the smaller kid) and handed it over.

It was the same one as yesterday, still no trace of tampering. Jason took it with slight hesitation. “Um… Yeah? Sure.”

Batboy gave a curt nod. “Good.”

Awkward silence washed over them as Jason sat down, opened the packaging, and took a small first bite. The ravenous pit in his stomach immediately piped up with an embarrassing growl. Despite his hunger urging him on, he willed himself to eat slow, onlookers be damned. That particular trick always helped him stay sated longer, and he desperately needed that.

“We also brought you dessert,” the smaller kid said, maneuvering the backpack so he could pull out a familiar tupperware container. This time, however, the mac and cheese had been replaced by golden brown squares stacked neatly into the box.

So that weird incident had been Batboy’s doing, too.

Jason eyed the gift while chewing on another bite. He felt utterly out of his depth here. He hadn’t even expected the weird kid from yesterday to show up, much less to bring a small entourage and then stay to watch him eat while offering him even more food.

These kids were weird, but also clearly unsupervised. Yet well-off, too, and reckless merely on their own accord. And they kept bringing Jason meals, due to some heroic streak in the older kid or whatever. As long as one disregarded everything peculiar about the kids, they weren’t too bad, actually.

Had Jason been more of a hustler and played his cards right, he could’ve even finessed further benefits out of this entire situation. He could’ve used a set of new toiletries, for example. Or a few clothes Batboy had grown out of. Too bad he was more of the petty thief kind of guy.

“Thanks.” The tupperware quickly disappeared into his bag. “So what’s your deal, kid? You the Robin to his Batman or some shit?”

The kid nodded, then made a so-so motion with his hand. “He’s my brother,” he hurried to explain, throwing a look over his shoulder at the older boy.

“Tt.” Batboy crossed his arms over his chest in a very un-brotherly reaction. He fixed Jason with a hard glare. “What are people saying about yesterday’s incident?”

Jason raised his eyebrows at the swift topic change. A smile took over after the initial surprise. “They’re saying you killed the guy.”

Both he and Batboy’s brother – Batbrother? Mini Robin? – flinched at the growl that escaped the oldest boy at that. Jason grabbed the tiny kid’s sleeve and pulled him closer as he saw Batboy visibly tense up, hackles raised, jaw set and teeth bared in a snarl.

“I told everyone I met that it was Robin, don’t worry. And that it wasn’t a killing,” Jason said in an attempt to de-escalate. “People just tend to exaggerate stuff.”

“That’s true,” Batbaby confirmed. “A lot of people also say they’ve seen Batman kill, even though he has a strict no-killing policy.”

His brother visibly began to relax at the comparison to the Bat. One more point toward Jason’s fanboy theory.

“I don’t think people are taking any of it seriously. Lots of rumors around here. Rarely does any of it leave the Alley.”

“...Very well.” Batboy’s frown lingered, albeit it looked a lot lighter than mere seconds ago. “Avoid mentioning Robin, though. It would attract the wrong kind of attention.”

At Jason’s confused tilt of head, the small kid jumped to explain. He leaned in toward Jason conspiratorially, as if excited to let him in on a secret. “He doesn’t want to get noticed by Batman.”

Batboy whipped around, scowl returning. “Timothy,” he hissed.

So the kid had a name. Great.

Timothy stepped away from Jason with a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

“Afraid the Big Bad Bat would make you retire the shitty hero bit?” Jason asked Batboy.

The guy rolled his eyes, lips curling. Jason doubted he’d ever seen a kid that haughty. Behavior like that got the shit kicked out of you really fast in Gotham, especially when you were already at a disadvantage in size.

“He’s actually really good at it. The hero bit, I mean,” Timothy said, nudging the outline of the dessert container inside Jason’s bag toward him as he neared the end of his sandwich.

Jason couldn’t argue with that. He’d seen the way the boy had taken out the drunk bastard the day before, the way he’d swooped in and incapacitated the guy in the blink of an eye. Had it not been for him, Jason’s body would have become cold rat food by now.

Balling the plastic packaging of the sandwich and stuffing it into his bag to throw away later, he retrieved and inspected the sweets – some sort of failed pound cake? – offered to him. They smelled sweet – sugary, syrupy sweet – and seemed oddly sticky for their crumbly texture.

While the dish was all around odd, the brothers didn’t seem particularly malevolent; if they were supposed to be lures for anything, they were doing a terrible job, particularly with the older one’s standoffish nature. Jason was leaning towards trusting them with their food-gifting habits.

Timothy must’ve seen the hesitation on Jason’s face, as he reached forward, opened the container, and was the first to take a piece. He dug into it, looking at Jason like he had to prove something to him by eating. “It’s my brother’s recipe. It’s, like, made with this-”

“Tt. We have no time for idle chatter,” Batboy cut him off, taking a step away from them in a ‘I’m leaving, with or without you’ kind of motion. “May I remind you that I have a de-”

All three of them stilled at the sudden blare of sound. It came from everywhere, all at once, a shrill, repetitive noise chilling them to the bone. Jason’s eyes flickered to the warning sirens secured to the nearest streetlight, looming over them, then watched as – just like the day before – the lights in the apartments around them turned on, one after another.

The warning siren’s alarm quickly settled into a recognizable rhythmic pattern, and the fear that had been crawling up Jason’s throat multiplied tenfold. Even as he tried to fight and suppress it, a distant terror clawed at his chest and spread out into his limbs, into his fingers.

No matter how many times one lived through an Arkham breakout, the stress didn’t get better. Not out on the streets. Jason knew what to do, had known since he was a toddler, but being able to recount safety protocols in one’s sleep helped little when one didn’t have a secure hiding spot to rely on.

His gaze found the other two. Timothy was shaking a little. Though, with inquisitive eyes and mouth pressed into a thin line, his body language spelled curiosity more than it did utter panic. Batboy, on the other hand, embodied the very picture of hard determination, muscles tense and body alert, facing the direction of – Jason was pretty sure – Arkham Island. With quick steps, the boy had set himself between the two younger kids and the invisible danger. As if his small body would shield them from the cruelty and utter insanity of the asylum inmates.

Jason’s breath hitched at the realization that he found himself surrounded by reckless idiots. Ones who didn’t value their lives enough not to run toward danger, even when that danger was one of Gotham’s worst nightmares.

Or her absolute worst nightmare, possibly. In a more literal sense. Because the twisted chime the old sirens kept repeating over and over was none other than the warning tone for Scarecrow. They all had their own alarms, the rogues, alarms that played throughout the city whenever they escaped from Arkham.

One of these alarms going off could mean ‘prepare for danger’ or ‘prepare for death’. There was no telling if a particular rogue decided to hide out after their escape and plan for things first, or if they would try to massacre as many as they could before the Bat or police captured them again. By the time Arkham guards noticed the inmate missing and sounded the warning, though, most patients were too far to get recaptured, so an attack, sooner or later, was unavoidable.

Going off the screams erupting in the distance, Jason supposed it was more of a ‘sooner’ and a ‘prepare for death’ deal this time.

They were – like most Gothamites living on the side of Crime Alley bordering on the Scarecrow’s territory – utterly fucked.

Chapter Text

Amid the siren’s shrill and repetitive wails, the chaos settled over the streets with deep familiarity. It only took a few seconds of surprise before all traces of life systematically vanished from alleyways and balconies – mothers calling for their children to hurry inside and vendors locking their shops before running to safety.

Damian’s eyes narrowed, locked on the pillars of smoke rising above the buildings. By the direction of it, it looked like the fear toxin had already caused some panic-induced arson. The formula must’ve been less dense than usual – and quicker to spread.

With the strong winds blowing east-northeast, it would reach Gotham’s slums in little time.

The last time Scarecrow had executed a large-scale attack uptown, it had killed dozens in the city’s poorer neighborhoods. Even with the Wayne Foundation’s help, the citizens had been left scrambling to recover for months – and that was when all the Bats and the Birds had been there to help.

Now it was just him, and a greenhorn Batman trying his best.

His muscles urged Damian to move, his steady heartbeat like a war drum calling him to action.

He needed to go.

He needed to help. No matter what.

Not with Jason and Tim hot on his heels, though. They- They had to get somewhere safe. Away from here. Away from Damian.

Whipping around to the children behind him, the reprimand he’d been about to spit out got stuck in his throat.

Despite their wildly different upbringing, both boys were undoubtedly Gotham’s children. It came as no surprise the two had jumped into action quickly after the initial shock, in silent agreement on the first order of business: personal safety against airborne chemicals. If there was one thing Gothamites had plenty of, it was basic common sense; essentials first, further planning second.

Jason and Tim had both dutifully retrieved respirators from their bags and were putting them on in practiced motions.

Damian blinked.

The masks dwarfed the boy’s scrawny faces. Out of nowhere, the idea such devices could provide enough protection seemed utterly ridiculous. These children were tiny and weak. A strong wind could blow them over.

He stilled at the notion, his mind torn over whether to rescue or protect. Leaving Tim and Jason to their own devices, abandoning them amid an Arkham breakout… Who knew what would happen. Time had proven the two to be utterly irresponsible and dangerous to themselves and to others, at least in the future. But Damian had to go, should’ve already been on the way, needed to take down the rogue before his father’s younger version failed to do so.

Now was not the time to second-guess plans. With every second wasted here, another civilian fell prey to Scarecrow’s toxin.

Robin had people to save. Failing to prioritize would be unbecoming of him.

Damian, too, reached underneath his jacket and into his utility belt, pulling out his rebreather. He would likely need protective eye-gear, as well, as his lack of domino mask left his eyes unprotected against the fear gas.

But first things first.

“We will split up,” he announced with a look that accepted no argument. “Take your belongings and head downtown. Stay together.”

Tim nodded obediently; Jason, on the other hand, seemed torn, body tense and face pinched. His eyes flickered to the rebreather in Damian’s hands.

Admittedly, the bat-issued device didn’t resemble the average respirator, more compact and high-tech than any even the richest of Gotham could get their hands on. Even more so, it looked nothing like Jason’s – his a cheap, bulky model, one the Wayne Foundation regularly gave out for free to people who couldn’t afford to buy an expensive emergency kit.

If Jason still believed Damian to be a child playing pretend, it was reasonable that he wouldn’t trust his command. They had no time to persuade him, though. Either Damian had to rely on Todd’s sound mind and reason to get him to safety, or on Timothy, as the former wasn’t reliable in the slightest.

With an annoyed sigh, he grabbed a taser and a knife from his utility belt and offered it to the boy. While he considered entrusting Jason with weapons ill-advised in general, he recognized the children needed to protect themselves. And at this age, Jason would be a safer bet than Tim. His time on the streets ought to have forged him into an adequate fighter.

“Keep these hidden. Do you know how to use them properly?”

Jason scoffed, nodded, and pocketed the items. Along with the trackers planted on them. Then, the boy crossed his arms over his chest, eyes flickering between Damian and the smoke thickening the Gotham smog above their heads.

“You’re not planning on throwing yourself into that shitshow, are you?”

Damian looked away from the wary gaze. Instead, he placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder, transferring another tracker onto the kid’s jacket without anyone taking notice.

The move elicited a smile and had Tim leaning into his touch.

He scowled at the reaction. Tim shouldn’t be smiling. Tim should be afraid and sweating. Like normal children were in such situations. Or at least like Jason was, clearly a bit jittery and more than ready to flee.

“I am more than capable of taking care of myself. Timothy,” he gave the boy a hard look. It hoped to convey everything from ‘don’t you dare run to the center of the action’ to ‘don’t let Jason out of your sight’. “go to the botanical garden. I shall meet you two there when I’m done.”

That would be a good place for the boys to run to, Damian decided. Not too far away, yet it would still ensure Jason and Tim were nowhere near the fight. As a Wayne building, the surrounding area was relatively crime-less for Gotham standards, too.

Past closing time, they wouldn’t happen upon any employees. People had better things to do than check security cameras during an Arkham Breakout, granted the escapee wasn’t Ivy – nobody would even notice two kids lurking around near the entrance.

It was the next best thing Damian could come up with, seeing as directing the boys to the nearest safehouse wasn’t an option at the moment. Those safehouses belonged to Batman, and Batman would probably not be thrilled about children who weren’t his yet breezing past the security measures and waltzing in.

“But-” Tim started before falling silent. He frowned at Damian, tight-lipped, but soon yielded, grabbing Jason’s sleeve and taking a step away, pulling the older boy with him.

Jason let himself be dragged along. His wide eyes remained on Damian, however, eyebrows raised in question.

“You’re going to die, dude,” Jason finally spoke.

“A ridiculous claim coming from you of all people,” Damian snarled, pulling out his grapple gun and surveying the nearby rooftops for the best spot to aim at. “Now leave. And watch out for each other. Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

Tim’s face looked like he couldn’t quite decide between exasperation and bashful joy. He tugged on Jason, turning away from Damian.

“We promise,” he said, voice muffled by his mask.

Jason immediately began to protest.

Damian didn’t bother staying to listen to his complaints.

He pulled down the cloth hiding the lower half of his face and bit down on his rebreather, before he then deployed his grapple, barely waiting out the telltale hiss-clang of it catching on the edge of a building. Not even a second later, Damian was in the air, wind rushing past his ears and drowning out any other noise.

Away from his…distractions, he’d be able to analyze the situation much better. He worked much more efficiently without other people to keep track of.

Landing on the rooftop near-silently, he couldn’t help a small smirk. No obstacles, no burdens in his way. This entire fight would be all his. No one else to butt in. He could go all out. His father was going to see just how capable he was on his own.

The city smog, made visible by light pollution, sported a sick greenish tinge three blocks over. With the epicenter this close, Damian would get there in no time. Judging by the radius of the attack, Scarecrow must have been on the move, too, or employing fear gas bombs. Either one he would tackle by checking out the densest part of the gas fog first. That usually indicated the most recently set-off bomb or the rogue’s current location.

He took off, leaping from building to building. The adrenaline buzzing under his skin gave him an extra kick of energy as he soared through the night, muscles straining and burning in just the right way at the exertion.

Despite the ten-year difference, he knew these rooftops like the back of his hand. He didn’t even need to concentrate to get the jumps and landings right, muscle memory taking care of half the work. It felt freeing, absurd as it was, the sensation of moving with such purpose ever so invigorating.

This was what he was made for, what he was supposed to do.

About a hundred feet from his target, when the smoke began to sting his eyes, he had to slow down to put on a spare pair of night-vision-goggles. It sat a bit uncomfortably on his face, Damian much more used to the sleek mask molded to his face shape, but it was nothing he couldn’t bear. In fact, the goggles had the added benefit of hiding his identity more – although they also blurred his vision in better-lit areas.

What he wouldn’t do for one of Catwoman’s high-tech goggles. Or his own domino mask, for that matter. Curse the interdimensional lack of mask glue.

He knew he’d reached the site of the main attack when the heavy fog made it impossible for him to see properly. Here, the screams were coming from inside the buildings and not just from the street below, sounds of furniture breaking and panicked crying showing which civilians hadn’t gotten their rebreathers on in time. It looked like a war zone, people lashing out in fear and escalating the situation even further.

Despite the chaos, it didn’t take him long to get a grasp on the situation. Apartment complexes flooded by fear gas, with Scarecrow’s men running from building to building carrying canisters of fear gas to plant – it painted a pretty clear picture. And an unsightly one at that.

Attempting to evacuate people would have been a wasted effort for the time being. He didn’t have the right antidotes – the toxin batches he was prepared to deal with wouldn’t be developed until ten years in the future – nor would he have a lot of success dragging people outside of the perimeter of the danger zone.

Not on his own. Not without backup.

The sentiment stung, but he’d learned to recover from setbacks in the blink of an eye. Even in the face of entire buildings of people suffering the effects of fear gas, hundreds of people he couldn’t save yet. He’d adapt and work past it, for the sake of all the people he could help.

Bitterness washed over him like a wave. He pushed it down right away. There was no place for emotions on the field, much less for such inferior ones.

What he could do was make sure Scarecrow couldn’t spread out further. And he could do that well, much better than the timeline’s Batman perhaps. He’d beaten the rogue time and time again before, not to mention fighting was a much more familiar territory to him than rescue.

He’d be quick, in and out. They’d barely even notice he’d done his part. Which just so happened to be exactly what he needed right now.

Vaulting over the edge of the rooftop, he shot towards the nearest goon, landing a kick on the man’s shoulder and taking him down before dropping into a roll upon reaching the ground. Then, without catching his breath, he went for the next lackey.

He worked his way through Scarecrow’s henchmen indiscriminately. They weren’t hard to distinguish from civilians, the burlap sacks and equipment full of fear toxin being quite the tell.

Damian got sprayed in the face a handful of times, mask and goggles taking the brunt of the chemical attack. A little fear toxin would hardly be the thing to take him down, though. He could handle minor hallucinations just fine.

What made things difficult (though it was no real trouble for Damian, of course) were the civilians blinded by fear toxin hallucinations. The ones who rushed outside in hopes of escaping the horrors but were met with the same sights on the street. The ones who mindlessly attacked Damian, mistaking him for whatever their drugged-up brain painted him as.

Having to incapacitate them without major damage took time. Time Damian didn’t have. It made him lose sight of Scarecrow’s following more often than he’d have liked.

A small part of him missed Oracle’s voice in his ear. She would have been able to keep eyes on the villain. She would have told him where to go.

Damian bit down on his tongue. Hard. Such slight inconveniences wouldn’t hinder him.

A pitiful yowl sounded from a man as Damian elbowed him in the nose, eliciting an audible crack. He cringed but moved on, the person now too preoccupied clutching their face to put up resistance as Damian took them down with a final hit.

Straightening up, he regained visual of the largest group of Scarecrow’s goons. Just up ahead, four houses from Damian’s current position. And among them, the man himself.

He took off running.

×××××××××××××××

They arrived on the scene way later than they usually did. Much later than Bruce would have liked. They’d been down in Old Gotham when the breakout happened, busy investigating a murder case. Barbara had the day off. Kate was benched due to a nasty fall resulting in several broken bones two weeks prior. Even abandoning everything didn’t help them get to the scene faster, and without the backup from the girls, that delay allowed for utter chaos to unfold.

Immediately, Bruce could tell something was wrong. Aside from the escalation of the attack, that is, to be expected with such a slow response time.

No, this time it was something entirely different.

His attention had immediately been on the unconscious people littering the street – nothing unusual at the sight of a Scarecrow attack, were it not for the fact the line-up mostly consisted of the villain’s henchmen. Crumpled on the ground, fear gas canisters abandoned. They didn’t appear to be seizing or majorly injured, however, despite the clear signs of struggle surrounding them.

So neither had the fear toxin backfired on them, nor had the chemicals caused an explosive reaction. It had to have been a fight. Perhaps someone drugged on fear gas had gotten the upper hand?

Bruce followed the trail of combat, freezing when his gaze landed on the most likely culprit.

Oh. Oh no.

Right behind him, Robin landed on the rooftop. Without coming to a halt, the boy prepared to flip off the edge gracefully, off to disable any fear gas bombs and administer antidote doses.

Bruce held him back.

Robin looked at him. Then at the streets below them.

His eyes widened behind the mask, the whites of his domino mimicking the change.

“Holy- is that a kid? Fighting the Scarecrow?”

“Hnn,” Bruce grunted, eyes also locked onto the child. “Be prepared to deal with a potentially more aggression-inducing strain of the toxin.”

Robin nodded before taking off. Right after, Bruce followed, sweeping down with single-minded focus on getting to the kid.

Children usually had a freeze-or-flight reaction to the Scarecrow’s toxin. The occasional fight response tended to result in heavy injury to the victim, along with extensive psychological trauma from the hallucinations. Given that the kid didn’t die from heart failure or suffocation first, that is, as the fatal dosage for children was much lower than for adults. The fact that the kid could stay on his feet long enough to confront Scarecrow and his henchmen was a wonder in itself.

Even more so as the kid seemed to be holding his own quite well. He had already taken out a couple of Scarecrow’s people. With skills and techniques no normal child his age possessed, Bruce’s brain supplied helpfully, mentally cataloging all notable martial art styles the child made use of. Such diversity in abilities was...scary to see in an adolescent civilian.

As soon as he was in throwing distance, Bruce rushed to pin down two of the goons with batarangs. He had to step in and gain control of the situation.

He could have sworn the boy shot him a glare at his arrival.

Once his eyes landed on Batman, however, the kid seemed to falter in his movements, tensing up. It was hard to read his expression, face obscured by rebreather, goggles, and hood, but the sudden stop to his onslaught of punches directed at the Scarecrow betrayed his surprise – or something else, perhaps? – quite well.

Bruce debated capturing the child now to pull him out of the fight. It would get the boy to safety, at least. Then he could talk to him afterward. Get to the bottom of the situation. And-

Recovering quickly, the boy regained some distance between them through a skillfully executed back handspring, secure despite the uneven footing of the pavement full of cracks. It was an unexpected move that placed him right next to Scarecrow, whose feet he kicked out from under him.

While Crane had never been a close-combat fighter, his chemicals and smarts often helped him out. Now, it seemed the pint-sized foe had caught him off guard just as much as he had Bruce, as by the time he attempted to stab a syringe of fear toxin into the boy’s arm, he’d already been thrown off balance. He fell, dropping the fear toxin from his hands.

Bruce had taken out another three henchmen to get to them, only to find the boy holding the Scarecrow at knife-point, having kept him down for as long as Bruce had needed.

The boy looked over to him, and, seeing that he’d incapacitated every enemy, pulled out a grapple gun.

“Wait,” Bruce said hastily, a warning edge to his tone. Batman’s low growl hid the genuine surprise over the child’s equipment.

It was clear the boy hadn’t been dosed by fear gas, movements clear and fluid, stance steady. His fighting ability came not from desperation, but experience. He demonstrated skills in several martial arts techniques, to the point Bruce highly suspected the passed-out goons to be his doing. All that, along with his high-grade gear – technology surpassing even Lucius’ abilities – gave way to a rising dread inside Bruce that he couldn’t quite suppress. It made bile rise in his throat.

Where had this child come from?

“Could I talk to you for a second?” he hoped for a reply, but knew to not expect one.

When he was met with a blank look, he tried not to let his desperation show. Still, there was this unreadable, perhaps calculating look hidden behind the goggles of the boy as he returned Bruce’s gaze. He didn’t know what to make of it.

He moved towards the boy, despite knowing that it would be of no use.

With a final look to the Scarecrow, the young fighter shot off into the night.

And Bruce couldn’t follow. Not when he still had a fight to clean up and victims to look after.

He cursed mentally.

Resigned, he went through the motions, cuffing the Scarecrow and watching as the GCPD pulled up as well. Regrouping with Robin after the teen had finished his search for the canisters of fear gas hidden inside the buildings.

Once he could pass over tending to the victims to medical professionals, he turned his attention to another detail he’d so far had to ignore.

He joined Commissioner Gordon’s side with Robin in tow. Following Gordon’s gaze, his eyes landed on one of the unconscious goons.

Just the few times passing them, he’d already scanned over the group with a scrutinizing gaze. Had noted the non-lethal yet precise cuts, the bruises, the occasional dislocated shoulder. The one broken nose.

This one was no different from most of them, out cold but unharmed past minor wounds. She looked to be waking up, waiting EMTs and police officers surrounding her.

“When do I get to meet your new kid?”

“Hn?”

“Eyewitness reports mentioned a kid in a black costume arriving first on the scene. Beating up quite a few of Scarecrow’s men,” Gordon explained, fixing the respirator mask sitting oddly on his face. “Thought it was Robin at first, but I see he’s still in his red-yellow-green.”

Bruce looked at Gordon. “The kid’s not with me.”

Gordon raised his eyebrows, eyes wandering to Robin, who could do nothing but shrug.

Dick would probably be bursting with questions the minute they were alone. And this time, Bruce couldn’t blame him. He also wanted to get this cleanup done and over with as fast as possible, get home, and spend the rest of the night researching in the cave.

Something about the child had felt familiar, though he couldn’t for the life of him put his finger on it. It was… Something in the way he’d carried himself. The moves he’d used.

Finally, Gordon shuddered at the nonresponse he received, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Great. The last thing I need is another vigilante child running around…” He looked Robin up and down with fatherly disapproval. “You and Batgirl are more than enough.”

Chapter Text

“My brother knows what he’s doing,” Timothy explained as he clung to Jason’s sleeve and pulled him along with determination. There was just enough of a trembling quality to his voice to betray his unsteadiness. “You can trust him. I’m Tim, by the way. I can get us to safety, I know a shortcut-”

Jason bristled against his grip. Mind reeling, stumbling to catch up, his gut screamed at him to get a handle on the situation. To stop getting dragged around by the most talkative kid to ever set foot in Crime Alley. Timothy – or Tim – could make promises to his brother all he wanted, but that did not change the fact that Jason refused to place his trust in two strange kids in the midst of a rogue attack.

He was still on the fence over whether the entire Batboy thing wasn’t just a new ploy by some pimp. Wouldn’t have been the first time they used other kids as recruiters. Hell, one of them had almost gotten to Jason once.

So really, getting led to who-knows-where amid the chaos of a Arkham breakout didn’t thrill him, to say the least. The highly stressful situation, his helplessness, no witnesses – it didn’t make for a great combination.

Then again, Tim rivaled an underfed kitten when it came to strength. Jason could probably flee the situation with a well-placed kick–

No way was he going to risk hurting a possibly innocent kid, though.

Especially not one who looked like he’d stay down after a single hit.

The thing about crime in Gotham was that it always caused chain reactions. A select few loonies injured and killed, and left behind a wasteland where the people had no choice but to turn on each other. Growing up in that man-eat-man world, one got used to it fast. Especially around these parts of town.

Timothy was decidedly not from these parts of town. And Jason wouldn’t exploit that or ruin it for him.

Besides, aside from his learned paranoia – a healthy dose of it was essential for living on the streets – his gut wasn’t telling him to mistrust or dislike Tim. In fact, he almost felt an instinctual want to look out for the smaller boy.

Someone needed to, and Tim’s family most definitely wasn’t. Else he wouldn’t have been running around in the Alley at night.

A window shattered behind them, and Tim’s confidence along with it. The boy stilled, not unlike a deer in headlights. His limp fingers lost their grip on Jason.

Jason’s gaze snapped over to the noise, landing on the first couple of looters with gas masks using the opportunity of the pigs being busy with Scarecrow to commit their crimes. The group hadn’t noticed them yet, too busy barreling into a shop through the broken storefront and grabbing everything in sight.

Had it not been for the tiny hindrance currently hanging off his arm, Jason would’ve probably tried something along the lines, too. That, or hid out on the upper levels of some abandoned building. Those weren’t hard to find around here, and Jason had lived in most of them before. He knew where the safe ones were.

As it was, though, he had to get Tim and himself out of there. Looters were usually followed by mad shop-owners with guns showing up, and those didn’t tend to examine the scene before letting the bullets rain. Everyone nearby would get caught in the crossfire.

The fear toxin hadn’t even gotten there yet, and already the craziness had begun. Great. Then again, Jason should’ve figured that much when Batboy had turned up. Costumed freaks were always followed by trouble.

Tim recovered from his surprise sooner than Jason would’ve expected. The kid’s grasp on him reappeared.

“We can go through a side street.” Brows furrowed, he added, “There’s probably less of a commotion there.”

It took Jason a considerable amount of self-control not to burst out laughing at that statement. He couldn’t. It would’ve been mean to make fun of a rich little kid for his naivety.

At least now he knew with certainty that Tim wasn’t trafficker bait. Such a sentence would have never even crossed a street kid’s mind, much less been spoken out loud, not even as an attempt at a lie.

He schooled his expression into something akin to neutrality before placing his hands on Tim’s shoulders and steering him past the looting. “Nah, kid. That’s how you get snatched off the streets. Just keep going and mind your business. That’s the best thing you can do around here.”

Fortunately, Tim complied, allowing himself to be led.

The boy remained silent even as the streets around them devolved into chaos, the initial stillness called forth by the warning sirens escalating into a loud tumult after everyone had had the time to strap a respirator to their face. Thieves, dealers, and sadists, the whole opportunist lot, there to take livelihoods and lives.

And then they eventually came across the first victims of fear toxin. Bleeding from a head wound, pale, sobs shaking them to the core, they made for such a helpless, pitiful sight that Jason couldn’t help but wonder how they’d even made it down the few streets to get away from the worst of it. They seemed to be seconds from passing out.

This also spelled bad news for Jason and Tim: where people dosed with fear gas cowered, fear gas couldn’t be far. They needed to get the hell out of there.

Too bad Tim didn’t seem to share that opinion with Jason, wiggling free to rush towards the injured person as soon as he noticed them.

“The fuck are you doing?” Jason yelled, arm held up before his face as if the gesture alone could add an extra layer of air filter.

“Helping!”

“No, you’re not,” Jason hissed, “we need to get out of here!”

“I’ve got an antidote dose. It’s part of my first-aid kit,” Tim replied while squatting down to the person huddled against a wall, badly hidden from view.

Jason swallowed against his increasingly dry throat and took a step back to put some distance between himself and the person pumped full of drugs who could lash out any second. He had half a mind to just grab Tim and drag him away, too.

Instead, he settled for watching Tim pull out an auto-injector, nimble fingers administering the dose with experience such a small child should definitely not have. Every few seconds, Jason looked over his shoulder, not only to check for any approaching dangers but also to demonstrate to Tim that they needed to hurry.

A gasp broke from the fear gas victim as Tim finished and staggered to his feet. The tiny kid didn’t give a chance for Jason to glare at him, immediately turning his back to him and setting off as if naturally expecting Jason to just follow.

It appeared nothing short of Batman would get the kid to stop acting on his whims. Perhaps Batboy would have sufficed, too, but that ship had kind of sailed – or gotten gassed by Scarecrow’s fear toxin, probably.

And wasn’t that a thought.

Despite his ability to recall every little detail of what had happened, Jason still couldn’t understand how the hell he’d gotten into this situation.

A bit over twenty-four hours ago, he would have laughed if anyone had told him there was a kid in a homemade Batman costume fighting villains. For some reason, sometime between then and now, said kid and his baby brother had latched onto Jason, saving his ass, feeding him, and also quite possibly following him around.

...Because they must’ve been, right? As unpleasant and creepy as the thought was to acknowledge, there was no way Batboy just kept stumbling upon him. He had to have some sort of goal, regularly checking on Jason like that.

Which only proved Jason should’ve gotten the hell away from the sibling duo, like, yesterday.

As it turned out, they were hard to shake off.

But Jason could hardly leave a young kid such as Timothy to his own devices during a villain attack, right? Especially if it was Timothy. He’d never seen a kid as nonchalant about a possible fear gas bombing as this one. One so stupid as to stop and help instead of getting to safety himself.

Safe to say, it unsettled him. And yet he, begrudgingly, still moved to hurry after Tim. Perhaps for the sole reason that at that point, he would’ve felt responsible if anything happened to the kid.

He picked up the pace and huddled close as they crossed paths with another group on the move, hiding Tim from their view. It earned him a curious glance from the boy.

Shrugging, he pulled out the Batboy-issued knife from his pocket and grasped it firmly, just to be sure. Timothy might have made them look like too much of an easy target, otherwise.

The cold metal felt well-weighed and natural in his clammy fingers, and only upon the second look did he notice just how professional and expensive the weapon looked. Oddly enough, it somehow fit the impression Batboy had made on Jason so far – this strange mismatch of great tech and homemade costume, of an efficient fighting style and a bumbling little sidekick. It all just added to Jason’s ever-growing confusion.

“It’s cool, isn’t it,” Tim smiled, meeting his eyes. “I think his weapons might genuinely be better than some of Batman’s.” Then, at Jason’s raised brows, he added with a soft adoration: “Which is why you really don’t have to worry about him. My brother’s a professional.”

While Jason found it hard to trust Tim’s high opinion of Batboy – the kid was clearly biased – he still kind of hoped it had some truth to it. He had seen Batboy fight, seen him fight well, but an Arkham villain differed greatly from some drunk in an alley. Going up against one was a losing battle. What with Scarecrow being one of the most terrifying Gotham rogues, and Batboy being a tween. A tween not supervised by Batman, that is.

“A professional?” Jason asked after a short pause, trying to swallow down the sarcastic disbelief in his voice.

“Uhm, yeah. He’s been doing this for a while now,” Tim replied. He didn’t meet Jason’s eyes, instead choosing to stare ahead in search of upcoming dangers. A sensible choice, for once.

Jason doubted ‘a while’ was long enough preparation to throw oneself into a Scarecrow attack, but he didn’t tell the kid as much. Instead, he picked up his pace to cross the street while the light was still green – even when the sirens had emptied most roads of traffic, he would not teach bad habits to impressionable little kids – and reveled in the despaired look on Tim’s face as the boy ran to keep up with him.

“What about you, squirt? You training to be Batman Junior as well?” He teased.

“N-not like that,” Tim mumbled from behind his gas mask. “And my brother’s really not just a fanboy, either. He was raised like this. His dad, he’s, uhm, also dedicated to helping people.”

The smile melted off Jason’s face. “Your parents are encouraging him to do this?”

The kid frowned, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. It took him a second before whatever he was so puzzled about dawned on him and his expression relaxed. “No, my parents don’t know about his activities. But it’s not them that taught him how to fight. We’re… We’re only siblings through adoption, you know?”

He still seemed to pick his words very carefully when he spoke. Jason knew he wasn’t getting the entire picture. Not that he wanted it, really. Far be it from him to get into the intricacies of adoption and family amid an Arkham Breakout, with a strange child he met half an hour ago.

So he just nodded soberly and didn’t say anything for a long while after that. He could feel Timothy buzzing with nervous energy beside him, but still not with the kind one should have when walking away from the danger zone of an attack. More alike an embarrassed need to explain himself. Which was a very weird vibe to get from such a tiny child, Jason thought. His mind couldn’t reconcile the image with Batboy’s brazenly unapologetic nature.

Not that he had much time to think about that when a new, much bigger problem arose in the form of the Wayne Foundation volunteers. It was always the stupid Wayne Foundation volunteers.

“Shit.” He shoved Tim back a few steps, behind the cover of a wall. As inconspicuously as he could, Jason peered out at the street behind them and at two people in bright vests and respirators who had just hurried out of a homeless shelter that Jason and Tim had passed half a minute ago.

And to think they’d almost made it out of Crime Alley without getting held up. Of course the shelters on the border to the Bowery would do them in.

Many in the area favored soup kitchens or homeless shelters when they didn’t have anywhere to flee to during a rogue breakout. The establishments usually had equipment and food to help weather attacks and demanded nothing in exchange but civilized behavior and for one to clean up after oneself. Except when it came to children. Going to a Gotham shelter as a kid – especially the ones in Crime Alley – was a one-way ticket to a foster home and the trafficking rings a lot of those foster homes were run by. Not to mention the volunteers were always pushy, too, especially during villain-related incidents.

Jason could have done without another encounter right now.

“Okay, Timmy.” He bent down to be at eye-level with the kid, “change of plans. We’re not going that way.”

Despite Tim’s quiet protests, he turned tail, dragging them off in a different direction. Dragging turned to running soon after, as one of the volunteers spotted and called after them.

Stupid billionaires with their stupid foundations, thinking kids couldn’t take care of themselves during a villain attack. Too ignorant to realize running away from crazy bastards out on the streets was much easier than running away from crazy bastards while locked in a house with ten other kids.

Jason refused to risk going past the shelters again. And if that meant they had to take a longer route to Midtown, so be it.

What he forgot to consider when deciding that was Tim, a seven- to nine-year-old out past his bedtime (if he even had one). No amount of adrenaline would keep a kid that small from swaying in exhaustion after sprinting a block with a respirator strapped to their face.

He only noticed when Tim failed to keep up anymore, Jason pulling him along even as they slowed down. At least the shelter’s volunteer seemed to have given up on catching up to them.

“Sorry,” Tim panted, voice merely a breathy whisper from behind the mask. He stumbled against Jason.

“It’s okay,” Jason shook his head. He also felt the burning exhaustion in his limbs. “We can take a break.”

“But-”

“We’re, like, on the Southern edge of the Bowery. That’s more than enough.”

He let himself plop down onto the curb and laid his head between his drawn-up knees, arms resting on his legs. The street they stopped in consisted of two neat rows of residential buildings and didn’t have much of anything going on. It seemed almost quiet, the sound of his own breathing, the occasional traffic, and the screams in the distance being the only noise. The sirens had faded out by now.

Tim hesitantly lowered himself to the ground as well, leaning up against a street light and bathing himself in its golden shimmer. When Jason raised his head, Tim looked back at him in between slow blinks.

“You might want to text your parents,” Jason said after a short while, now that they were settled down. He watched as Tim also hugged his knees to his chest, shivering ever so slightly from the chilly night air, and wondered just what must be going on in that kid’s head at the moment. Whether he had to do this waiting-around gig a lot, given his brother’s choice of hobby. “Let them know you’re okay and stuff. They might be worried.”

He kind of doubted they were. Parents who let their kids run around in Gotham like that rarely had the time or the mind to bother with worrying much.

In lieu of an answer, Tim directed a strange look at him and held it for a few seconds. It was unnerving.

“It’s fine. They’re out of town on a work trip,” he eventually spoke.

Under his respirator, Jason pressed his lips into a thin, disheartened line.

“You’re alone at home?”

And telling a virtual stranger about it? What was it with this family and absolutely zero regard for their or their loved ones’ safety?

“Da- My brother is there, too,” Tim protested, quick to grow defensive. Before visibly deflating just a second later, shoulders drooping with a sigh. He wore the kind of expression people tended to have before they kicked something out of frustration. “Though he will be gone in a month or two, I guess...”

“...Gone?” Jason pressed with a frown.

An ominous sense of dread began crawling up his throat at the word. There were only so many things ‘gone’ could mean.

Tim froze at the question, then shook his head vehemently before burying his face between his knees. “Oh man, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Dammit.”

Jason felt himself straightening up from his slumped position. “Gone where, Timmy?” he repeated, voice hoarse.

When the kid looked back up at him again, Jason could pick out glossy tears collecting in Tim’s eyes. Expression pinched, the kid tried to collect himself. With little success. He could almost feel the small face radiating heat in clammy, exhausted shame as the boy stammered for an answer.

Deep and embarrassed regret took over Jason. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He knew better than to ask invasive questions like that. Of course he knew what kind of ‘gone’ Tim was talking about, no need to get a stupid confirmation just to sate his stupid curiosity–

Just as he was about to settle on a way to salvage the situation and offer comfort, Tim got ahead of him.

“...oh, uhm, to another world?” he mustered in a squeaky, fragile voice.

The sentence ended on a high note, more question than answer, and Timothy cleared his throat right after as if to get rid of an imaginary obstruction in his airways. He held onto his pant legs with tight fists, like he could get swept away by the wind or a particularly strong tide of emotion if he didn’t cling to something.

“Sorry,” he added as an afterthought.

The last part, a pitiful addition as it was, broke the sudden radio silence inside Jason’s mind that had emerged at Tim’s first sentence. Information flooded in to get processed by his brain and it finally clicked just what had been said.

Jason’s heart shattered into a million pieces and dropped into his stomach.

Oh. Oh, kiddo.

He hadn’t heard that particularly childish euphemism for death in quite some time. There was no need to mince words on the streets, death a harsh but everyday reality for most people Jason knew. To hear a likely-rich, sheltered little kid talk about his brother’s passing in such a manner felt alien but all the more heartbreaking.

Jason gulped, wrestling with the news and struggling to make sense of it all. Batboy was…dying. According to his brother at least. And he had just gone after Scarecrow all on his own, either believing himself indestructible in the face of approaching demise or – Jason almost felt bad for thinking it – wanting to hasten his passing by throwing himself to the wolves.

...All while abandoning his brother to Jason? Given their ‘business’ trips, Jason doubted their parents were in the picture much. Meaning Tim would be all but left to him. Had Batboy sought Jason out just for this? To have him distract Tim and take him away when the time came, to comfort and take care of him? What, was Jason supposed to be Batboy’s replacement?

Another thought crossed his mind. It was out of Jason’s mouth before he could think about it.

“That work trip of your parents… Are they away in the same sense your brother will be, or…?”

Tim blinked up at him with a puzzled expression, soon morphed by polite neutrality. It looked plastic and so, so uncanny. “Oh no, they’re in Indonesia,” the boy chirped. Waving the question off with a dismissive hand gesture.

Jason bit his lip in an attempt to fight the snarl of anger at that. One of their kids was dying, and these fuckers were waltzing around the globe, leaving their prepubescent sons to fend for themselves?

“That’s fucked up,” he nodded solemnly. He tried to keep his tone matter-of-factly and devoid of pity. Pity never helped. “I’m sorry, kid.”

He threw his head back and stared up at the empty night sky. At the bottom of his vision, he caught the streetlamps’ reflection on the apartment windows, small suns amid the inky, unreal darkness. His eyes drifted, busying himself with taking in every detail of their surroundings while silence settled over the two of them.

A part of him wondered if Batboy was dead by now, or if by some chance, he would survive, only to go on and die in a few weeks instead. Maybe he only took up this entire Bat-shtick to have some fun before he kicked the bucket – Jason could respect that, if that were the case. Still, loading Tim onto him was not a nice thing to do. Jason had no idea how he’d – how they’d – manage all the additional responsibilities.

Maybe he could ask the older kids to get in on their tire-jacking business.

“You’re…taking it well,” Tim said after a few beats of quiet between them. “Don’t you have questions?”

Jason averted his eyes from the city’s silhouette and looked at Tim, eyebrows knit together in confusion. Was Tim expecting him to ask questions about Batboy’s condition (because it must’ve been an illness, right?), or maybe about Tim’s allergies and stuff for future reference? In case they did stick together?

“You know, about the whole multiverse thing,” Tim went on to explain after all he’d received was a blank look.

Safe to say, that didn’t help in the slightest. In fact, Jason was about ninety-seven percent sure he’d misheard. Because that couldn’t have been it, right?

He leaned in closer towards Tim. Close enough to pick out every nervous tick on the tiny boy’s pale face, from the way he fidgeted with the straps of his gas mask to his suddenly too-frequent blinking, wide awake once more. He took all of it in before he asked, slow and clear: “The what?”

If it was even possible, Tim looked even more uncomfortable now. He shifted from side to side. “The multiverse thing? My brother coming from an alternate universe? That’s why he’ll have to go back in a few weeks. To his home dimension. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but since I let it slip, I figured I could tell you the basics.”

Clenching his teeth to keep himself from speaking, Jason wilted under Timmy’s gaze. He was equal parts frustrated and helpless: with Tim, being so convinced of something entirely fantastical; with himself, having to deal with it.

Whatever story Batboy had fed Tim, this was taking it too far.

“I’m sure it will be okay. I mean, Damian – that’s my brother’s name, by the way – already decided to look out for you. He would have filled you in soon, anyway. It might not seem like it at first, but Damian cares a lot, you know.”

An amused huff of breath escaped Jason at that, despite everything.

“He didn’t even want you to notice him, at first. He just wanted to make sure you were okay, I think, and things escalated from there. He didn’t want to meddle with this universe too much – where he comes from, Batman is his dad, and he wanted to avoid him unless absolutely necessary, but now...”

A newfound sense of vertigo took over Jason as Tim dug himself deeper and deeper. Had he lost the thread of the conversation or was Tim really convinced that Batboy- Damian was the real Batman’s son? Sure, Jason had met some weird people before, but this truly took the cake for absurdity. Not to mention just how involved Jason had ended up in the entire thing.

Then again…

Batboy had saved Jason’s life. Had looked like someone who’d been doing it all his life, too. The tiny slivers of regret and panic on his face afterward would also have been hard to fake, Jason supposed, and they would’ve made sense if what Tim was saying was true about Batboy’s unwillingness to stir things up. Not that that counted much, not when it had only taken a day for him to head straight into the spotlight by going to fight a rogue.

So… Still more unbelievable than not.

Jason swallowed past the lump in his throat. He felt like having to gulp down a handful of pebbles as he attempted to smooth his frown into a softer expression and finally meet Tim’s expectant eyes.

If he didn’t know better, he would think Tim was watching a train-wreck in slow motion by the way his face twisted as he caught Jason’s gaze. The hands resting in his lap curled into fists, and Jason halfheartedly raised one of them to place it on the kid’s shoulder before thinking better of it and aborting the motion.

“I- Uhm... Look, Timmy-”

“You don’t believe me,” Tim realized. He shifted, lowering his knees and turning to face the other boy properly.

Jason winced. “That’s not-”

“But I can prove it!” Tim cut in vehemently, voice high and desperate to make Jason understand everything. “Damian can, too, when he comes back. He’s got-”

“Hey, Timmy, it’s okay, let’s just-” He whipped his head around in panicked motions, scurrying onto his knees and scooting closer to the boy to calm him, holding up his open palms. “Let’s quiet down, alright?”

Breath hitching, Tim glanced over in the direction they’d come from, as if expecting his brother to sweep in and save the situation. Jason followed his gaze and took in the pillars of smoke still visible in the distance. He heard Tim sigh beside him.

When he looked back, the boy held up his pointer finger in the universal signal for ‘wait’. Tim reached back into his backpack, searching for something. He found it quickly – a vaguely bird-shaped metal object in his hands. Despite its slightly ridiculous form, it looked sharp. Dangerous.

“A birdarang,” Tim spoke.

Jason’s eyes flickered from the object to Tim. His eyebrows rose.

“A real one. From Damian. As further proof. But he’s got even more.”

Unconsciously, Jason held out his palm. Tim carefully – with near reverence – transferred the weapon.

It looked real. That’s for sure. It proved very little, but it did throw up a plethora of questions. Questions Jason didn’t expect Tim to answer truthfully, anyway.

Though the thought that Tim might really be telling the truth crossed his mind again, Jason didn’t dare let it linger.

“Okay,” Jason gave a shaky nod, returning the birdarang to Tim. “Okay. I-I believe you. We can talk more about it when your brother gets back, alright?”

Tim slumped against the streetlight, glancing at Jason with wary eyes. “We promised Damian to wait for him by the botanical garden. What if-”

Jason deemed it unnecessary to point out that it had only been Tim to make that promise. Instead, he turned to Tim with furrowed brows. “You said he’s a professional, right? He’ll find us.”

If he will even come back, Jason didn’t add. Tim seemed to be in the highest stages of denial about whatever must be going on with his brother. Bringing it up again would’ve been a surefire way to rile him up.

Jason studied Tim. He looked as exhausted as a kid his age could be expected to be at this ungodly hour of the night, but the anxiety, that nervous yet excited buzzing in Tim’s body language nonetheless persisted, fighting against the weight of weariness. It hadn’t gone away in the entire hour or so since they’d split from Damian, really.

As much as the kid (and his brother) had derailed Jason’s entire night, he couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for Tim. Shitty absentee parents and a brother who may or may not be dying and who told him unlikely stories, probably to make that fact more bearable. A kid Tim’s age and social class had no business hanging around on the streets at this time of day during an active rogue attack in another part of the city.

Tim hummed in a noncommittal reply and started fidgeting with the birdarang in his hands. Jason pulled a face. He couldn’t quite make out whether Tim’s drifting disinterest stemmed from him being tired or from feeling offended by Jason’s disbelief. Maybe he was even worried about his brother. Hero-worship or not, Jason imagined he had to be, at least a little bit.

“Alright,” he started with false cheer. “How about a game while we wait, Timmy? You tell me a fun story about your adventures, and then on my turn, I tell you about the one time GCPD almost arrested some rich socialite from out of town because he wore a green suit to a Wayne shelter’s charity event and people mistook him for the Riddler?”

Looking up from his hands, Tim cracked a smile. A bright and warm sensation settled in Jason’s chest at the sight.

“The Queen incident? You were there?”

“Hmm, sure was.” Jason grinned. That was much better. “And I remember every detail, Timbo.”

By the time Tim had finished recounting the time he saw Robin and Batgirl steal a couple of Catwoman’s kittens (as payback for having to endure her flirting with Batman, apparently) and Jason had in turn told the story of Oliver Queen’s stint as the Riddler in its entirety, Tim’s energy had ebbed into a drowsy near-slumber. Jason allowed the kid to lean on his shoulder, keeping an eye on the empty street as Timmy dozed off.

The smoke and the screams had faded into the average light pollution and noise levels of Gotham nights. Scarecrow was probably on his way to Arkham already.

They needed to find a better place to hunker down for the night. Jason could feel himself growing tired, and there was still no sign of Batboy anywhere.

“I’m sorry we ruined your evening,” Tim mumbled against his jacket, words slurring. Jason reached a hand up to make sure Tim’s rebreather was still in place. “But I’m really glad I got to meet you. You’re really cool...”

He cut himself off, tensing.

“Jason,” Jason finished for him and felt as Tim melted against him once again. “I’m glad to have met you too, Timmy.”

Before he could suggest moving to somewhere safer, a thud above them startled Tim into an upright position.

Jason’s hand flew to his pocket, palming the taser through the fabric, ready to pull it out.

Then the realization hit him.

Tim was already on his feet, all energy returning to him at once. “Damian!”

Jason stumbled onto his feet too, staying close to Timmy. With hands firmly planted on the small boy’s shoulders, he took in the shaking figure of Batboy, looking down on them from the edge of a balcony with his arms crossed.

The guy looked – well... Exhausted, miffed, tense. Relieved, too, maybe a little. Covered in dirt and dust. But most definitely uninjured, besides a few minor scrapes and cuts.

And alive.

Huh.

They definitely needed to talk and clear some things up.

Chapter Text

Damian couldn’t breathe.

He’d been holding his breath since he’d left the scene of the Scarecrow attack – the events of the past hours seemed to press any air out of his lungs, replacing it with an insistent stinging pain enveloping his chest that made his head spin and his knees buckle.

And yet, he couldn’t afford to break down. Despite knowing very well what had him sucking in ragged gasps, despite resenting every single minute of his throat feeling too tight and obstructed. He couldn’t.

So he pushed all thoughts to the back of his mind. There was no time to think about how he’d messed everything up in under three hours. No time to panic over ruining the timeline even more than he’d already done. No time to acknowledge he’d just met the past version of his father. Not even when the soft voice of the man – so unlike Batman’s usual deep, cutting gravel – had been echoing in his head ever since.

He refused to try to remember the last time he’d heard his father sound like that. He had better things to do.

Chewing out his brothers, for example. Now that he’d finally found them.

He jumped down from the balcony, landing and rolling to lessen the impact. The maneuver ended up unstable and clumsy, and the veil he’d shoved his emotions behind immediately threatened to rip and collapse, the tiniest fracture in his composure enough to shake him at the moment.

Dusting himself off, he shook out his limbs and tried to collect himself. He was better than this pathetic display.

His body buzzed with pain, protesting.

Nonetheless, he managed to straighten up.

Just as Tim broke from Jason’s hold to run up to Damian and wrap his arms around him, too.

Damian...let it happen. Even as every touch elicited a burning, itching sensation and made the brewing anxiety in him grow tenfold, he didn’t push the younger boy off, instead using the opportunity to check him over. Almost mechanically, his fingers ran down Tim’s arms with practiced motions, precise and nimble, while his eyes scanned the boy for any sign of injury.

When he didn’t find any, his gaze moved onto Jason. The boy watching Damian and Tim from a few feet away didn’t look any worse than he had at the beginning of the night, either, though it was but a small comfort in his case.

At least he wasn’t sporting any injuries big enough to be visible through Damian’s dirty goggles. That would be enough for him for now. They could fix the boy’s other issues later.

Damian allowed himself a deep sigh, his muscles untensing a margin, his heartbeat slowing ever-so-slightly.

Despite everything, there was one thing that hadn’t gone wrong that night. Not entirely, at least.

He had sent Jason and Tim toward the Botanical Garden at the beginning of this chaos, and they hadn’t even made it halfway there. When he’d first discovered that – glancing at his tracker as soon as he’d gotten away from the tumult and the people present there – he’d worried the children might have gotten caught up in the attack. His brothers could have gotten seriously hurt, and it would’ve upset the timeline even further. The damage might have been irreparable, even.

Not only that, but anything that happened to them would’ve been solely Damian’s fault. His mistake, out of the countless others he’d made that night.

But things had gone well. He felt...glad, as strange as it was to admit that to himself. Glad that Jason and Tim were uninjured and safe. That they’d looked out for each other. That it had been just their common incompetence slowing them down this much – and he should’ve expected that, really, what with Timothy’s stubby little legs.

When his eyes flickered down to Tim’s black mop of hair pressed against his chest, he tentatively placed a hand on top of it and rested it there.

The small hands clutching the back of his jacket only served as a reminder that he should have been anywhere but here – these younger versions of his siblings should have never met him like this. But it would’ve been unbecoming of a Robin to react badly to a child seeking comfort, not to mention he had to reward the fact both Timothy and Jason seemed to have made it through the night without sustaining any injuries. They had done well, for once. And for that, he was grateful.

When he finally removed himself from the embrace, he was met with a sleepy smile from Tim and raised eyebrows of cynicism from Jason, who stood further away but still in a protective proximity to the smaller boy.

Right. Then there was that issue, too. What to do with Jason?

Damian swallowed hard and fought against the ache in his limbs to keep up the facade of unflappability as he turned to the younger version of his older brother. Now of all times – after almost a week of being in this timeline – his resolve had shattered enough for him to feel completely removed from the things happening. He was just going through the motions, doing what needed to be done, step after step. Decisions, on the other hand, seemed distant and impossible. Maybe he would’ve managed if he’d only had to look out for himself, but two civilian kids depending on him? While he also had to take care of the flow of time and space remaining unchanged?

Damian almost wished he had someone there to tell him what to do next.

Jason met his gaze head-on, mustering him with an unsure look. There was something new behind his glare, something searching that Damian couldn’t make sense of.

That is, until Tim drew attention to himself, reaching out for him again while nervously shuffling his feet, gaze averted.

“I told him about you,” he mumbled. “Everything. I’m sorry, I just-”

“Tt. Of course you did,” Damian growled, though the bite in his voice ended up halfhearted at best. Jason learning of his identity went under among the pile of the day’s other, much worse developments. The boy’s memories would have needed to be erased either way – Batman having seen him, on the other hand, was much more disastrous. In the face of the latter, Jason knowing hardly managed to faze him. “One has to wonder how Batman’s identity has remained secret all these years, given your inability to secrecy.”

In spite of his attempted nonchalance, he could feel his suppressed panic spike at the news. If Jason knew now, too, how much longer would it take for his father to uncover everything as well? Batman was the world’s greatest detective, after all, and while Damian knew of the man’s many follies, he was also more than aware he’d usually managed to outwit his opponents sooner rather than later. Even when going up against an inexperienced Bat, Damian had to recognize tonight’s encounter put him at a major disadvantage.

“I’m really sorry, Damian,” Tim’s voice pulled him back before he could sink into a mental rabbit hole trying to find solutions. “You had told me about it all, and I figured Jason could also know, since...”

Maybe a low dose of fear gas had managed to get to him after all. That could be the only explanation for his absentmindedness and quickening heart rate.

Damian let himself sink to the ground, taking a seat on the pavement before running a hand down his face. He’d need a minute to collect himself.

Jason furrowed his eyebrows into a scowl. “Of course he’s going to tell everyone your damn ‘secrets’ when you feed him the most outlandish stories, he’s a kid!”

Tim let out a squeak of protest in response. “They’re not outlandish stories, Jason! I told you it’s-”

Damian pushed his goggles up so he could pinch the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needed was his siblings’ usual squabbling, much less a more high-pitched version of it.

He shouldn’t have introduced Tim and Jason to each other.

“Timothy.”

Tim’s gaze flickered over to him, jaw snapping shut mid-sentence. The boy almost looked as ashamed as his grown counterpart would get when reprimanded by Alfred.

“It’s fine. I should not have left you unsupervised when I know you cannot-” -be trusted with the simplest tasks’. Damian bit down on his tongue to keep from finishing the sentence. Instead, he stood up and turned to face Jason, trying to channel Alfred’s kind yet no-nonsense tone when he spoke: “It would be best if we headed home now, before Timothy passes out from exhaustion. We’d prefer it if you’d come with us. The streets aren’t safe for a child like you.”

‘And you know too much’.

Jason tilted his head, expression unreadable.

“And because you need a fucking substitute parent for Tim, right?”

Damian furrowed his eyebrows and scoffed. What? “I manage perfectly fine on my own.”

“For now. Until you ‘leave’. To another world, right?”

“Yes.” Damian turned his nose up defensively. Just how much had Tim told Jason about the truth? And what purpose did this ridiculous cross-examination serve? “I believe Tim is capable enough to survive on his own, too, though. That is not why we are offering you a place to stay.”

Jason’s expression soured, eyes narrowing at Damian and body language subconsciously turning toward Tim. “He shouldn’t have to make it on his own.”

“Take that up with his parents.”

“...Fine. I’m coming with you.”

“Good.” Too tired to argue further over Jason’s apparent hostility toward him and eager to keep an eye on the kid, Damian nodded. He grabbed a hold of Tim’s shoulder, seeing as the little boy was already drifting off into a half-asleep state again, then guided him toward a car that had been carelessly parked outside. A surefire way to get your car stolen in these parts of Gotham.

It had likely been abandoned at the beginning of the rogue attack. Damian could borrow it to get his brothers home. As scrawny as the two were, he could’ve easily carried them both, but he refused to make things difficult for himself in his state, especially when he could just return the vehicle the next night.

He passed Tim off to Jason before he got to work on breaking into the car. Within seconds, it was unlocked, and he wasted no time climbing into the driver’s seat and turning his attention toward getting the engine started.

Jason gave him a look, half curious, half scandalized. “What are you doing?”

“We live in Bristol. Would you prefer we walk there?”

If possible, Jason’s confusion only grew. He mouthed ‘Bristol?’, eyes flicking to Tim, then Damian, then Tim again. Finally, he settled on Damian. “And you can drive?”

“Of course I can drive.” Damian turned to glare at him, just as the engine rumbled to life. “Now get in.”

×××××××××××××××

Bruce watched as Dick almost tripped on the way to the Batcomputer, barely catching himself on a weapons rack before he hit his head. He’d rushed there from the shower room, still sopping wet with only his pajama pants on and a towel hanging from his neck, and it seemed not even nearly slipping could stop him in his tracks.

“Why did you let him leave?” The teen blurted, eyes alight with the thrill of a fresh case.

Bruce stopped him from leaning in close to the screen and dripping water onto the electronics, instead offering him the plate of cookies Alfred had brought down when Bruce had announced that they’d be staying in the cave longer to research.

“I feared keeping him there would cause more harm than good,” he answered, turning away from his ward and back to the Batcomputer. “I...”

His eyes flickered to the tab in the upper right corner of the screen, holding the multiple dozen files they had on the League of Assassins. He had scoured several of those by then, having jumped into their analysis as soon as he and Dick had made it to the Batcave. He hadn’t gotten very far with them regarding the child they’d encountered at the scene of the fear toxin attack, but perhaps it was exactly that lack of information on the young boy that painted such a worrying picture of the situation.

Not that Bruce had needed those files. He’d recognized the boy’s fighting style as soon as they’d left the scene. He knew those moves well. He’d learned the same ones just a decade before and to this day still made use of most.

“I believe the boy is a defector from the League.”

Dick stilled in his movements, cookie halfway to his mouth. He soberly put the treat back onto the plate and drew his eyebrows into a furious line. As rare as it was for Dick to show the depths of his anger nowadays, the effect of it was all the more amplified when he did. “What? But he’s just a kid!”

Bruce clenched his jaw. “He fights just like Talia. He must’ve been taught by the best teachers they have. His skill and experience seem to surpass most of the League’s more experienced fighters.”

“B. He looked much younger than me. That is a child.” Dick threw his head back and ran a hand through his wet hair.

“I know.”

“We need to help him!” Dick rocked forward, pinning Bruce with a hard glare. “If the League is after him- Actually, how can we know he’s not with them? What if this is all part of some twisted plan by Ra’s?”

“Some of the techniques he used were very different from the League’s. From what I’ve seen, he sometimes slips into a style entirely unique. More acrobatic, and...less violent. He avoided lethal strikes. The League of Assassins has no such reservations.”

“So it’s likely he’s had other teachers and doesn’t necessarily follow the League’s morals anymore.” Dick thought aloud, holding his chin in contemplation. “He took down the Scarecrow, but what did he gain from it? Is there someone he’s affiliated with, someone who has an interest in working against Crane?”

Bruce felt warm, satisfied pride settle in his chest as he listened to his Robin racking his brain.

Dick had grown into a kindhearted and intelligent young man, so eager to help others.

He wouldn’t dare take credit for any of it, but now, faced with another young boy, one filled with the same fighting spirit but also in dire need of someone who would look out for them and guide them along… Maybe Bruce could offer him a place to stay, somewhere where he didn’t have to fight if he didn’t want to. Batman would be able to protect him from the League of Assassins and whoever had him in their clutches now. With Alfred’s help, he would surely manage to take care of two boys at once, right?

“I do think whoever taught him the new techniques is also the one who motivates him to act. I’m worried they’re using him. Either way, he’s not safe doing what he does alone.”

Dick flashed him a knowing smirk. “How do you plan to go about this, B?”

“We need to figure out how he got away from the League and who he ended up with. If we can find any traces of the boy’s earlier activities, they might lead us to his current whereabouts.”

Within seconds, Dick had grabbed his own laptop and settled into the chair beside Bruce, stuffing his face with Alfred’s cookies while simultaneously texting Barbara about the case.

While Bruce appreciated Dick’s eagerness, he feared there was little to nothing to find like this. He’d already tried a surface-level search earlier, scouring through any surveillance camera footage of Gotham and coming up empty. Whoever had the boy seemed to have a vested interest in keeping him untraceable.

That, at least, also meant the League wouldn’t find him as easily – if they were even looking for him, that is. Though Bruce doubted they weren’t. From what little he’d seen of the child, he seemed like a skilled fighter. Too skilled, even.

“I’d also like to conduct a further investigation into the League’s practices to make sure there aren’t more children trained and raised according to their methods,” He added, voice dipping into Batman’s deep growl.

He would have to talk to Talia. Without giving away anything about the child.

Bruce already dreaded that conversation.

Just like the one he’d have to have with Alfred. And Kate and Gordon, too, probably.

It was times like this that he almost wished his ‘I work alone’ persona were more than just a facade. He could already imagine Alfred’s disapproving looks and silent lectures.

“No way,” Dick gasped. Bruce’s gaze snapped over to him, halfway out of his seat to rush over and see what was going on.

“Dick? What is it?” He asked, worry quickly sneaking into his tone as Dick just sat there, mouth agape and body frozen dramatically, clutching the laptop he’d just slapped closed.

“I’ve heard of the kid before,” the teen explained, glancing at Bruce as he recovered from his surprising realization. “at least I’m pretty sure it was him. You know how Babs and I went to a cafe this morning? Well, we overheard some kids talking about a Robin-lookalike in Burnley. They even compared the guy to a ninja. Apparently he’d saved a kid’s life. But-” Dick pulled a face, cringing. “I think some of them thought he had also killed a few guys?”

“That’s-” Bruce tried to process all the information. “Great, chum. Thank you. That sounds like something we can go off of.” He gave Dick an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “We’ll start our patrol in Burnley tomorrow and try to talk to some eyewitnesses.”

×××××××××××××××

Having carried a sleeping Tim up to his room, Damian returned downstairs to find Jason still standing in the entrance hall of Drake Manor, rooted in place.

The sight made him stop in the middle of the stairs. He had never seen adult Jason in genuine awe, much less over a luxurious house – if anything, Todd would use every opportunity to voice his displeasure over the wealth of Damian’s father. This child, however, seemed almost afraid to move further into the manor, his eyes running over the expensive historical artifacts displayed everywhere over and over again.

Damian cleared his throat.

Jason looked over to him and a pinkish blush overtook his face as he scrambled to recover from his stupor.

“I will reheat some soup for myself now,” Damian announced. “You are free to come along and have some as well.”

Not waiting for a reply, he moved toward the kitchen, unsurprised when he heard hesitant footsteps follow him. He didn’t acknowledge them even as he opened the fridge and took out the leftovers, put them in the microwave, and grabbed bowls and spoons. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jason peering at his work, observing with a slight distrust even as Damian went to boil some water for tea. They could both use some warmth, he’d decided.

“Are Tim’s parents really on a work trip?” Jason asked after a long while of silence, just as Damian went to portion out the soup into the bowls.

Damian ‘hmmm’ed in affirmation and carried the food to the table, placing one of the bowls in front of the chair Jason was standing behind. “What about it?”

“Timmy told me you two are all on your own. What would he have done if you’d died today, huh? I can’t fucking take care of him, and he sure as hell won’t make it on his own,” Jason snapped, before yanking out his chair and throwing himself onto it, then shoveling the soup into his mouth in the most disgruntled way Damian had ever seen someone do.

In a much more civilized manner, Damian followed suit, though he made sure to scoff loudly beforehand to clear up how he felt about restarting the argument from earlier. “I didn’t plan on dying today. Going up against Scarecrow is not difficult in the slightest, I could’ve done it blindfolded.”

Twisting his lips in a disgruntled frown, Jason remained quiet for several beats. “I just… I think you should tell Tim the truth.”

“About what?”

“About this whole ‘Batman’s son’ business.” Jason leveled him with a cutting look. “I get you think you’re making things easier for him, but dude, you’re not. The grief is going to be just as big, once you’re gone.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. He could tell he and Jason weren’t acting on the same information, but he couldn’t yet figure out where the misunderstanding lay. “I am the son of Batman. I don’t know what Tim has told you, Jason, but I’m willing to explain everything to you again if that’s what you want.”

“I’m not a kid. I don’t need that cover story.”

“Believe what you want to believe.” Damian rolled his eyes, getting up to bring their mugs of tea over to the table. “What is your explanation, pray tell?”

“That you are dying,” Jason said. “Or are going to die sometime soon, anyway. And you made up this elaborate lie to help Tim cope with your death.”

Damian pressed his lips together to keep a snicker from escaping. Even so, the huff of breath he allowed himself almost made him spill the tea before he could hand it to Jason.

Then again, Jason wasn’t completely off, just had it a bit twisted. Damian had already gotten it over with. Jason was the one who would die in a few years.

He decided not to point that out.

“What made you come to that idiotic conclusion?” he asked instead.

Jason shot him a glare from behind his mug. “Because claiming to be Batman’s kid from another dimension is less idiotic?”

Keeping himself from snapping back, Damian turned his attention to his drink. Even in the tense silence, the warmth and the aroma of Alfred’s favorite tea (that Damian had luckily been able to find in Bristol’s grocery store) offered him some comfort, however shallow it was.

Once both of them had finished drinking, Damian showed Jason to a bathroom and provided him with toiletries before returning to the kitchen to clean up.

The persistent ache in his chest had lessened over time, perhaps dulled by his thoughts shifting from his mountain of problems onto the singular one of his siblings. It felt easier to focus on the trivialities of putting Tim to bed, of washing Jason’s dirty dishes. Time passed slower, then. The problems of the next day seemed further away, somehow.

Finally, he also headed upstairs, dipping into the open bathroom to wash the grime off his face and brush his teeth before he could collapse into bed.

Jason was still in there. Furiously dragging the toothbrush against his teeth. From a glance at the sink, Damian could tell the boy had already used up half of the toothpaste tube, too.

He didn’t comment on it, though, simply joining the boy. Eventually, Jason moved on to brushing out his hair, hissing quietly whenever the horn comb of Tim’s mother got caught in the knots between his curls. After the fifth or so whispered curse of pain, Damian stopped scrubbing his face and dried it off, just so he could step between Jason and his continued attempts to break Mrs. Drake’s comb.

“Sit down,” he instructed, gesturing to the rug beneath their feet, then took the comb from Jason and knelt behind the smaller boy.

It was ridiculous how Todd insisted on arguing with him and yet relied on his help for basic self-care. He also only had himself to thank for the stilted awkwardness that permeated the room as Damian worked.

Safe to say, Damian would have preferred brushing Batcow’s fur over Jason’s mess of hair. Even just shaving it all off would’ve been easier.

It took at least fifteen minutes – time they both should’ve spent sleeping – and plenty of the Drakes’ hair products to rid Jason’s hair of the many knots, but Damian did it in the end. By the time they were done, he too was barely able to remain standing, exhaustion gluing his eyes shut. It was a wonder he could resist climbing into Jason’s bed when he led the boy to a guest room.

“Thanks,” Jason mumbled, interrupted by a yawn as he, too, melted under the soft and warm covers. “And sorry for pestering you with uncomfortable topics, I guess. I’m just worried for Tim.”

Damian didn’t reply. As annoying as his brother’s persistence on the topic was, he understood the reason behind it. Jason knew what it was like to wait for family members to die and was utterly familiar with the pain of it. It only made sense he wanted to spare Tim of the same fate. Even if his attempts were stupid.

“Goodnight, Damian.”

Then again, maybe efforts to clear things up would be better received after all of them had gotten some sleep.

“...Goodnight, Jason.”

Chapter Text

Mrs. McIlvaine was coming today.

In less than an hour, in fact.

Tim had realized as much just a few minutes after waking up – a quick glance at his phone had had him scrambling out from under the sheets, sprinting down the hallway with a speed that, in his humble opinion, could have rivaled the Flash. He’d stopped dead in his tracks in front of Damian’s door, where he now stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Deliberating.

He could remember the end of the previous night only vaguely: the hushed and tired smiles shared with Jason as they waited for Damian till ungodly hours in the morning; the shakiness of the older boy when he finally came for them; the feeling of strong arms holding Tim securely as he was carried up the stairs. But the point was: yesterday’s trip to the Alley had dragged out, and his alternate-dimension-kind-of-almost-like-brothers deserved to sleep in after such grueling events. Especially Damian. Tim couldn’t just interrupt his well-deserved sleep.

And yet… Mrs. Mac.

His hand gravitated toward the door handle. Damian would’ve hated to be questioned by Tim’s housekeeper. It was for the best he woke up and left as soon as possible. Just for a little while, until Mrs. Mac finished her rounds.

But who knew what an even grumpier, sleep-deprived Robin would look like? His training probably had him instinctively throwing birdarangs at whoever entered his room unannounced. At least after an especially lousy patrol and at people who deserved it. Like whoever woke him up after a night of going up against the Scarecrow, when he’d passed out from exhaustion after tending to everyone else.

On the other hand, Mrs. Mac was definitely going to ask questions if she saw the two older boys laying siege to Drake Manor’s guest rooms.

Shaking himself from his indecisiveness, he took a large gulp of breath and pressed the door to Damian’s room open with one determined motion. He cringed as the old wood wailed under his hand.

His attention, however, quickly got diverted by the soft huffs of breath that became audible after the door ceased its movement. They originated from the small lump in the middle of Damian’s bed, quiet whimpers cutting in every now and again as the lump tossed and turned.

A frown etched itself onto Tim’s face. He took a step into the room. Then another, surprised he hadn’t been attacked nor addressed by his brother yet.

Damian’s face came into view as he got closer, peeking out from under the covers. Face layered in a sweaty sheen and hair wild and messy, he didn’t look the tiniest bit as put-together as he normally preferred to present himself. Tim watched in fascination and worry as Damian let out a subdued but nonetheless pained groan amid his heavy breathing.

Then something suddenly creaked behind him. Tim stilled, spine ramrod straight. He had been so focused on Damian’s quiet distress that he’d tuned out the rest of his surroundings.

“Everything alright?” came from the doorway, and Tim whipped around to see Jason looking into the dark room from the much brighter corridor.

Squinting against the light, he took in the boy’s appearance. Jason looked much more put together than the day before: dark curls no longer tangled, clean clothes that didn’t smell of smoke and trash, posture still wary but not crouched in a stance ever-prepared to fight or flee.

Some of Tim’s tension eased at the sight. He shrugged. “My housekeeper is coming today. You’ll need to leave for a bit so she doesn’t find out about you. I was just about to wake you up.”

He couldn’t make out Jason’s expression in the dark of the room. Not that he really needed to. The silence spoke volumes.

After a long pause – during which Tim felt incredibly judged – Jason tilted his head to the side to look behind him. “And what’s wrong with Damian?”

Without waiting for an answer, he barged into the room, side-stepping Tim, and flicked on the lamp standing on the bedside table before leaning over the shaking, whimpering form on the bed.

By the time Tim opened his mouth to protest, Damian had already shot upright, bracing himself with one elbow on the mattress while his other arm was busy holding a birdarang against Jason’s throat. Either too shocked, afraid, or confused to react, nobody spoke for a good five seconds, before Damian finally realized what he was doing and slowly lowered the weapon. He hastily tucked it under his pillow and, using the sleeve of his pajamas, wiped the sweat off his face and the sleep from his eyes, trying for a somewhat presentable appearance. All the while glaring daggers at Tim and Jason, his gaze flicking between the two so he could convey an equal amount of contempt toward both.

Tim, who had faced much harsher ire before, only felt a little bit like hiding behind Jason.

Damian’s anger wasn’t really justified, anyway, Tim thought, not when Jason had only wanted to help. Then again, the birdarang also shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. At least Damian didn’t throw it this time.

“I...apologize,” The boy croaked after a long while of silence. His chest still heaved with quick breaths, even as he leveled a carefully neutral gaze at Jason, whose face had hardened into something calculating, sporting an equally measured look. “I-”

“It’s alright... Good morning,” Jason said finally, though the bemused furrow to his brows led Tim to believe he himself might be wondering if the morning could really be considered good when it started off with a knife to the throat.

With an apologetic look and a nod, Damian returned his ‘good morning’. And that...seemed to be it.

Instead of futilely trying to figure out what kind of silent understanding and subtext-y conversation his brothers were having, Tim decided to cut in with more pressing matters. They didn’t have much time.

“My housekeeper will be here in about forty minutes. She can’t find you here,” he parroted.

Damian looked over to Tim at last. After a second or two of processing the new information, he nodded, already beginning to climb out of bed and steering himself towards the dresser – the one Tim had stocked full of his mom’s clothes for Damian to wear. By how alert and awake he appeared, one would never have guessed he’d just been shaken from unruly sleep less than five minutes ago.

“To- Jason and I shall use the opportunity to reconnoiter downtown, then. We’ll take the car. I will leave you an emergency button you can contact me with, should anything happen.”

Tim had no idea what Damian planned to investigate in the city – whether it was connected to Batman or his dimensional travel device or something entirely different – but being left out of what sounded like a cool adventure with Robin stung. Even if he had no choice but to stay behind, if only so Mrs. Mac didn’t wonder where Tim spent his early mornings on the weekend and why that place wasn’t his bed.

Not that slipping away from Damian’s watchful eye didn’t come with perks. Having the house to himself again (not counting Mrs. Mac, as she rarely intervened in Tim’s schemes) would allow him to investigate things he couldn’t when his brother – or brothers – were in the vicinity.

Jason, now sat on Damian’s bed, looked less than thrilled over the idea. “I don’t know if-”

“Sounds good,” Tim cut in. “Mrs. McIlvaine usually doesn’t stay long. You can come back by lunchtime.”

This earned him another affirmative nod from Damian. The older boy threw him a small, keychain-sized object, which, upon closer inspection, resembled what Tim would imagine an emergency button to look like. Sleek black, with a tiny bat symbol engraved on it. He would have to see to it joining his growing collection of Batstuff permanently.

On the other hand, when he herded Jason out of the room so Damian could change into some fresh clothes in peace, he found himself on the receiving end of a cynical frown. Once the door shut behind them, Jason bent down to be at eye-level with Tim.

The motion just made him shorter than the younger boy, actually, given there wasn’t that much of a height difference between them. Not enough to make the move necessary, that’s for sure.

“Is this really a good idea? I’m sure your housekeeper would want to see Damian.”

Oh, yeah. And to think it had almost slipped Tim’s mind. Jason didn’t believe Damian’s story. Nor did he know it in its entirety.

It would’ve been amusing, if only it didn’t make explaining everything so much more difficult. But it did, and so it was nothing but utterly frustrating. And ironic, as Jason was also a Bat in Damian’s universe, according to what Tim had learned the day before. They could never tell Jason as much, though, not without sounding like lunatics. Which...Tim had probably already achieved, yesterday, saying way too much, worry and exhaustion having robbed him of his rational filter.

He felt an embarrassed heat crawl up his cheeks. What he wouldn’t do to undo the conversation he had with Jason yesterday.

“Uh, no, she… They don’t really get along,” Tim landed on.

He didn’t get it. He was usually great at lying.

Jason’s face did that weird thing again where it looked like he’d just been made to swallow bitter medicine. It had looked like that several times before, when Tim had told him about Damian being from an alternate universe, but Tim didn’t really see a link between that and Mrs. Mac’s imaginary feud with his brother. Perhaps this was just how Jason expressed disapproval.

“And you’ll be fine? Alone with her?” Jason asked.

“Yeah,” Tim hurried to assure him, while simultaneously suppressing a crumpled look of desperation after a glance at the hallway’s antique clock. “She’s the sweetest. You, uh, really need to get dressed now, though. She gets here ten minutes early sometimes.”

He felt a bit bad, rushing the boys to leave – especially Jason, who had only moved in last night, and probably wasn’t even aware he had. Getting thrown around by the currents of everything going on, while having absolutely no idea what was going on, the truth sounding too crazy to be believable? It must’ve sucked.

What sucked even more, though, was the possibility of Mrs. Mac finding Jason and Damian in Drake Manor and notifying Tim’s parents. The woman might have been the sweetest, but she also took breaking and entering very seriously – showing a severe disdain for the matter that only the criminal upper crust or people not born and raised in Gotham usually shared. (Mrs. Mac belonged to the second group, of course, unless Tim had utterly failed when he’d done his background checks on the people he interacted with regularly – and also the Wayne household, for understandable reasons.)

Jason finally relented and Tim, having gotten both older boys to go to their rooms and get dressed, spent the next five minutes anxiously staring at the clock, telling himself things would go smoothly from now on. And also kind of looking forward to getting his hands on his dad’s laptop.

When Damian and Jason finally emerged (Damian wearing Mrs. Drake’s clothes over his utility belt and Jason sticking to his outfit from the day before – they must’ve forgotten to introduce him to the extensive wardrobe of Tim’s mom), Tim wasted no time ushering the two out of the house. With only twenty minutes remaining till Mrs. Mac’s arrival, he immediately turned his attention to making any trace of others staying in the house disappear.

He swept through the kitchen and his father’s study, putting plates away and hiding any tools lying around that Damian hadn’t taken care of when he’d apparently remembered to clean up his alien tech before leaving. Continuing to the guest rooms, he found Damian’s tidy and inconspicuous – raising the question as to how Damian had managed to stuff everything he’d needed to hide into the backpack he’d taken with him.

Even the picture Tim had gifted the boy was nowhere to be seen. A surprise, given Tim hadn’t even been sure whether Damian had even noticed it after the pathetic breakdown he’d had to pull Tim out of.

He moved on to Jason’s room, just the tiniest bit giddy with joy as he thought of his gift being well-received by Damian. Well, he sure hoped it was well-received. But why wouldn’t it be?

His previous thoughts immediately left his mind when he opened the door to Jason’s room. Drawers pulled open, pillows thrown aside, plants moved from their original spots; it looked like a raccoon had been let loose to wreak havoc. Or, Tim noted as he mustered the room more and noticed the decorations messily put back in their place and the hastily refolded clothes peeking out of the closet, like someone had searched the room and then tried to revert it back to its original order without enough time to do so.

Letting out a shaky sigh, he moved to clean up what he could before Mrs. Mac got here.

Back when he was younger and his parents still spent the majority of the year in Gotham, he’d get kidnapped or taken hostage every once in a while, much like other rich kids. The more galas one attended, the more often one was held captive by the rogues or gangs or other criminals interrupting said galas. Most of the time, it boiled down to hanging around in an unfamiliar room for a few hours until rescue came. Sometimes even a few days.

Socialite children’s lesson number one when in a new environment – assuming one wasn’t tied to a chair or shackled to a wall – was to check the room for possible exits. Lesson number two was to check for hidden cameras or other surveillance devices. Gotham’s myriad of crazies had its fair share of creeps, too, after all.

Tim would assume alley kids worked along a similar code of conduct, based on the site Jason had left behind. Not that he held it against him in any way. He and Damian would just have to earn Jason’s trust with time.

Just when he’d finished putting all art deco vases back where they belonged, the sound of the main entrance opening reached his ears. Tim dropped what he was doing, jumping off the chair he’d pushed to the shelf to reach it and bolting out of the room to grab his dad’s laptop before holing up in his bedroom.

This way, he could look into everything Damian had been doing on the device, while also looking like a normal kid enjoying his weekend off. Mrs. Mac assigned high importance to Tim regularly taking time off from academics but didn’t have the same opinion of dimension travel (as far as Tim was aware), so that part was important. No transdimensional-Robins squatting in this Manor, no ma’am. Only Tim, the laptop he isn’t actually allowed to touch, and the online games that are definitely not programs for spyware instead.

Because yeah, now that Tim had logged in and assessed the situation… Damian had sure made some fun additions to the software.

Unfortunately, the fun extras Robin’s tech skills had provided the device with were the furthest thing from user-friendly; and, given that Tim had only started teaching himself hacking less than a year ago, that meant he could hardly do anything with them. The YouTube tutorials and shady websites weren’t exactly on par with Batman’s school of programming.

On the bright side, the GCPD was definitely something Tim could hack into (anyone with five minutes of programming experience could, really – they desperately needed some better security), so he could start with that.

Most of the city’s security cameras were long out of commission, especially in Crime Alley, but it seemed one still managed to capture some footage of yesterday’s incident. Tim had no trouble getting access to it – he’d kind of become passionate about programming, ever since he’d settled on his self-assigned mission to teach himself all necessary Batskills after discovering Dick Grayson’s alter ego.

He skipped to the part where a dark figure jumped into frame, entering the scene via rooftop and wasting no time laying into Scarecrow’s henchmen with ruthless efficiency.

Damian looked... so cool . Even more impressive than Tim had expected. Damian’s Robin fought like he was born to fight, as if it came as naturally to him as breathing. He knocked his opponents out with single nerve strikes, moving quickly and smoothly between enemies, never stalling for a second. His style had the resourcefulness and raw power of Batman and the flexibility and agility of Dick’s Robin. In fact, Tim couldn’t help but smirk as he picked up on the gymnastic elements incorporated here and there into Damian’s otherwise assertive fighting style. There’s no way Dick hadn’t been the one to teach him all that .

Tim could have spent the rest of the day watching Damian take down a dozen thugs like it was nothing.

But then Batman appeared – just as Damian had gotten to Scarecrow – and Tim’s heartbeat faltered for just a second as an icy chill spread through his veins.

Damian hadn’t mentioned Batman. Not the night before, and not that morning. Why wouldn’t Damian mention-

“Oh, there you are, Timothy dear!”

Tim jolted upright, letting out an undignified squeak as he slammed the laptop closed and looked at Mrs. Mac like a deer in headlights. The elderly woman returned an equally rattled look from the doorway, glancing at the electronic device in Tim’s lap with a mix of disapproval and mistrust.

“Mrs. Mac-”

“I thought for sure you’d hear me come in an’ help me with the groceries, but I see you have better things to do,” the housekeeper said, tutting in displeasure. “You ought to go outside more, Timothy, all that blue light from the screen isn’ good for you. When I was your age, I spent every weekend playin’ with the neighborhood kids.”

Squirming under the woman’s gaze, Tim opened up the laptop again, if only to hide his face behind it. “I, uhm… Two friends...came over this week? For a sleepover?”

“On a school day?” Mrs. Mac frowned but kept further criticism of Tim’s lifestyle choices to inaudible mumbles.

Tim held his breath until she moved on from his room, right after a brief once-over of how well he maintained his living space and a few pointers on how he could do it better. Convincing Mrs. Mac he could clean his own room had been his greatest achievement ever; it spared him many pointed comments and awkward conversations.

Back to Damian’s encounter with Batman. He resumed the video of the surveillance footage, eyes glued to the screen as the Bat fought his way to Damian and was promptly evaded after a brief and by all means unsuccessful confrontation attempt.

Nonetheless, unsuccessful or not, this changed things. Threw a wrench in the works, really. There was a good reason Damian had wanted to avoid an encounter with Gotham’s vigilantes, and now that he failed, his quest for a way home would get a whole lot more difficult.

Despite having no clue what rule of trans-universal travel this messed with, Tim had no doubt this was, like, at least an eight on the ‘how bad is this going to ruin everything’ scale. Now he could fully understand Damian’s shakiness from the day before.

They were in trouble. In big trouble. All of Gotham (or at least the ones who believed in the urban legends of the Bat) knew that Batman stopped at nothing to do what he felt needed to be done. Especially (and Tim only knew this from his extensive bat-stalking) when there were minors involved.

Which Damian, Jason, and Tim just so happened to be.

While Tim was more than a bit hurt that Damian hadn’t told them about this, he understood the boy’s reasons behind it. Or at least would have liked to think he did.

And he’d help. As any good kind-of-almost-like-brother would.

He started by deleting all footage the GCPD had of Damian, then moved on to any records of Jason. If he was to stay with them – which Tim hoped was the case – finding him needed to become near impossible. Thus, any descriptions of him and the like needed to go.

Good thing Gotham’s police protected its missing persons files about as well as their evidence of rogue attacks.

Figuring out how Damian’s programs worked would…prove as a challenge, that’s for sure, but Tim had gotten used to setbacks and puzzles during his Robin-inspired training regime. Desperately needing to know just how far along Batman’s investigations were by now certainly worked as a good motivator. Wanting to help Damian provided an even better incentive.

Tim suppressed a shudder as he heard Mrs. Mac’s scandalized reaction to what must’ve been Jason’s room. Ducking his head automatically as a string of curses sounded from further down the hallway, he threw himself into work.

×××××××××××××××

“Is this what you meant by recoonay- Reconeuter...? Reco… What are we doing here?”

Damian glanced down at Jason. The frail boy stood at his heel, casting wary looks around the shopping mall they found themselves in.

He looked more child than ‘rat dunked in sewage’ ever since he’d had a chance to clean himself up. One could almost go as far as to say he fit in with the shoppers now, barely earning any glares from passersby when they walked past the boys.

With the slightly improved look, it also became a lot more understandable how Jason had survived Gotham’s high society back in the day (or, at this point in time, in the future). He almost looked congenial, in a pitiful sort of way.

What Damian still couldn’t fathom was how this tiny distrustful creature would end up the largest of his siblings – not that Damian wasn’t hoping on surpassing him eventually. Furthermore, now that he’d seen what a shower and a comb could do to Jason’s appearance, he had a hard time grasping how Alfred and Father had ever let an adult Todd revert back to his ‘rat dunked in sewage’ self. It was ridiculous.

“Tt. I need some tools to reprogram my comm link. And a phone. And you need some essentials.”

“That’s...not what you told Tim,” Jason said, hesitation audible in his voice.

Damian scoffed. “Don’t question my methods. I know what I’m doing.”

Jason frowned, taking a step back to demonstrate hands raised in a show of peace. “Okay... Why do you want to reprogram your comm-thing, though?”

It was hard not to get riled up whenever Todd opened his mouth, but the question’s tone sounded like nothing but genuine curiosity. Besides, no better way to get Jason used to Damian’s vigilantism than by sharing some information about minor projects, right? By giving him the sense of being in the know while keeping him away from the confidential stuff?

“I need to join Batman’s comm channels without being detected by his systems,” Damian answered. “It helps that his current security is comparatively abysmal.”

Getting access to the Batfiles was one thing. Hijacking the communication systems entirely another, one much more difficult than it might’ve seemed at first. Had Oracle already existed in the time Damian found himself in, it would’ve been virtually impossible.

Damian set into motion, but he had to stop when Jason immediately fell behind. He turned around to see the boy shaking his head with a vehemence reminiscent of dogs shaking water off their fur. A drawn-out sigh followed.

“Alright, bad question. Let’s drop the entire...Batboy topic.” Jason looked him up and down, uptight, then pressed his lips into a thin, awkward smile. “Any other hobbies besides running around on rooftops? What about Timmy?”

“Hn.” Damian answered with an eye roll and frustrated huff of breath. He turned away, starting toward the shops; this time with novel determination to walk fast enough to keep Jason out of his sight at all times. Too bad he couldn’t just lose the child entirely. The endless jabs at his activities were irritating and tiring – even when they weren’t criticisms of the way he handled Timothy anymore.

Well-rested and unaffected by any minuscule doses of Scarecrow’s chemicals, yesterday’s decision to take Jason in seemed a bit more questionable.

Surprisingly enough, though, Jason stayed quiet after that. They worked their way down the mental shopping list quickly and with hardly any issues.

The entire time, though, Damian could feel Jason’s eyes on the back of his head, felt the small presence following him wherever he went, heard the awkward shuffling as Jason waited for him to choose a phone. The boy remained distant and reserved (though not all too shy, by any means) even as Damian had him select his toiletries and basic necessary clothing – while draining the Drakes’ bank account was in no way the goal, a few new pairs of underwear were a must.

Still, the silence had introduced such a sudden, awkward change of atmosphere that it made Damian’s skin crawl.

They had finished what they’d set out to do long before noon, but the new, stilted mood put a damper on Damian’s satisfaction. Todd was acting odd. More odd than usual. Damian didn’t need Richard-level empathy to be able to see that.

Had he done something wrong? How did he go about fixing it?

Dammit. How had Damian’s father ever managed to tame this kid?

Right. He hadn’t. Not really. Not in the long term.

His mother had only managed with the help of the Pits, too, and even that hadn’t lasted.

As it wasn’t quite late enough to return to Drake Manor just yet, Damian ended up herding Jason into a diner and telling him he could order as much as he wanted. That would keep him busy, at the very least, while Damian could go about setting his new phone up.

It seemed like Jason took the permission for a challenge. When the waiter came by to take their order, the boy met Damian’s gaze with a defiant glint in his eyes and proceeded to order three times of what a child his age and size could possibly eat in one sitting.

Damian didn’t comment on it. He figured Jason needed it, given his stunted growth and all. He wouldn’t actually let him overeat – after years of malnourishment, only eating stolen or trashed food, going back to bigger or even normal portions would upset his stomach – but acting too controlling right off the bat would’ve been the wrong way to go about that.

And anyway, he needed to actually get some work done, aside from watching over the kid. Starting with the phone.

Seeing as things were really not going his way – there was only so much he could do about the smuggling of alien devices when said smuggling hadn’t happened yet – and he wasn’t using his time very wisely either – spending the entirety of the previous day tending to his brothers, or, even worse, taking down rogues – he couldn’t expect to get back to his timeline anytime soon. Sure, he should’ve managed his time and efforts better (by not playing house with Todd and Drake, for one), but he hadn’t, and now he had to see things through; use the opportunities his decisions had granted him. And if that meant altering his plans, so be it. Let it not be said that Damian wasn’t adaptable.

So playing the long game it was.

Meaning undercover work and negotiations with criminals while simultaneously shouldering responsibility for a wannabe know-it-all and a disagreeable kid fresh off the streets. And evading the current vigilantes of the city, when he had already messed up badly enough to make the situation a game of catch rather than one of hide-and-seek (where the seeker wasn’t even aware they were playing).

While it sounded overwhelming… It would all work out, as long as Damian didn’t let himself get too distracted by his family.

A shaky sigh right across from him made him look up from his work. Leaning back in his seat as if wanting to physically distance himself from the tray of food that had just been brought to them, Jason eyed the pile of fries and the two burgers with a mix of awe and determination. As soon as the waiter left, all reverent quality to his expression ceased, only anticipation remaining. He dug in. With a noticeably faster pace than the day before.

Damian watched with disgust as Jason stuffed his mouth with fries. “You might want to slow down.”

Jason complied, but not without sending him a look of ‘don’t tell me what to do’ first. He also pointedly pulled his tray closer to himself when Damian reached over to nab a fry. His eyes remained glued to Damian, scanning him with a frown, much like someone trying to decipher illegible handwriting.

Damian waited for him to speak.

Nothing came.

Except for twenty minutes later, long after Damian had returned to his phone-reprogramming.

“I don’t get you,” Jason mumbled, barely audible due to his arm being in the way, pillowing his head and halfway covering his mouth as he leaned against the table, toying with a fry. It seemed like he had no intention of eating more. If Damian wasn’t mistaken, a stomach ache seemed to be the cause of that – it appeared Jason’s limit as to how much he could eat without getting cramps was even lower than he had thought.

Damian set down the phone, fully turning his attention to the kid.

And Jason continued. “You don’t want my opinion on the Batboy stuff, but when I try to talk about anything else, you also shut me out. You leave Tim home alone but- but drag a kid like me home with you? Buy me all this crap? I’m assuming it’s supposed to be payment, or whatever, but you refuse to talk about how I’m like… Like supposed to watch out for Tim in exchange, or what? What do you want from me, Damian?”

Hand gestures accompanied his words, fry flailing around as Jason waved his hand to accentuate what he was saying. By the end, he had looked up from the table, gaze drilling Damian with a gravitas sprung from desperation.

A few seconds passed as Damian tried to string a coherent answer together. Words rarely failed him, but, well aware that he couldn’t brush things off with a derisive comment now, he knew he had to take his time and choose carefully.

Todd’s cooperation depended on it.

“I want…” He swallowed thickly, but the dryness of his throat didn’t go away. “I need you to trust me. I understand my story sounds unbelievable, and I’m not asking you to assist me with any of it. Just… Just let me work on fixing this- this one device I have. Repairing it is all I have to do. Then this entire vigilante thing will be over.”

Jason shifted positions to steeple his fingers together and rest his chin on them, attentive gaze hanging on Damian’s every word. At the pause, he furrowed his brows.

“And how do I come into this?”

Damian crossed his arms, shoulders pulled back. “You don’t. Not really. It’s like I said yesterday: I wanted to get you off the streets because you’re a child. You need food and shelter, and Drake Manor has more than enough of both. Aside from that... I suppose I’d ask you not to talk to anyone about me. Especially now that you know my identity. I… I need anonymity to reach my goal, Jason. So…that’s how you come into it.”

It wasn’t all. Not even half of it, really, but Jason didn’t need to know that.

After mustering him thoroughly, the boy huffed out a breath. He pushed himself to his feet, towering over Damian. “Gotham’s lucky you like Batman more than Joker, with how weird your damn goals are and how dedicated you are to them. But fine. Let’s say I agree to your terms. For now. I reserve the right to get the fuck out whenever, though. And take Tim, too, if your bullshit endangers him in any way.”

A smirk snuck onto Damian’s face as he stood up as well, pointedly glancing down at Jason, once again taller. “Deal.”

×××××××××××××××

Dick peered down at the busy street below him, swinging his legs in a carefree facade as he slid closer to the edge of the rooftop he’d settled on. Gooseflesh spread over his bare thighs as the wind picked up and the afternoon chill arrived, the temperature falling drastically within minutes because it was Gotham, of course it did.

He hoped the suboptimal weather wouldn’t keep the Burnley street kids from convening at the playground again today. It shouldn’t have been the case, seeing as most people were out and about even despite the Scarecrow attack the previous night, but perhaps they were more on guard than usual, making them bad targets for pickpocketing.

While there were plenty of alternative reasons why the kids might not show up, Dick would’ve rather not thought of them. Not least of all because that would’ve immediately reminded him of the primal fear he felt during the fight the day before, seeing a child go up against Scarecrow like that.

Bruce had told Dick the boy likely hadn’t been dosed by fear gas. That he’d attacked the rogue with clear intent, no hallucinations fogging up his mind. And yet… Dick had been there. He’d seen it with his own two eyes. The way the kid had shown zero hesitation taking on an Arkham patient, yet had faltered when confronted by Batman…

As far as Dick was concerned, there was absolutely no way the kid hadn‘t been governed by fear at that moment. Of whom or what, exactly, he couldn’t say, but it painted an ugly picture either way. Especially when the leading theories of the world’s greatest detective included coercion, among other things.

The sooner they could find the boy and help him, the better. It frustrated him to no end that there was so little they could go off of.

“Is that…? Robin!”

A high-pitched cry pulled Dick from his thoughts. He broke out in an elated grin and leaned forward, challenging the laws of gravity as he searched for the source of the voice.

One of the girls from the playground gang. Great. Along with quite a few other members, by the looks of it.

And Dick actually managed to just stumble upon them without much searching. Take that, Batman.

Oh, how he loved kids – they were the only ones to actually look up in this godawful city.

“Hey, guys!” he smiled, leaping to his feet and then flipping off the building in elegant motions that elicited chirps of delight from his little audience. Nice – a good first impression went a long way. With it, he had no trouble pulling the group aside and into a less populated side street.

Upon a closer look, he spotted quite a few wary or downright hostile looks aimed at him, too, though. It was to be expected – not everyone was a fan of the Bats in this part of town – but it still sent a softly burning pain straight through Dick’s chest.

“Are you alright? Weathered the Scarecrow attack okay?”

The kids looked among themselves, exchanging sour looks. Dick grimaced.

They looked maybe one or two kids short of their original numbers. He hoped their absence couldn’t be attributed to yesterday’s incident.

“Overall? Yeah,” one of the girls, the oldest in the group, answered. “But he already got arrested. Why are you actually here?”

Dick laughed and held up his hands defensively, palms open and weaponless to show he meant no harm. “I was wondering if you could tell me anything about an incident in the Alley from a few days ago? Something about a...ninja? Knocked a guy out to defend a kid?”

Wide eyes blinked at him, surprised, before the group broke out in passionate murmurs.

“See! I told you it hadn’t been Robin!”

“It had been what, two days ago? Anyone seen him since?”

“Yeah, well, you were saying Robin doesn’t even exist, so-”

“The pigs questioned my aunt about it and-”

“You know Jason said that-”

Clearing his throat, Dick won back their attention, and their silence with it.

“Was any of you there to see it happen?” he asked.

Quite a few in the group seemed to raise their hackles at the line of questioning. It was as if they had collectively taken a large step back, suddenly not so eager to talk to Robin anymore.

Except for one girl.

“Jason was. Or so he claims.”

“Priya!” a voice hissed behind her, but she shook off the hand that had tried to grab and pull her back.

“What?” she countered her friend’s glare.

Meanwhile, Dick searched the children’s faces, looking for anyone who looked like they’d just been told on. Everyone looked uncomfortable or even hostile, but none of them stuck out to Dick in that sense.

“Jason?” he turned back to Priya. Maybe she’d volunteer more information.

“He’s, uh… Not here today,” a boy mumbled.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

He was met with shrugs and blank stares. That was a no, then.

“A last name, maybe?

Someone scoffed. “That’s not something people give out around here. We ain’t got no clue. And- and you don’t need to know, either.”

Dick sighed, already preparing himself mentally for the all-nighter he and Babs were going to pull searching through B’s infinite databases. Assuming ‘Jason’ was the kid’s real name in the first place. Wouldn’t have been the first time people from the Alley served Batman and Robin a red herring.

He put on a smile. “That’s alright. Thanks anyway. Now, how about I buy you guys lunch to repay you, and you can tell me what you know about the incident, huh? Burgers sound good?”

The smile grew genuine at the excited looks that earned. He tapped the comm in his ear, cutting off the line to B for now, and let himself be dragged away by the horde of reluctant-but-hungry kids.

Chapter Text

Burgers, as it turned out, were truly the best way to win over the Burnley street kids. By the time Dick parted with them, utility belt fifty bucks lighter but a stomach full of food, he had some solid information and an address to go off of.

Most of the little gang had drawn the line at recounting the ‘ninja incident’ and was otherwise tight-lipped about the alleged ‘Jason’ they’d mentioned; still, that starting point was good enough. A lot better than what Robin usually got. Now he just had to confirm the kids’ story as best he could.

A crazed gunman nearly killing a homeless kid on a whim, stopped only by another child sweeping in from seemingly out of nowhere and beating him up…

Dick tried to swallow against the lump in his throat.

What a tale. Gotham truly was a gift that just kept giving.

He took to the rooftops, steering towards Crime Alley. His destination was smack dab in the middle of the Khadym mob’s territory, which meant showing up there as Robin in the middle of the day was… less than optimal, frankly. Not that the mobsters appreciated him bursting into their business at any time of day, to be fair. But alas. That was kind of the point, wasn’t it?

Well, not right now, it wasn’t, he supposed. More of a ‘sneak in, investigate, and go’ situation here.

He turned his comm back on mid-swing, effortlessly navigating flying from one rooftop to another while pressing a hand to his ear.

An expectant hum from Bruce’s end of the line signaled he was listening. Dick couldn’t help his impish grin at the sound.

“Guess who found out more about our little vigilante! It seems he quite likes hanging out in Crime Alley – the Burnley kids claim that’s where he showed up the day before yesterday, too,” he chirped. The forced cheerfulness didn’t quite manage to come through – he had trouble concealing the frustration at just how many kids were involved in this case. And the lack of promising leads. “How are things going on your end, B?”

B’s dissatisfied grunt crackled in his ear. “I haven’t been able to reach Talia yet.”

Dick pulled a face. Even if the most…intense…phase of Bruce’s relationship with Talia al Ghul had petered out a while ago, there was no denying there was still something between them, every once in a while. As much as it helped them keep tabs on the League of Assassins, Dick still couldn’t bring himself to feel nonchalant about that. The entire thing with his- his father figure being with Ra’s al Ghul’s daughter… The obnoxious tension between them that sent a disgusted shudder down Dick’s spine… The way Bruce was so hung up on her no matter what horrible things she did… It all made his stomach turn.

And to think Bruce dared to comment on Dick’s dating choices.

He opened his mouth to probe further, but B carried on, voice suddenly dark and gruffer than it had been a moment ago. “Furthermore, it seems someone has erased all evidence pertaining to the League defector from the GCPD databases.”

Now that made Dick stop in his tracks, stumbling to a halt atop a beam he’d been balancing over. “What? Have you-”

“I’ve tasked Batgirl with looking into it, yes. They didn’t leave much of a trail, though.”

“Hmm.” Dick frowned. He leapt over onto a lower roof and shot off his grapple towards the next building. “You think it was the kid’s new...mentor?” The word didn’t quite taste right. “Or the kid himself?”

“I don’t doubt the boy would be capable of this on his own, if he did indeed receive a full League education. But there’s no way to tell for certain.”

Either way, this spelled bad news. Not only because it would make their investigation more difficult, but also because it meant whoever had the kid was hellbent and meticulous over keeping the kid hidden. Well, except for the times they sent the boy out to fight deadly villains.

With another displeased sound, Dick climbed down into the street he’d been looking for, scanning the scene immediately upon arrival. Much like the rest of the neighborhood, it didn’t offer a particularly pleasant sight: apartment buildings ripe for renovations, empty and condemned offices, dark alleyways branching off from the street and invitingly oozing rotten odors. Not many people lingered outside, passing by as quickly as possible if anything, save for the people smoking in front of their apartments or the shady guys making shady deals and throwing Robin shady looks.

Dick leveled them with an equally fierce gaze. He straightened, shoulders squared and stance secure to appear more professional.

“Well, I’m checking out the scene of the supposed ‘ninja sighting’ in the meantime. Got a pretty detailed description while buying the kids food,” he murmured into his comm. The glares trained on him remained as he took a few tentative steps into the street and glanced around for signs of a scuffle. “It would also be nice if we could find this ‘Jason’ kid they mentioned. I’ll see if I can find out more about him, but it’s not looking too promising so far.”

Ignoring his small audience, he proceeded to walk the length of the street, trained eyes looking for anything striking. Not that he had much hope. Searching for evidence of a particular fight in Gotham was a lot like trying to track down footprints in a snowstorm.

There weren’t even any security cameras around, nor could he count on anyone having reported the incident to the police when it’d happened. Even if they had (highly unlikely, given Crime Alley’s attitude towards the police force), any records would’ve been erased during the kid’s purge of the system that morning.

(Dammit, the kid was good, and he wanted them to know that, too. Not that it hadn’t been obvious the moment the boy took down Crane all on his own.)

He squinted at a group of burly men watching him. Maybe he could just ask. The Burnley kids had been willing to share a bit as well, after all, despite the famous Gotham policy of ‘snitches get stitches’. If all else failed, he could try the intimidation route as well – Bruce was much more well-suited for that, for obvious reasons, but after a broken nose or finger most people tended to realize that Robin could dish it out just as good. Not to mention getting taken seriously had been a lot easier ever since he’d hit his latest growth spurt.

Before he could try his luck with the gentlemen, though, the chain-smoker voice of a woman diverted his attention. She must’ve been watching him the entire time; leaning out of her window, cigarette squeezed between yellowish fingers, an amused smile on her lips as she sized up Gotham’s colorful little bird.

“The hell you’re looking for, Robin? Forgot something last time?”

Jackpot.

Dick stepped closer to her window and cleared his throat, attempting to pitch his voice lower but still coming nowhere near the woman’s raspy rumble. What his voice lacked in intimidation, though, his utility belt full of weapons more than made up for, a flick of his cape enough to flash his arsenal to anyone thinking about starting trouble.

“I take it you’re aware of the incident from two days ago, then? Guy out in the middle of the night, waving around a handgun and coming across a street kid? A short someone appearing out of nowhere to rescue the boy?”

“That wasn’t you?” The woman asked wide-eyed, then laughed. “’Course it wasn’t, huh. Never ditching them tight little shorts, are you…”

Dick pressed his lips into an inpatient line. “I-”

“What’d you want to know about the thing? The guy some dangerous big-shot or some shit?”

“I’m actually looking for the kid who was saved. Do you know anything about him? What he looks like, maybe?”

One of the men observing furrowed his brows and crossed his arms, body turning to face Dick. “The fuck do you want with him?”

“Must’ve been Willis’s boy,” another chimed in. “Little fucker’s always trying to raid the trash around here.”

“Thank you,” Dick said. He gestured to the last guy with both arms, shooting the others a peeved look. “Is it that hard to help a guy out? Don’t call the kid that, though, that’s not very nice. Anyways. I’m just worried for him, his friends haven’t seen him around. Now, who is this Willis?”

“Willis Todd. Some violent, low-life asshat, haven’t seen him in years. Probably rotting in prison.” The woman took a drag of her cigarette, glancing down at Dick and the men as if they were cockroaches she’d accidentally stepped on. “His kid’s always running around these parts, though. Just as insufferable as his old man, I tell you. Was yelling around in the middle of the night even before he almost got shot.”

Dick felt triumphant adrenaline buzzing under his skin. That- that was something. Something actually tangible. A full name. A person they could find. One who had seen the little ex-Leaguer up close, been saved by him. “Does his name happen to be Jason? Jason...Todd?”

After some deliberation, the woman replied with a nod and a halfhearted shrug. “I suppose. Sounds about right. Don’t really care, never paid him much attention.”

Relief and joy flooded Dick at the confirmation. No all-nighter combing through B’s databases, after all.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

×××××××××××××××

“Damian.”

Jason almost burst out laughing when Tim opened the door for them. Such a stormy look just didn’t fit on a tiny, baby-faced kid like Timmy. Especially when directed at his brother, whose praises he’d been singing non-stop ever since Jason had met him. His wide stance and balled fists and the (likely unintentional) pout were all a great breakaway from the hero-worship.

Then Jason felt Damian beside him stiffen ever-so-slightly, and the grin faded. The thing with Tim and Damian’s housekeeper came back to mind, along with the queasy feeling he’d left the house with that morning. Had something gone wrong while they were away? Was that it?

“You okay, Tim? Did something happen?”

Tim didn’t look over, insisting on stubborn eye contact with Damian. “I’m okay. Damian just failed to tell us he’d met Batman yesterday.”

The boy in question bristled. “I’m not obligated to report to you, Timothy. How did you learn of this?”

Jason’s frown grew deeper with each passing second. His eyes flickered between Damian and Tim, failing to make sense of the sudden discomforting atmosphere. What was going on here? Batman? As in, costumed nocturnal crime-fighting weirdo, Batman? Damian’s supposed ‘dad’, Batman? The guy whose communication systems Damian was planning to hack, Batman?

“I found and deleted the GCPD’s footage of yesterday’s attack,” Tim replied, deflating a bit and flashing Jason an apologetic little smile. “And also Jason’s records. I was trying to help. Didn’t manage to get to Batman’s files though, I couldn’t figure out your programs.”

Damian’s lips curled into an angry grimace. Well, not quite angry – Jason knew well what pure anger looked like, and this definitely wasn’t it – but something akin to it, something that heavily resembled the expression Damian had worn when Jason had woken him up from his nightmare that morning. Shaken up, then? Frustrated? Scared?

Pushing past Tim, the older boy stomped up the stairs without a word.

It was then that Tim finally exchanged a look with Jason, expression pinched and helpless.

“Sorry,” Tim mumbled as Jason finally stepped inside as well. “How was your outing?”

Jason hemmed awkwardly. They both started toward the stairs, following after Damian at a more sedate pace. “It was- It was good. How was your housekeeper’s visit?”

“Alright, I guess. She was a bit upset about the mess in your room.”

Right. Fuck.

He sheepishly drew his shoulders up, averting his gaze as his cheeks colored pink. “Sorry. You… You didn’t get into trouble because of it, right?”

“Oh – no, don’t worry about it. Just got a bit of a lecture.”

While he didn’t say it, Jason decidedly did worry about it, ashamed of his paranoia causing Tim problems. Given everything he knew about the brothers so far, he had little trust in the adults in their lives. He hadn’t quite figured out what Tim and Damian’s deal was (and he doubted he would anytime soon), but while he’d promised Damian to accept their strange behavior and odd quirks for now, it definitely didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to be concerned.

Especially since Batman – the actual Batman, for real – appeared to be involved in this too, now.

Tim led them to his room, where Damian had sat down on the bed, a laptop in front of him. From the sight alone, Jason would never have guessed he had gotten home only five minutes ago; he seemed absorbed in whatever was on the screen, tongue stuck out in concentration, not even looking up at their entrance as his fingers flew over the keys.

Hurrying over to his brother, Tim leaned over to watch as Damian worked. Jason admired his courage to get that close. “The GCPD was easy to hack, I promise I left no traces,” the kid explained. “I also wanted to see if Batman was looking into you, but the programs you set up were too complex for me to- to hijack, I guess?”

Damian didn’t look up. “They’re not particularly sophisticated, it’s a technique you-” his stone-faced expression faltered for a second, “...the alternate Drake developed. A week of all-nighters during a cyberterrorism case had broken his brain enough to come up with it. It makes getting access to other devices laughably simple.”

There it was again, the talk of alternate dimensions. Jason watched as Tim visibly brightened, his excitement taking over entirely and pushing out any lingering reluctance. His stomach lurched at the reaction. How could they talk so casually about something so entirely bizarre?

“You use a program my alternate self developed?” Tim’s joy edged dangerously close to squealing-territory.

“Yes. Now, if you’d let me-” Damian fell silent, calculating gaze scanning the screen. A few seconds later, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set. He looked…oddly threatening, Jason realized.

Tim copied him in taking in whatever new information had popped up on the laptop. “Uh-oh.”

And wasn’t that an informative summary of the new developments.

Jason, who had until then stood in the doorway awkwardly, now walked over to the bed as well. Settling in next to Damian, he turned to the laptop screen, only to see...something that might as well have been an actual file of Batman’s.

Structured kind of like a police report, the file in question described Batman’s encounter with Batboy during Scarecrow’s attack in extreme detail. Camera footage of the incident as well as screenshots of the footage were compiled neatly, extensive notes perfectly organized, multiple other files meticulously linked to the first one.

Like a file just on Damian, for example. Batman hadn’t titled him ‘Batboy’ - for obvious reasons – but instead a simple file number; case 149792. He had a detailed, albeit at points estimated, physical description of the guy, followed up by some mumbo-jumbo theory about Damian being an ex-member of an assassin cult who had escaped to Gotham.

Either the boys were pulling the most high-effort prank ever on Jason, or… Or Batman was really investigating Damian. That meant… Jason didn’t know what that meant, actually. That Damian was a vigilante serious enough to get the Bat’s attention? That he was a fanboy in over his head so bad that it concerned the Dark Knight himself? Not to mention… Could it have been, in whatever way it may be, that Batman’s assassin theory had some truth to it?

Jason shook the thought off. No way. Just because Damian could handle himself in a fight… That didn’t mean anything. Most Gothamites could. He would sooner believe Damian to be an interdimensional traveler than an assassin. Assassins didn’t live in Bristol, raising their little brothers while their asshole parents traveled across the globe. They didn’t feed homeless kids, and they didn’t offer up guest bedrooms to street rats.

The most likely explanation still had to be his initial assumption. That’s what he’d cling to.

He glanced up at Damian as the oldest boy’s breaths grew forced, dutifully swallowing air as he laser-focused on his file. Jason also would’ve bet his muscles were way too tense not to be painful, nails leaving red indents in the guy’s palm and shoulder blades pulled back to a visibly uncomfortable degree – not that he had a solution for any of it. Hell, he couldn’t even tell what had caused this entire thing. Or if this happened to be a mental or physical issue, for that matter.

His eyes met Timmy’s over Damian’s lap. The kid was worrying his lips between his teeth as if doing that as hard as possible might make the problem go away.

Neither of them knew what to do.

“Uh, Damian?” Tim asked in a small voice. “Are you okay?”

Damian gulped, shaking himself out of his temporary upset. He pressed his eyes shut for a long moment, then blinked, composing himself with impressive speed.

“Yes. I… Thank you, Tim. For getting started on this. I shall take over for further damage control. I’d request you and Jason go to your parents’ wardrobe and pick out pieces suitable for a potential disguise. Something high-quality but not too flashy. Bring your mother’s make-up, too.”

Uneasiness lodged in Jason’s stomach like a rock. He staggered to his feet alongside Tim, both of them slightly unstable from the whiplash that was Damian’s quick change from subtle desperation to this steel determination. It was scary, almost. Nothing good ever came of someone being so dead-set on something.

When Tim recovered first, he grabbed Jason’s hand to pull him towards the hallway; just like he’d led them the night before, much more used to Damian’s odd requests and willing to assist him.

As Jason got strung along to dig around in some rich asshole’s closet, a sick apprehension dawned on him: things would only get more chaotic, and he, too, was getting kind of used to it.

×××××××××××××××

“No Jason Todd?”

“No Jason Todd,” Barbara confirmed, throwing Dick a sympathetic look as he groaned and tugged at his hair. “Just a bunch of other Jasons. And a death certificate of one Willis Todd.”

“Check yesterday’s casualty reports,” Bruce advised from the Batchair, voice solemn. “Look for any John Does that might fit his presumed age.”

He ignored the devastated look from Dick that he earned with the statement.

They both knew it was a likely possibility. No matter how much Bruce tried to do for the city of Gotham, it would never be enough to protect everyone from its horrors.

“I don’t get it, how can a kid have absolutely no records? I get the foster system’s documentation is trash, but come on, not even a birth certificate? Or elementary school records?” Dick sighed. “I’m seriously getting sick of them deleting everything.”

Expression soft, Bruce watched his boy as he paced around the Batcave. “You and me both, chum.”

As of now, all they’d had to go off of were the reports Dick had typed up of his afternoon investigation. By the time Bruce had had a name to look up, any trace of Jason Todd had been erased from the internet, much like the GCPD reports about the young League-escapee had been.

He couldn’t help but wonder whether it was only the League of Assassins the kid was hiding from or the world at large. And why interfere in Crane’s attack if he wanted to stay on the down-low? Bruce simply couldn’t fathom the purpose behind it.

No fear gas seemed to have been stolen from the scene, nor had Dr. Crane been out of Arkham in the past two months. If not out of interest for Scarecrow’s research or out of retaliation…

Likely, he would have to find the boy’s new guardian first to understand his motives. Or the boy himself, though he hadn’t seemed particularly enthused to place his trust in Bruce the first time they’d crossed paths. He hoped that would get better with time – if only Bruce was granted the opportunity to convince the kid he’d be safe with them.

Dragging a hand down his face, he tried to run another program on the Batcomputer to find any trace of tampering in the CPS database. Records aside, he hoped it was only digitally that Jason Todd had disappeared. As of now – not knowing anything substantial about who they were dealing with – he couldn’t rule out that the boy might have been kidnapped to keep him silent regarding the League defector. Or worse.

He felt a comforting weight against his shoulder and looked up to find Dick leaning against him.

“You don’t think they hurt Jason Todd, do you?”

Bruce averted his gaze. “We don’t know who controls the boy. I’d rather not jump to conclusions.”

“As of now, there’s no adolescent John Doe at any Gotham morgue reported to have died in the fear gas attack,” Barbara piped up amid the growing silence, peeking over her laptop screen. She spent a few seconds taking in the miserable sight they must’ve presented, then fixed them with a cynical frown. “Oh come on, guys, Jason could also be completely fine. It’s only been a day, maybe he’s busy recovering or testing out new sleeping spots. Gotham’s huge, you’re not going to find the kid within two hours.”

Dick eventually nodded. “Babs is right. Leads going nowhere and trails getting covered up are both nothing new. We have to give things time to develop.” He poked Bruce’s side, once again upbeat. “Come on, B, you’ve been sitting here all day, time to stretch our legs. Patrol’s a lot more productive than rotting in the cave. It’s not like you can sit around just waiting for the kid to contact you, and I doubt Talia is going to answer tonight, either. Give it time.”

“Hn.”

“Bruce.”

With a small smile, Bruce gave in, letting Dick push him out of the Batchair and herd him towards the Batsuit.

×××××××××××××××

The letters had begun to melt together about five minutes in. Damian pinched the bridge of his nose to get himself to focus.

He needed to get started on collecting dirt on anyone involved in the alien weapons trafficking business (blackmail usually worked as a great in with Gotham’s underworld – information had always been the most prized currency there). But first, he had to deal with his father’s messages to his mother.

With Jason and Tim out of the room, he could open the coded texts and try his hand at deciphering them. Or, well, decipher them. There was no attempting involved. He considered himself very familiar with the encryption techniques his parents favored. And for good reason, too – it took him no longer than three minutes until he had all of the messages translated into the League’s dialect.

His throat constricted as he read through them, the panic from earlier reawakening slowly but surely. This was it. The testament of his failure. Proof of how little time it had taken him to mess up. Through something entirely preventable at that.

A shaky sigh left his mouth. It was a good thing he’d sent his brothers away, else he would have lashed out at them, his anger and frustration longing for an outlet, any outlet. If he hadn’t sought out Jason... Except he had, and that was his own fault entirely. Timothy… Encountering Timothy had been unavoidable, but the child still bore no fault in what had gone wrong the past two days. Damian was the one who needed to do better, who just needed to be more disciplined and not fall prey to such childish distractions and sentimentalities. Seeking the proximity of his siblings just because he missed his- Needlessly looking out for them when everything would be-

He bit down on the inside of his cheek until his tongue tasted like blood and his mouth stung with a soft, grounding pain.

He didn’t- He couldn’t-

It wasn’t enough that the Bat had recognized the fighting styles he’d grown up with in the League. No, this reality’s Bruce Wayne had reached out to this reality’s Talia al Ghul, in search of answers and demanding explanations.

As crass as ever, he’d wasted no time deepening the gash Damian had inflicted upon his own plan when he’d gone up against Crane.

While Damian could do little about the Batfiles on his case – deleting them would directly signal he had access to the Batcomputer, significantly raising his threat level and thus how much attention Batman paid him – he couldn’t allow his mother to become aware of the situation as well.

Trembling, his fingers found their way to the keyboard, brain one step ahead of his body and eager to deescalate. But his hands remained hovering over the keys. Stalling.

Could he really pull this off? Impersonate his mother to brush off his father in her stead? Should he delete the messages altogether?

He could stop his mother from being confronted with the barrage of questions either way – he knew how long it took for even such messages to reach the secluded League bases – but his father would grow suspicious (or worried, even) if he didn’t receive a reply.

Then… Should he text or call?

His mother liked hearing his father’s voice. She would call. But the thought alone of taking on her voice, of forcing a single ‘Beloved’ past his lips brewed up a repulsed storm inside him. Nothing sickened him more than imitating the coy drawls of a different Damian’s mother to a Bruce Wayne who wasn’t his father.

And then there was that last part, too. One tiny thing to consider. One trivial, microscopic little thing that stopped him in his tracks when his fingers twitched eagerly to send off his first draft.

This universe – timeline, whatever – had its own Damian. A three-year-old, supposedly, little hands eagerly clutching any sword given to him, unaware of the monster he’d become through the weapon.

Damian could spare his younger self from that fate. Once his father figured things out, he would not rest until his son was out of the League.

The child would grow up, hands dry of blood, a spoiled prince nonetheless. He’d be the first legal son of Bruce Wayne, uncontested in his position, an integral part of the family to anyone who came after him.

Except Damian couldn’t really do that, could he? It would change everything. Ruin everything.

And Damian Wayne could never choose to save himself over saving everyone else.

He gulped, getting more nervous by the minute. He reread and rewrote the message a dozen times; considered calling instead for ten entire minutes, speaking in his mother’s voice until his body felt unfamiliar and alien to him; reconsidered everything that could go wrong if he messed up even more.

Then the message was sent: coded the way his mother would’ve done it, reporting of conflicts and changes within the League before seamlessly transitioning into answering Batman’s questions with a firm no.

That was that, then.

Pressing the balls of his thumbs against his eyes, Damian tried to keep the wetness from leaking onto his cheeks.

He still had so much to do.

Chapter Text

The comforter embraced Jason like a fluffy cloud as the heat under the blanket bathed his muscles in a warm and relaxing sensation. He allowed himself to go slack, trapped between the heavy fabric and the mattress that dipped under his weight just ever-so-slightly. Despite being fuller than he’d been in weeks, he felt light – clean, smelling of something flowery, hair soft and easy to run his fingers through.

It didn’t seem real. No part of the radical change his life had taken since last night did, really, but this especially.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt like… like this. After years of spending his nights in unheated, condemned buildings, his muscles aching and tired, sweat and grime sticking to his skin and clothes, getting to shower two days in a row had felt like heaven. Jason might have even tentatively compared it to reaching the finish line of a marathon that had previously appeared unending. A reluctant but welcome liberation.

And what a liberation it was. A huge manor, only occupied by two other boys around his age. No adults, no cockroaches, no rats. Awfully quiet, no sirens or gunshots or shouting. No smells, either, except for the pleasant detergent scent on the clothes and the mouth-watering fragrances of Damian’s cooking.

Most unbelievably, Jason hadn’t needed to do anything to get there. He had managed two years on the Alley streets without running drugs and was now spending the night in a mansion without having to engage in anything scandalous to earn it. He had just been picked up and brought here by two kids who promised there were no obligations involved. Not to them, and not to anyone else.

Of course, Jason knew better than to fully believe his luck. Nothing good ever came without a price. The thought of having to leave still lingered in the back of his mind, anchored there by experience and common sense. But… But Damian and Tim were just the right level of odd to seem…trustworthy, almost, and sometime last night, Jason had chosen to give them a chance. It had paid off, so far. He could almost see himself growing close to them in the future, past sticking up for Timmy and being mildly (or not so mildly) concerned for Damian. They had a good deal going. Jason had nothing against keeping things the way they were now.

Though he did worry for the brothers, with their Batman-fanaticism and all. It would get them in trouble. It was already having an impact on Damian, from what Jason could tell. Or maybe that was something else? Either way, he feared things would end up biting them in the ass. Added bonus of no-longer-existing CPS files or not, all of it reeked of danger. What would happen if Damian had indeed bitten off more than he could chew? Especially if the guy really was sick or something.

Though Batman didn’t seem to believe he was. No, Batman thought Damian to be an assassin.

Right.

Jason stretched, limbs wading through the sea of bedding, eyes squinting against the ceiling as a yawn pulled on his face. His room was just as devoid of cameras and listening devices as it was of personality; he drifted off to sleep readily, against all habits of warily entering the dream realm only whenever it felt safe enough to rest. Damian and Tim were both in their rooms, and no one else was in the house. Nothing would hurt Jason while he slept. Besides, melting into the silky-soft sheets was just so hard to resist...

He must’ve spent about five minutes asleep before the creak of his door woke him up.

His eyes blinked open at the sound, gaze bleary and half-lidded as it drifted to the sudden light glaring into his room from the hallway. Scrambling to push himself up from under the oppressive warmth of his covers, he hurried to rub the sleep from his eyes to see the figure standing in the doorway more clearly.

The shadow bore a perplexing resemblance to a tent on legs. For a second or two, the thought of the manor being haunted crossed Jason’s mind, idea quickly wiped away when the something took a step into the room and the stark contrast in lighting no longer obscured its face.

Tim. It was Tim. In a raincoat. One way too big for him, hood and sleeves bunching up awkwardly in places to obscure his silhouette. His face pulled back into a sheepish grimace of regret when their eyes met. Likely regarding the ‘having woken up Jason’ thing.

Good. Jason had been quite enjoying his rest after two days full of anxiety and confusion, thank you very much.

“What is it, Timmy?” Jason started, because it didn’t seem like Tim was going to anytime soon.

The kid fidgeted and looked down at his feet. “I-” Shaking his head as if to backtrack, he gathered himself and straightened up. A look entered his eyes. A look that Jason couldn’t make sense of – not least of all because of the lingering quasi-darkness in the room. His voice, however, didn’t sound embarrassed when he spoke next, stabilized by newfound resolve. “Damian’s just left.”

A slight chill ran down Jason’s spine. His eyes didn’t leave Tim even as his throat bobbed with a forced gulp. Tim didn’t have the best track record of wording things well, but surely this wasn’t…

“To…? To return to his home dimension? Or just left as in ‘left the house’?” He prompted, heartbeat picking up as he leaned forward to see Timmy’s face better.

Tim stepped closer and gave him a puzzled look. “The...second one? He went out to work on repairing his device.”

This kid was going to give Jason gray hairs before he even hit puberty. Someone seriously needed to have a talk with him. Damian, preferably; he owed Jason and Tim a plethora of explanations.

A deep exhale forced its way out of Jason. His muscles relaxed and he let himself sink a bit further into his bed, arms hugging his pillow as he peered up at Tim. “So what?”

For the record, he didn’t feel as blasé as he acted. He’d since given up on protesting Damian’s mission (or whatever he called it), but the sight of Tim in a raincoat – and not the pajamas he’d been wearing an hour ago – put him on edge.

“I’m going downtown, too. To, uh, take pictures. Do you want to come with?”

Jason sputtered, head snapping up. He’d already gathered Tim wasn’t exactly getting dragged along to Damian’s adventures against his will, but to sneak out without his brother’s knowledge? To, what, stalk him? Or someone else?

“What?” Jason voiced his thoughts.

In lieu of further clarification, Tim lifted up his raincoat to reveal a fancy camera hanging from a strap around his neck. When he lowered the raincoat again, he instead extended his left arm toward Jason, showing off a dark something folded in his hand – another raincoat, Jason realized. “It’s supposed to rain in about an hour, but it should be over fast, so I’m going to try to find either Damian or Batman. Didn’t want to leave without giving you a heads-up, though.”

Throwing off the covers – and mourning the loss of their warmth with a shudder – Jason maneuvered himself until he was sitting on his knees, looking down at Tim even though perched on the mattress. “Tim, you can’t- You shouldn’t- Why would you want to sneak out? Gotham is dangerous at night. You’ll get hurt.”

“I know my way around.” Tim’s brows furrowed. “And I know how to keep out of trouble. Come on. You have to see Old Gotham from above.” He thrust the raincoat at Jason and threw himself onto the bed, mischievous excitement shining through up close.

“I’m...not sure, Timmy. Maybe we could stay in? Play cards? Read?”

“I’ve been doing this for months, it will be fine. And I have to keep an eye out for Damian. He didn’t tell us when something happened to him last time, either.”

Fair argument. Still, wanting to keep an idiot out of danger did not justify a younger and smaller and more vulnerable second idiot taking on the same risk. Gotham streets didn’t become safe from noble motives to look out for others. Hell, Batman had apparently been working on that for years, and the city’s hellhole status hadn’t waned in the slightest.

And, quite frankly, Jason didn’t feel like spending another night outside when he had a warm bed in a warm room as the alternative.

“But you don’t have to come,” Tim relented, shrugging. “There’s food in the fridge, a spare key in the philodendron pot next to the entrance, and an alarm in the study down the hall that will notify the GCPD of a break-in… Or, uhm, you could use the emergency button Damian left with me yesterday. It’s on my desk. So. Yeah. Sorry for waking you up, then. I think Damian and I should be back by four, but-” Rubbing his nape, the boy refused to look at Jason, shrinking into himself more and more as he spoke, unfolding only when Jason got up and interrupted him.

“Alright. I’ll go.”

It felt a lot like when he’d given in to Damian and agreed to accompany them to the manor. Like he was accepting to become a part of their group, somehow. As if their nightly escapades defined them just as much as their familial relationship to each other did. It didn’t make sense. Though Jason was used to that by now.

Tim’s face lit up, an excited grin taking over. He hopped off the bed, practically bouncing in place as he watched Jason reluctantly walk over to the dresser he’d stashed his clothes in. “Thank you, Jason! I promise it’ll be fun!”

Jason doubted that, but still ceded a weak smile as Tim launched into tales of his past adventures. Which somehow managed to get progressively worse, going from innocent encounters (such as seeing Batman and Robin demolish a pizza after a successful rogue-takedown) to more concerning incidents (like the time Tim caught the entirety of a fight between the Bat and Killer Croc on camera). Turned out Jason was desperately needed to keep this kid from casually risking mortal danger. Damian’s utter lack of self-preservation had been passed down to his brother.

As a pleasant surprise, dressing up in sturdier clothes than his second-hand leather jacket actually made the Gotham weather bearable when they finally left the house. The raincoat, while obnoxiously dwarfing Jason, also ensured the jacket he’d borrowed from Tim’s mother wouldn’t get soaked when said weather inevitably turned even worse.

Tim called a taxi – Jason’s first time rooftop-hiking was a special occasion that needed to be celebrated, according to him, hence them not waiting for one of the night buses – and then spent the wait, as well as the car ride, sharing his in-depth knowledge on different methods to reach the top of buildings. All Jason could do was frown at the implication that there were more ‘rooftop-hikes’ waiting for him and lament the fact Tim didn’t use his extensive expertise to become an Olympic-level climber rather than an urban explorer.

They paid the driver (Tim did, while Jason gave him his best stink eye at the suspicious stare he’d directed at the two), then took to navigating the busy streets. Old Gotham was a better part of town than Crime Alley, with a nightlife not nearly as criminal. Clubbers, night-shift-workers, and people walking home from restaurants or movie theaters merely tutted when Jason and Tim ducked by them, only a few of them bothering to call out to the two raincoat-clad kids out past their bedtime.

As reluctant as he was to admit it, Jason found it all to be much more thrilling than he’d expected it to be. Running around the better parts of Gotham when one was warm and sated and not on a desperate search for hiding places didn’t suck that much, it turned out. The city’s many gargoyles, pointed arches, and spires reaching into the sky almost dared to look cool when illuminated by the colorful neon of street lights and bar signs. Jason could feel his muscles lose their tension as Tim ushered him past the more historical buildings and towards the ones that preferred a functioning fire escape over tracery and flying buttresses.

“I told you it would look cool,” Tim gloated. “And it’s not even that dangerous out here yet. Especially when we get up there.” He pointed at an office building down the street. “The only thing you can encounter that high up is Batman, but he should be in the University District right now.”

Reminded of what they were actually here for, Jason’s slowly-building wonder cracked and shattered, the thought of deliberately searching for vigilantes – or a Damian acting like one – sobering him up at once.

He took a slow, deliberate breath. Alright. He was doing this to keep Tim safe. And to try to keep Damian safe. It was the least he could do after they’d taken him in. And boy, were they in desperate need of someone caring for them.

“And Damian? Do you know where he is?”

Jason ran a nervous hand through his hair as he eyed Tim. It would be just his luck if the kid had indeed no idea where his brother had gone and was just guessing.

“He wanted to gather intel on some politician. He said the guy’s got ties with the group he is looking for or something? And there’s this party? Political meeting? That he’s attending in Old Gotham tonight? At some hotel, I guess. That’s what Damian said, anyway.”

How precise.

Then again, there had to be a finite yet sizable number of Old Gotham hotels hosting events that night. Jason couldn’t fault Tim for not being able to keep track. At least it wasn’t the Diamond District they had to sift through.

By the time they managed to climb up to the office building’s roof (it ended up being much easier than Jason would’ve thought, what with the connecting arches of Old Gotham architecture and fire escapes negligently left lowered) the rain promised by Tim had arrived as well. Jason’s worn-down sneakers almost slipped at the last step of the stairs and he only managed to hold himself because he’d been hugging the railing like his life depended on it. The rooftop itself was secure – gravel under their feet and Gothic structures serving as a railing, they were safe from falling. And from getting surprised by most sorts of unwanted guests, given the way they came was the only access to their location.

Jason walked to the edge of the rooftop and scoured their surroundings. The heavy downpour obscured his sight quite a bit, washing the colors of the city into a blur and likely making it an impossible endeavor to locate Damian anytime soon.

But boy, did Gotham look beautiful from above.

He took it all in. It was really just as Tim had told him at the beginning of the night. Looking down the urban abyss, at the wet pavement painted by the lights, at the people dwarfed into ants from up here… All while being so far removed and above it all – on the top of a goliath of a building, flanked by statues of unsightly monsters…

Gotham, for the first time ever, felt safe.

Maybe that’s what it took: being on the top of the world, where all the horrors of life couldn’t reach. Where Gotham was just a city like any other, majestic and proud; not the cesspit whose children took his family and his home and his innocence from him. That violent part couldn’t get to Jason now, all aches distant and forgotten in the face of the vast endlessness spread out before him.

There, trembling in the wind and growing dizzy from the height, Jason could stand tall. He could feel secure. He could feel anything but powerless.

The dark void of Gotham City was calling to him. The streets full of rotten crime and death shrunk under the skyscrapers and rooftops embraced by darkness. It hid him just as well as it did everyone else, a security and a taunting risk all in one. Batman’s love for it became understandable, the longer he thought about it. Jason could also see himself spotting criminals from up there and feeling reckless and power-drunken enough to jump down to fight them.

He looked on in awe as the night blinked back at him with a mysterious lure, his lungs full of air and limbs full of life. It felt...more than safe, actually.

It was magic.

Jason grinned.

“You were right. This is incredible,” he breathed just as Tim opened his mouth to ask about the stretching silence. The rain made it difficult to discern expressions – Tim’s tiny face scrunched together as it bore the wet wind ruthlessly blowing against it – but his jubilant laugh said enough.

Leaning against the gargoyle next to him, Jason scanned the neighboring rooftops. He didn’t expect to see much, especially not Damian; nonetheless, he could feel an inquisitive buzz settle under his skin at the simple thought of conquering building after building, just him and Tim and no one else around to bother them. Any concern that had previously been lodged in his throat dispersed the longer he loomed above it all.

It would take nothing short of Batman to ruin this for them. Literally.

And it just so happened that the big guy was somewhere else entirely right then.

“Hey, Timmy? How about we go find Damian?”

The hood of Tim’s raincoat moved up and down, which Jason had to assume was a nod. A pale face looked up at him from the sea of black plastic as one of the sleeves gestured to a possible pathway made up of the less-pointy roofs, balconies, and connecting steel walkways. Tim had the route prepared, leaving no doubt as to just how often he must parkour around here. Kid seemed to know very well which surfaces were safe to walk on and which weren’t.

Jason couldn’t help but wonder what it took for Tim to become an expert at this. Wasn’t exactly the kind of thing one could go the trial-and-error route on, at least not without getting injured in the process.

Still, he followed Tim without voicing his worries. Getting a feel for the entire ‘traversing rooftops’ thing was actually easier than he’d expected, and he found himself taking to it like a duck to water within minutes. Maybe scrambling up high places to get away from nasty bastards in the Alley had given him all the necessary skills for it. It wasn’t much different from the few jungle gyms around Burnley, either (then again, that likely said more about the lacking safety standards of Gotham playgrounds than it did about the security of rooftop parkour).

“I should’ve expected you to be good at this,” Tim called after they’d climbed up another building – sometimes there was no alternative to descending to street level and running up the next fire escape to get somewhere – and flashed Jason a conspiratory smile. “Damian mentioned you-”

He pressed his lips together quickly, shutting up.

“What?” Jason asked, burning with curiosity. “What did Damian say about me?”

“Nevermind.” Tim whipped around. He started towards the next roof, voice quickly swept away by the music coming from a nearby bar.

“Tim! What did Damian say?”

“Nothing!”

“Tim!”

“That he’ll train you to be his Robin if you can find him tonight,” Tim teased, effectively deflecting by pointing out a dark silhouette two buildings away. It appeared to be in the process of scaling a wall with the help of nothing but a grapple.

“Me? Only if I can change the colors. And the pants. Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the green panties.” Jason laughed, letting the topic go. For now. He used his hand to shield his eyes from the rain and held onto the hip-high protective wall of the rooftop to lean in and squint at the figure. Must’ve been Damian, if not Robin and Batgirl. And it wasn’t either of them. Jason could pick out the figure’s distinctive lack of bright colors even through the gray curtain of rain.

He had to admit, their little mission of finding the guy had been kind of fun. Rooftop-hike and all. Not to mention the joyful pride at succeeding in their search.

“Robin’s uniform is great! It suits him,” Tim defended.

Jason hummed, unwilling to get into a disagreement on that. He didn’t have to, either, Tim quickly forgetting the matter as he scurried to pull out his camera and take his pictures of Damian in all his little-ninja-Batman glory.

Now if only Jason knew what the hell Damian was trying to achieve with it all.

×××××××××××××××

When Damian had settled on testing some disguises during his outing to observe persons of interest, he hadn’t taken rain into account. His main focus had been mobility and stealth, not warmth.

Hence the shivers. And the messy make-up he had to wipe out of his eye every ten seconds.

His wet undersuit clung to his frame under his clothes as a pair of Janet Drake’s pants weighed him down. The outfit resembled an unfortunate fashion statement more than it did an actual disguise, but Damian hadn’t had a lot to work with on such short notice, and either way, the primary goal had been to not look like the boy Batman had encountered during the fear-gas attack. Silhouette-wise, at least. He’d done short of everything to make his figure appear more feminine for that cause – he’d decided not to resort to stuffing his chest yet, saving that for more desperate times – just in case things would go downhill and he could be at risk for getting spotted again.

Admittedly, his emergency solution didn’t come anywhere close to Drake’s female disguises, but it would be enough to throw any eyewitnesses off as long as their gazes didn’t linger.

It was good to get a feel for things, anyway – given his height, choosing the disguise of a short adult female for his long-term false identity would carry the least risk of raising suspicions. Having to make do without the extensive resources of the Batcave, he lacked the equipment necessary for more sophisticated aliases.

Damian swung himself onto the roof of the building he’d chosen as his stake-out spot. Right across from the hotel he would be watching, surrounded by gargoyles with wings spread in threatening poses – wings that, if he huddled up, could somewhat shelter him from the rain while he agonized over his lack of cape.

He fished his domino mask from his utility belt and pressed it to his eyes. While he couldn’t make the thing stick, it still possessed all of its functions, including the ability to zoom in on the window of the luxurious hotel across from him.

Hotel Desrosiers was brimming with life, just like Damian’s intel had suggested it would be. Multiple floors radiating golden light, filled up with seas of people in suits and formal dresses, their chatter filtering out onto the street. It was a typical gala in anything but name: the people enjoying exotic hors d'oeuvres and networking, just with a political pretense and less live music.

He settled in to watch one of the windows on the fifth floor. That’s where he supposed that the most important people would congregate, immediately having recognized several of Gotham’s most wealthy among the crowd passing by the window.

It was also where he hoped to spot Ernest Tillman, Gotham-based politician and millionaire and major player in what would turn into the alien weapons trafficking business. Damian had come across his name a few times while scouring the documents in the smugglers’ offices – though more often than not the criminals preferred laughable code names for him. As if their inconsequential attempts would be enough to hide his involvement from Robin.

Said documents detailed Tillman helping the business in ‘lobbying’ (which in Gotham really just meant bribing) for stricter laws regulating the rights of metas and aliens – especially in regards to alien invasions and how they were handled. This would’ve guaranteed less American supply of alien technology on the black market; based on the simple principles of supply and demand, their intention must’ve been to improve future profits once they started smuggling similar devices from Europe into the country.

Which meant the illegal trade had already been set into motion.

There was still hope for Damian to get out of this mess on his own.

And in the form of none other than Tillman, professional money-hungry scumbag and Damian’s ticket home. He just needed to get an in to the smuggling organization through the guy – perhaps by presenting himself as a party interested in supporting the man’s profit-generating ventures into legal ‘gray areas’.

Blackmail could also help things along, were the man’s lust for wealth to turn out insufficient. The name Tillman hadn’t been entirely unfamiliar to Damian, after all, several drug- and cheating scandals of the man having made their rounds in high society circles a year or two after Damian’s arrival to the city. The politician had been out of commission long before the Bats ended up uncovering the illegal alien technology trade.

All Damian needed to do now was to figure out a way to approach Tillman – a when, a where, and a how.

After twenty minutes of waiting, though, he was almost beginning to fear that Tillman had skipped out on his political-networking-party. In which case Damian would have had to resort to breaking into Tillman’s penthouse and stalking him there, or alternatively going the more obvious and reckless route of simply threatening Tillman’s less affluent co-conspirators in the hopes they’d yield and involve Damian in the plans of the organization like that. Which was… Highly unlikely.

His gaze drifted to the other windows for the eleventh time since his arrival and then returned to its original spot again, only to see Tillman finally step into frame. Looking quite a bit healthier than what Damian remembered from eight years into the future, snowy white hair slicked back casually and a tan untypical for Gotham, navy blue suit impeccably tailored but worn in a fashionably lackadaisical manner. If it hadn’t been for the research he’d done beforehand, Damian wouldn’t have recognized this laid-back, charismatic version of the man. He remembered a much thinner, more exhausted, less well-kept individual.

Well, a handful career-ending scandals could do that to one, he supposed.

As it was, Tillman chatted away with his circle of politically involved socialites without a care in the world, champagne glass idly swinging in his hand as he underlined his speech with passionate gestures and a blinding smile. Damian had to wait another few minutes until the man angled his body so that he could follow along the conversation by lip-reading, but even when he finally grasped the topic, there was little of relevance.

Tillman led eloquent yet civil discussions over Arkham reforms and deflation, yet stayed silent when Superman came up (or rather, the question whether his decreased activity in the last few months was related to the uptick in crime rates or not), choosing instead to bring up proposed changes in policies tackling the state debt and outdated tax laws.

Damian yawned. He didn’t care much for politics and economics – not even when they related to active cases – and preferred to let his father or Drake handle such matters. Not because he didn’t understand it, of course, but because it was always accompanied by needless formalities and bureaucracy.

If Richard had been there, he would’ve known how to entertain Damian during such a boring stake-out.

The warmth of his brother next to him would’ve also been nice, perhaps.

His hackles raising ripped him away from that thought as he noticed the presence of two people approaching him from behind.

“I’m going over to him.”

“No, wait, I don’t think-”

“Damian!”

If it weren’t for the childish pitch of the voices, a spark of warmth could’ve flared up in him. He knew that sort of squabbling from home and would’ve given just about anything to hear it from the adult versions of his family right now. As it was, though, the emotion the racket elicited in him resembled frustration a lot more. Accompanied by the sudden urge to somersault off the roof and swing away to somewhere with a distinct lack of children.

Lowering the domino from his eyes, he turned his head to see Jason and Tim approaching him, carefully balancing between stone monsters and roof gravel.

With Jason leading the charge, surprisingly. Since when could he climb Gotham’s rooftops?

“What are you doing here?” Damian growled, not shifting from his position. He just had to hope Tillman wouldn’t wander away from the window while he dealt with his siblings’ idiocy.

“Batman’s pretty far out, and you’re not doing anything dangerous right now. It’s fine. And I don’t have school tomorrow,” Tim countered. As if that had ever stopped him.

Even the adult Drake had better excuses for staying up till ungodly hours. This was just ridiculous.

“And? That isn’t the issue. You two are untrained civilians! One misstep and you fall to your death.”

Jason grimaced at the hissed words and pointed to the area under his right eye, circling his finger around in the same pattern Damian had applied his eye-shadow in. He raised a cynical eyebrow. “You don’t look very trained yourself.”

“Tt. I meant what I said on Thursday.” Damian glared at Tim. “I will tie you to your bed. You-”

“It’s not my fault! Jason wanted to come over here. I wanted to watch from two roofs over.”

“That is not what I meant!” he snapped. “You should not be out here at all. Not stalking and taking pictures, but especially not interfering with my work! You have no idea how dangerous this is, do you? You have no concept of what danger is. I am not risking-”

The words died in his throat and his anger melted away at the sight of Jason and Tim wilting away from him as soon as he raised his voice. When normally his older brothers met his temper with equal snark and silent understanding of what he was trying to convey, now they...

Damian should’ve known to expect the different reaction, really, he’d been in this timeline long enough, but-

Tim had frozen in his place, wide eyes too big for his ashen-pale features, breath hitching as he finally averted his gaze at Damian’s look. Jason, meanwhile, seemingly uncowed, puffed out his chest in a challenge as he balled his shaky fists.

“I think I know very well how dangerous Gotham is,” the boy drawled. “Don’t act like you’re a bigger expert on danger than anyone else out there. You’re not that much older than us.”

Damian’s brows furrowed. He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and forced his voice to remain even.

“I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you think.”

“What, dressing up as-”

“But that is not the point,” he forced out, bulldozing over Jason’s outrage. “The point is, I had people looking out for me when I was your age. Trained professionals who could bring me to safety if I got injured, who could give me emergency surgery when needed. We,” he gestured between the three of them for emphasis, “we don’t have that. When I asked you to let me do what I had to, I meant ‘let me do it on my own’.”

Jason’s steel gaze remained fixed on him, yet turned unreadable. Into something softer, maybe. Damian didn’t know. He couldn’t read a Jason not yet haunted by what would come to be.

“I-”

“You two can stay. But sit down and keep quiet. This will take a while.”

For a few seconds, there was only the rain incessantly pouring down on them. Then Tim obediently squatted down, a few feet from Damian, arms wrapping around his knees and head tilted onto his shoulder in an uncomfortable-looking manner. Jason crouched down next to him.

Damian’s attention clung to them for a moment or two, mind perhaps only now grasping just how small both his brothers looked, out here at night. Nothing unusual with Tim, but Jason – tallest sibling, feared crime lord, Jason – looked impossibly tiny. The darkness practically swallowed his undernourished form, even as he watched his surroundings with a wary but curious gaze. He looked frail. Sick. Scarily young. Damian once again had trouble reconciling this past with his present. This Jason hadn’t quite grown into his trademark defiant anger yet, noticeable especially by how he reacted to Damian’s.

It didn’t feel right for Damian to be the older one who had to give in.

“Do you want my raincoat?” Tim asked, noticing the lingering focus on them.

What?

Both Damian and Jason gave Tim a disapproving look.

“I’m already drenched, Timothy. No point in getting you sick.”

Despite no intention to be humorous, Tim cracked a small smile in response. He shook his head the same way Drake would when he saw Stephanie doing something idiotic. Was Tim deeming Damian an idiot for not accepting his raincoat? That would be stupid. Damian had no use for the thing at this point.

He decided to turn his attention back to Hotel Desrosiers’ window, raising his mask to his eyes once again.

Tillman hadn’t moved. And was still going on about the unfair tax laws.

It took about half an hour of waiting before a big part of Tillman’s group split away. Only he and two others remained. A man and a woman, both in their forties, but not a couple. They glanced around inconspicuously, seemingly only checking where the rest of their previous conversation partners were headed, then turned back to Tillman, heads inclined in anticipation.

The avalanche of words the woman spat out next were rushed and hard to read – entirely unlike the usual upper-class diction and especially surprising among politicians.

Hm.

Damian adjusted to the new pace and was promptly flooded with relief when the new topic seemed to be Tillman’s ‘newest little project’.

Bingo. Just after he’d been starting to think he wouldn’t get anything out of tonight.

The fact that Tillman’s criminal activity seemed to be an open secret among some of his fellow guests fazed him little. Rich Gothamites tended to be lax and tolerant with such matters as long as it didn’t hurt them or theirs. Though Damian guessed the man’s current companions to be his partners in crime if anything. A few subtle tells to their body language betrayed they didn’t feel entirely comfortable bringing the topic up then and there – it took a whole lot more than that to make gossiping socialites grow uncomfortable.

He straightened up, fully tuned into the conversation once again.

From there, it took Damian no more than fifteen minutes to get a reliable read on the situation: the woman was a ‘business associate’ of Tillman, the man merely a fellow politician they were trying to sway to their cause. They seemed to be succeeding, too, the man’s apparent xenophobia bad enough that he didn’t feel the need to question the others’ motives behind their propositions for new, discriminatory legislation.

Almost fascinating what inept ignoramuses some people could be.

To be fair, the bold and practical approach Damian observed in Tillman suited such a bunch well. His sociable personality and direct style of speech seemed almost too sincere to be hiding any ill intent – he didn’t even lie or put a noticeable effort into manipulating his words, simply had the art of political rhetoric down pat. If anyone had bothered to actually pay attention, they would’ve noticed the few times he let slip the suspicious economic ‘benefits’ of his propositions.

Ergo, the man was a careless imbecile. The simple reason he hadn’t been caught yet? Everyone around him shared the same malfunctioning brain cells, it seemed.

How Damian dreaded having to work with this man to get home. As if he didn’t get enough of Tillman’s type in his own timeline.

At least now he felt he’d gathered enough to work with. Next order of business was to work out a plan on how he’d get in contact with Tillman, which, given the politician’s openness, would likely not prove very difficult. It had to go smoothly. Damian didn’t have a lot of alternatives and he needed to get away from this version of his father and brothers as soon as possible. Otherwise-

Damian forced a deep breath in through his nose before a slow exhale.

The hard part would be finding a public event his father wasn’t in attendance at.

And going undercover in a criminal group.

And reining in his brothers while he worked.

Knowing his luck, it would be the latter to do him in.

Seeing no point in lingering longer, he unraveled from his crouched position, frowning as he noticed how much damage Mrs. Drake’s clothes had taken from just an hour of rainy stake-out. It was a good thing he’d chosen to test the rags beforehand. He would have to get his hands on something better.

He turned to Tim and Jason. His brothers had managed to keep quiet the entire time, surprisingly enough, restricting themselves to exchanging whispers and filling the time with...a silent game of rock, paper, scissors.

Not much different from adult Tim and Jason, then. Except for the fact they hadn’t attempted to maim each other yet.

Damian cleared his throat. They ignored him for two more rounds before finally sparing him a glance, a victorious grin on Jason’s lips.

“I’m done here.”

“Great. We were starting to think you were turning into a gargoyle.” Jason smiled. “Where are we going next? Tim said Batman won’t patrol around here anytime soon, right?”

“Right,” Tim confirmed. He waltzed over to Damian, peering at Hotel Desrosiers as if hoping to see what the stake-out had been about.

“We’re going home,” Damian said, tone accepting no argument.

Confusion wrinkled Jason’s forehead. “That was it? Like, for the entire night?”

“Yes.”

He had been planning to pay another visit to the office in Chinatown, originally. But that wasn’t happening with two obnoxious rascals in tow and Gotham’s weather still raging, showing no sign of calming anytime soon. Better he return home now and reschedule further investigations than risk it and end up with two sick toddlers to care for.

“Oh. Alright.” Jason’s mouth pulled into a frown as he wrapped his arms around his stomach. He didn’t seem to be letting off the strange looks he’d been giving Damian all night, either. “Timbo, you coming?”

“Yeah!” From somewhere in the plastic sea of his raincoat, Tim had fished out his camera, which he was now using to zoom in on Hotel Desrosiers’ windows much like Damian had done with his mask. It took a gentle tug from Jason for the boy to avert his attention from the colorful party for even a second.

“Did you get what you came for, Damian?” he asked, nodding toward the hotel. “Was the man here?”

“He was. I got an adequate read on him. It will do.”

Jason and Tim shared a look.

“You...got a read on him by staring at him for an hour?” Jason’s voice sounded like he didn’t believe Damian.

“I analyzed his public persona based on his conversations.”

“Batman does it all the time, too.” Tim came to his rescue. “Damian can probably lip-read. And is an expert in reading body language. And in understanding the human psyche. Right, Damian?”

“...Right.” Damian squinted at Tim. Where did a juvenile Timothy get his constant bursts of energy from when his counterpart struggled to stay awake after a fifteen-hour nap? And why did he use that energy to fuel his causeless adoration of a person he’d met less than a week ago?

Before the others could come up with further questions to bother him, he decided to hurry things along by announcing they would be taking the bus back to Drake Manor. They didn’t have much of a choice – they would have had to pass through either Robinson Park, Arkham Island, or Burnley when on foot, none of which Damian was willing to subject his brothers to for a multitude of reasons (Poison Ivy, the asylum, and Batman respectively); finding a taxi willing to drive them uptown also seemed like an unlikely event, given the water dripping from their clothes.

Hence having to wait for a night bus. Which tended to take a while.

Damian stood guard at the edge of the bus stop he’d marched them to as Jason and Tim sat down, huddled together and looking scarily identical in their raincoats. They also sort of resembled trash bags, though – if one didn’t pay closer attention – which came in handy when passersby meanly ogled Damian and his creative choice of an outfit. While Old Gotham was a relatively safe district compared to some others, not even Damian glaring daggers at everyone who walked by would have been enough to scare away certain moronic brutes from approaching three unsupervised kids. There was no need to beat anyone to a pulp in front of impressionable children.

“Earlier,” Jason started after a bout of silence. “when you… When you mentioned needing emergency surgery. What did you mean by that?”

Turning to the bus stop’s bench, Damian was met with two pairs of wide eyes trained on him expectantly.

And frankly, he didn’t know what to say.

He’d let slip huge amounts of information to Tim before, who had passed on a sizable chunk to Jason, but this might have been crossing the line. Tim didn’t know half of what the situation in Damian’s universe (or time) was like, and Jason didn’t believe him at all. It would’ve been a laughable idea to get into the unpleasant part of vigilantism with these children, the pain and exhaustion they would at one point have to get used to as well.

“I shouldn’t have lashed out at you,” Damian began. “I’m… This… A lot depends on me succeeding with my current mission. I was afraid your presence would mess things up. The thing with The Mission is, messing up can have big consequences. Injuries can be debilitating. Fatal. It’s one thing for me to go out there, but you are too untrained to follow me. Do you understand that?” His hand rubbed along his nape, fingers gravitating lower until they traced the line of his spine, the scar over his vertebrae.

He received sheepish nods as both Jason and Tim seemed to discover an intense fascination with the pavement. Jason fidgeted with his hands, deep in thought.

Tim, on the other hand, jerked and looked back up at Damian after a few seconds, panic blooming across his expression. His mouth opened and closed like that of a fish as he searched for words, then pressed itself into a thin line. Finally, with brows furrowed and face angled away from Jason, he mouthed, “The second Robin? Did he die?”

Damian went rigid. He’d kept track of everything he’d told Timothy, but for him to hazard that guess so fast-

Without a word, he turned back to keep watch over the street. No further words were spoken until the bus came.

The ride to Drake Manor was also spent in silence.

Chapter Text

They’d split up to cover more ground and still found nothing. No traces of Jason Todd or kid vigilantes anywhere. Not during regular patrol or in Crime Alley, not in CPS offices, not in morgues. The last one Bruce was more than happy about and sincerely hoped wouldn’t change – but he also knew very well it was on him to crack the case as fast as possible and get the children to safety.

Despite dedicating hours to combing through the Alley’s shadier buildings, the League defector didn’t appear at any point in the night, nor did Agent A contact them over sightings in other parts of town. Bruce seesawed between relief and anxiety over that fact. On one hand, the kid had been risking his life, running around Gotham at night, taking on rogues and criminals twice his size. On the other, he felt immense worry that the boy’s absence from the streets was a direct consequence of their meeting. If he had scared the kid and sent him into hiding… Or worse, if his keeper had punished him for crossing paths with the Bat… The thought gnawed away at Bruce, filling him with a guilt that spurred him on to search all of Gotham until he found the boy.

Or rather, the boys. Because Jason Todd, too, was still nowhere to be found, and the possibility of a kidnapping appeared more and more likely with every passing minute.

Batgirl had made a valid point – the tumultuous disorder in the wake of the latest Scarecrow incident left the entire Alley scrambling to hide and lick their wounds; the couple dozen freshly-homeless upset the social order on the streets and forced quite a few of the younger kids to migrate in search for new sleeping spots. In between visiting the morgue and raiding CPS for physical files of Todd, Batman and Robin had actually encountered and successfully rerouted quite a few of them toward Wayne Foundation shelters. None of them happened to resemble Dick’s secondhand description of Jason Todd, however, and Bruce knew better than to hope for the best when it was safer to assume the worst. If the League defector or someone associated with him had put in the effort to erase all records of a homeless kid, it was unlikely they had stopped at that.

He could tell Robin thought the same. The inpatient frustration had grown visible in the teen’s figure while they’d searched for tangible records of Todd’s existence, revealing itself in an increasingly stormy gaze behind the mask and a permanently tense body language. Things only improved once they’d given up the search for the night and returned their attention to stopping crime, Robin venting his anger by generously handing out black eyes to anyone who deserved it.

“The kid is staying on the down-low because he knows we’re looking for him.” Bruce handed Robin a towel as the boy threw himself into the passenger seat of the Batmobile at the end of patrol. The sweat and rainwater sticking to their skin felt much more uncomfortable in the warm car; Dick immediately began dabbing his bare legs dry while using his other hand to peel his mask off. “He might be let out again if they think we’ve put the case on the back burner. We should refocus our attention elsewhere. Investigate what Scarecrow was planning when he escaped, for example. It could help us understand what the kid wanted with him.”

Dick seemed to take the words for the comfort they were meant to be, flicking a tired smile towards Bruce.

They both knew it didn’t quite work like that, that they had no clue about the kid’s situation – it could be a ticking time bomb – but were also acutely aware that this case would take patience and deliberation and couldn’t be rushed, no matter how awful it felt to wait around. They couldn’t get ahead of themselves. Not with children’s lives on the line.

“I’m not sure the boy was supposed to attack Scarecrow,” Dick spoke. “I mean, saving Jason Todd’s life had to have been an impulse decision, too. Jason has no known ties to any gangs, nothing to warrant any special attention from whoever is controlling the League defector. On that note, the kid needs a better name.”

Bruce looked at Dick as he started the car, taking in the boy’s frown and reaching out to nudge the towel in his hand so the kid would continue drying himself. Alfred would kill them both if Dick ended up with a cold from fighting crime in shorts.

“The child’s mentor could be involved in trafficking. Or something else.”

He’d wondered the same thing as Dick before, admittedly. What the defector might be like, when not pressured by someone else. The League of Assassins could be cruel; they instilled a twisted sense of morals in anyone they taught. If the boy had spent enough time away from them to get used to another fighting style, perhaps he’d rid himself of their values, but were the ways of his new teacher any better? How could Bruce bring him onto the right path if the boy had been forced to stray so far from it?

Could he allow himself to hope that Dick was right? That the defector wasn’t just a willing puppet of malevolent adults?

“You think he targeted Jason specifically?”

“As of now, no. But it is a possibility. As is your theory.”

Dick rubbed the towel along his face, watching as the city flew past them, deep in thought.

Bruce threw him a concerned glance. He wondered if Dick expected him to say something else. To say more. It certainly felt like there was the heavy weight of something unsaid hanging in the warm, humid air between them, something of vast importance that had slipped his mind in the turbulence of the night.

The moment passed before Bruce could figure out what it was. Dick emerged from his sudden silence with an out-of-the-blue brainstorming session for a shorter name for ‘the League defector’ and he graciously spared a smile for Dick’s efforts despite knowing by the suggestions alone that the kid’s heart wasn’t quite in it. He wasn’t willing to point that out, not when Dick clearly wanted to pretend to be okay.

It made sense that Dick was especially upset by their current lack of progress. What with Robin the quasi-patron saint of Gotham’s children and multiple kids being part of the case. Not to mention the unmistakable parallels and the tragic contrasts between him and the boy from the League – two boys thrust into the battlefield way too young, only one of them against his will and with no one to look out for him.

A nauseating uneasiness stirred in Bruce’s stomach at the thought. How would the kids get along, once they’d rescued the young defector from his situation? The adjustment would be difficult without a doubt – even more than it had been back when Dick joined the family – but Bruce liked to think that Dick would benefit from having another kid around after everyone got used to the arrangement. He had been more than excited about Clark’s baby, at the very least, melting Bruce’s heart (and also possibly giving him a tiny bit of baby fever) whenever he got to play with the infant during the rare visit by the Kents.

He didn’t get a lot of time to worry about that, though, in between the investigation and all the other crime-fighting and being Bruce Wayne.

The Batmobile slowed as they finally reached the cave, and Bruce slumped in his seat just a little, exhausted and uncomfortable and ready for the night to be over.

This time, he couldn’t even fault Dick for grumbling about still having to write the patrol report. He let out a grunt in response and left its meaning open to interpretation.

All the tiredness evaporated from him when he laid eyes on Alfred at the Batcomputer, though.

The butler didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by their arrival, sharp gaze glued to the screen up until Bruce scrambled out of the car and called out to him in concern. His eyebrows furrowed almost imperceptibly as he turned to the dynamic duo heading toward him. That twitch in his expression alone – besides the obvious alarm bell that was Alfred being more interested in the computer than in their presence – confirmed that something was off.

“You have received a reply from Miss Talia, sir.”

Bruce froze in his tracks.

How had Talia already gotten back to him? His message had been important, sure, and he had hoped for a swift response, but… It would sometimes take weeks to get in contact with her, especially when she was in a remote League location or traveling.

Could she have been closer than he had thought?

“From Talia?” he asked, just to be sure he hadn’t misheard.

Alfred gave him a curt nod and got out of the Batchair, letting Bruce take his place. He graciously ignored the wet and dirty cape getting dragged across the expensive leather.

Dick followed and settled in as well, forearms braced on top of the chair and pillowing his head, peering over Bruce’s shoulder as the man grabbed a pen and a notepad.

A smaller audience would’ve been preferred, but Bruce understood the others’ need to be in the know about information pertaining to the League-escapee. He hadn’t gotten around to explaining the entire case to his butler yet, but the fact that a child was in danger got even Alfred Pennyworth to abandon some etiquette and respect for privacy, apparently. Hence the man also waiting expectantly, just a few steps away. As for Dick – well, of course he wanted to know everything.

The mortifying unpleasantness of getting a response when Alfred and Dick were near aside, Bruce supposed he did feel somewhat grateful for his family sticking around. Talia and children were...a touchy subject (even after so many years) and he didn’t know what emotions to expect once he opened the message.

Best to get it over with. And shove the rapidly resurfacing four-year-old memories from his mind.

Familiar encryption greeted him when he finally clicked on Talia’s reply.

He copied the correct letters onto his notepad with nimble ease, the code and language long routine by now, elegant words blooming among the hasty scribbles. Once finished, his eyes trailed over the words again, soaking in their meaning and-

His heartbeat picked up as he reread the message.

There was nothing wrong with it per se. Consistent in Talia’s affectionate tone, staying strictly on topic like always.

And yet.

“Well?” Alfred asked. His voice carried an undertone of worry.

Bruce took off the cowl and ran a hand through sweaty hair. Perhaps it could all be attributed to the paranoia everyone chastised him for, but… No. It wasn’t that.

With a shake of his head, he pulled up all the texts between Talia and him. Had she ever before gone into such detail about the League’s inner workings when Bruce hadn’t explicitly asked for it? Where did the conflicts she was mentioning now come from? It was a small thing – tiny, minuscule parts – but it made the message not add up, made an uneasy feeling settle in his gut.

He could be wrong, of course. But did he want to take that risk?

If he was wrong, he’d be incurring the wrath of the League, disrupting their activities with no justification.

If he was right, he’d still be incurring the wrath of the League. Yet he’d also be getting children out of a place where no child should be.

Ra’s would come after him without a doubt, and he’d risk even more harm to the people he would be trying to rescue. But Bruce had enough allies on his side to shield them from The Demon Head’s ire.

Of course, even if he was mistaken – even if the text did stem from Talia – there was no guarantee the confidently stated reassurances about the lack of children in the League weren’t lies. It had been a while – ages – since he and Talia last spoke in person. There was no illusion which side she currently leaned toward.

“Something’s wrong,” he said with a grim frown. “I don’t think the text is from Talia.”

Stating his suspicions aloud made a jolt of panic race down his spine despite all efforts to rein his emotions in. Someone intercepting his message to Talia would not only mean that that person was trying to deceive him through her – it meant his lines were no longer secure. And while it didn’t automatically equate to someone having managed to gain entry to his entire system, that was a very real possibility.

The League defector immediately came to mind. If the child or his mentor knew about his investigation, it only made sense they’d also suspect he’d made the connection between the kid’s fighting style and the League of Assassins. Hence a fake message in Talia’s name to assuage his fears over the League training even more kids.

But to be able to hijack his communications with Talia al Ghul, Daughter of the Demon…

The perpetrator’s ability to recreate Talia’s exact style and tone would’ve confirmed the kid to have had the best education the League could offer. And enough contact with Talia to know her so well. But why would she put in the effort to personally train a seemingly random child? That didn’t seem like her.

Which is why he couldn’t be sure this really wasn’t Talia.

Doubt ate away at Bruce. Did he still know Talia well enough to base new hypotheses off this message? To think he could conclude anything just from subtle changes in the way she’d written to him?

Either way, it would be good to check up on her. If the League of Assassins was indeed facing infighting, Bruce needed to be in the know about it. Especially if she deemed the situation severe enough to tell him without prompting. And if someone else had sent the message, meeting with her would confirm that, too.

“What do you mean?” Dick let go of the chair and stepped around it to read the decoded text himself. He wrinkled his forehead in thought. Or maybe distaste. (With teenage boys, the difference tended to be hard to tell.)

“Dick, call Barbara and ask her to check the systems for any tampering. Alfred, please contact Kate and let her know I’ll be away from Gotham for a few days. Maybe prepare a few guest rooms, as well. We’ll see how things develop.”

His kid straightened, whirling to face Bruce with a frantic expression. “Wait-”

“I’m fairly sure the message is confirmation of the League holding even more children. I’m going to investigate,” Bruce explained. He stood up and put a placating hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I’ll be back in time for your birthday, chum. I promise.”

If anything, Dick’s frown only grew more furious. Seething blue eyes met Bruce’s, but he could only counter them with startled confusion.

He’d been absolutely certain the possibility of him missing the boy’s upcoming birthday – he’d be turning sixteen on the 20th – was the cause of his dissatisfaction. And yet that clearly couldn’t have been it, judging from the grimace.

“No, that’s-” Dick took a forceful step back, brushing Bruce’s hand off. “What do you mean, guest rooms?”

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows. “If I find any children in the League, they’ll have to stay somewhere until we figure things out. They won’t be fit for normal foster homes. I’ve been thinking about taking in the defector once the case is resolved, anyway, and I thought-”

“And you-” Dick interrupted, then faltered as if he didn’t know what to say, anger returning tenfold when he finally found his voice. “When were you planning on telling us about this? Were you planning on telling us?”

“It would be temporary. Until I come up with a better solution.”

“And you didn’t deem it important enough to mention? That you’re planning on taking in a brainwashed kid and house a handful others?”

Looking to Alfred for help, Bruce only found a cynical eyebrow-raise directed at him. It was the Alfred-equivalent of crossing one’s arms in front of one’s chest and leveling him with the most disapproving glare. A clear judgment of who the butler deemed to be in the right.

Shit.

Bruce could’ve sworn he’d shared his thoughts with Dick at some point. The young defector had been all they’d been talking about in the past days, and he’d meant to bring up the topic of them offering the kid a place in the manor...

He supposed he’d forgotten.

“I’m sorry, Dick. We can talk about it later. You’re right, it’d be a big change for you, but I-”

“Stop speaking to me like I’m a kid, Bruce!” Dick growled. “You can’t just take in a bunch of mini-assassins on a whim without talking to us about it first. That’s- That’s not how it works! It will take them months to recover from League training, and- And- What about the public? What will you tell them?”

During his rant, he’d started pacing vehemently, words echoing louder and louder off the cave walls as he worked himself up.

Bruce could only watch, this time not interrupting, glancing helplessly between the boy and a silently observing Alfred.

He didn’t understand. Dick was great with children, both as Robin and as Richard Grayson. He loved helping them. He loved them. Bruce had thought...

Turning away from Dick, he stepped back to the Batcomputer, deciding to review his data on known League bases while he listened to his son’s rant. “You don’t get it, Dick,” he spoke, voice stern and containing a hint of frustration. “If the League is training children, I have to get them out as fast as possible. It’s not a whim. It’s an emergency mission. I will consult with others on how to treat the children once they’re safe, but recon comes first. I have to get information from Talia.”

“Consult with others? Just like you consulted with us?” Dick let out a bitter, acerbic laugh. “Then at least take me with you! I can reschedule my party and we can recon for as long as you’d like, or- Pay attention to me, goddammit!”

“Master Dick.”

“Dick,” Bruce repeated, and he did avert his gaze from the screen to gift Dick his full attention once again. “I won’t take you with me. The League is far too dangerous. And you don’t have to reschedule anything, I’ll be here to celebrate your birthday on time. I just have to take care of the League situation first.”

“You’re not just ‘taking care of it’, Bruce, these are actual human children! Do you realize what that means? And why don’t you trust me with the mission? I’m not asking you to delay it! No, I get that. I get that’s more important than some stupid birthday. But if you could just make up your mind and either show emotions for once or- or stop doing this coldly-coddling-me-thing for one second-”

“I’m keeping you safe.”

“When you were my age, you were traveling the world! You were learning to fight!”

“That’s different!” Bruce hissed, taking an angry step toward Dick. In response, the kid squared his shoulders, widening his stance defensively and staring him down as if waiting for a challenge.

In the corner of his vision, he could see Alfred move to step in, but Dick yielded first, stomping off toward the cave’s motorcycles and getting on his. Pulling on his helmet with the most aggressive motions one could possibly manage, he barely spared Bruce and Alfred a second glance before speeding out of the cave.

Good. Maybe that would help him cool off a little.

Bruce slumped down into the Batchair. Both hands moved to grab his head.

They hadn’t had a fight in ages. It made sense, to some extent, that Dick growing older would prompt more bouts of teenage rebellions. Heaven knows Bruce deserved it, for what he’d put Alfred through in his youth.

But still, a fight over this particular topic? Bruce didn’t get what the problem was.

“Master Bruce, if I may.” As if having read his mind, Alfred cleared his throat. “Don’t be too upset with Master Dick. This announcement of your intentions was a bit...sudden. Who-knows-how-many traumatized children joining the household is a big adjustment. Especially if one’s guardian had failed to communicate properly that said children were moving in.”

“I know, Alfred.”

“And I need not talk about your haphazard principles on when protecting your child from harm is or isn’t necessary. I believe we’ve talked about that often enough.”

Bruce nodded along, somewhat ashamed. He did understand. How could he not, after Alfred’s to-the-point summary of the situation? But what was he supposed to do? Dick had all the right to feel upset, but they couldn’t delay rescuing children from active danger. Even if having to adjust would ruin Dick’s birthday and their relationship for a few weeks. As for the other thing… Yeah. That was for him to work on.

“I should go talk it out with him,” he said finally.

“I believe so too, yes.” Alfred nodded. He looked at Bruce with a sense of pity only one who’d been through the same hell could muster. “But give the lad a head-start first. In my experience, Wayne boys don’t take too well to their brooding being interrupted.”

×××××××××××××××

Tim’s headache got stronger and stronger the longer he stared numbly at his lap. It must’ve been part exhaustion, part him trying to block out the thoughts flooding his mind – with little success, one might add.

Rubbing at his eyes, he furiously struggled to sort things out inside himself, worked desperately to make sense of his new knowledge. All the information only led to fresh conclusions, though, the panic expanding rapidly inside his chest akin to a fire spreading. Like a metaphorical bomb had gone off and Tim was stuck under the rubble, suffocating.

Mostly, he just wished he hadn’t asked.

He could feel Jason shifting on the chair beside his, taking loud sips from the tea Damian had made to warm them up. Occasionally, the boy would turn his head and look at Tim. Perhaps he was uncomfortable with the silence and waiting for someone to break it.

In that case, Tim was the wrong person to look at. The quiet, as far as he was concerned, resembled the solemn, heavy stillness of a funeral his parents had taken him to a year ago – he deemed the comparison quite fitting; here, too, interrupting the quiet would’ve felt deeply disrespectful. Sacrilegious, even.

An antique clock chimed on the other side of the room, prompting Jason to glance over and then let out a small sound of surprise. At the late – or very early – hour, probably. Despite that, he continued to drink his tea with no hurry, unbothered by the yawns forcing him to put the mug down every few minutes and instead much more troubled by the other two boys’ silence.

His eyes flickered between them, and he coughed awkwardly. If it was meant to be him clearing his throat, he didn’t follow up with whatever he’d been intending to say.

Damian remained still as a statue in his seat across from them. He’d mumbled about going to bed a few times, just after they’d gotten home, but had given up once it became obvious that Jason and Tim had no interest in sleeping yet. Now, after having changed and served up some weird British tea, it seemed he’d settled on waiting out the morning with them.

Nursing his own mug, he appeared unfazed by the silence – or was just hiding it really well –, mutely watching them with a hawk’s gaze.

Tim was pretty sure Damian was watching him, at least. He didn’t dare meet his eyes.

Then again, he really should have. To hell with the fittingly somber mood. The stiff quiet was starting to become unbearable. Both for Jason, who didn’t know what exactly was going on, and for him, who was about to explode if he didn’t confront Damian with his burning questions.

He’d known he’d misstepped back at the bus stop the moment the words had left his mouth, and he’d regretted it immediately. The uncomfortable atmosphere it had caused was one thing – but the lump in Tim’s throat that had formed at Damian’s quasi-confirmation, the understanding that he’d uncovered a part of something that the alternate-Robin hadn’t been intending to share, the apprehension of just what the new revelation meant…

A Robin had died before, in Damian’s universe.

Robin had died.

Tim had a hard time imagining what things were like over in Damian’s world.

Even though that’s all he’d been doing in his free time, this past week. In all fairness, it had been a much easier thing to do till just a few hours ago.

A life where Timothy Drake lived with Batman and Robin and even more Robins sounded awesome, after all. Mr. Wayne seemed like an attentive father, the kind that let his kid tag along for travels and would do all sorts of fun activities with him, crime-fighting being just one of them.

Tim had imagined a universe where he and Dick and Damian and their other siblings would have board-game nights and handstand competitions and races on Gotham rooftops. They’d be friends with Superman and Wonder Woman and the entire Justice League. Alternate Tim would make Mr. Pennyworth proud by helping around the house and earn Mr. Wayne’s praises by behaving well at galas. He’d have so many stories to tell his parents whenever they were in Gotham.

Alternate Tim and his alternate siblings surely went to the same school, too. And not a boarding school, because Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth didn’t travel constantly, so his alternate version probably didn’t even have to sneak out and change school records and lie to his housekeeper so he could live at home. Alternate Tim’s home was Wayne Manor, with two present guardians and lots of siblings and a dog and a Batcave.

It had been fun to imagine. It had been fun to try to figure it out, to attempt to piece things together from tiny details Damian mentioned.

Tim had gotten pretty far, too: he knew Dick Grayson was still Bruce Wayne’s ward over in that universe. That he had to have been the first Robin there as well – Damian’s costume still had the bright colors of the Flying Graysons’ uniforms – but had grown out of the role after a while. He knew Damian had been the third Robin (he’d said so, at least), though he had yet to figure out the second one, and he knew that Tim had taken over because of something happening to the boy.

He wasn’t quite sure how many people had taken on the Robin name until Damian was back in the saddle, though that unsureness mostly came from him not knowing where to place Jason in the timeline. Him being between Damian and Tim in age would’ve suggested he’d been the fourth, but according to Damian, that had been Tim. Possibly, the Robin line-of-succession wasn’t correlated to age at all.

In the alternate universe, Damian had been trained by assassins (if this Batman’s speculations were to be believed), Tim had a talent for computers (to the point the family relied on methods he developed), Jason had lived on the streets at some point (since Damian had known where to look for him), and Dick didn’t have the same retro style he did here.

He’d also gathered that Damian didn’t have the best relationship with his dad. Maybe alternate Batman was a bit different, for Damian to be so afraid of disappointing him.

Overall, though, Tim had been sure the Waynes of that other universe were happy. How could they be not? Damian clearly missed them. People didn’t miss family members they didn’t love, and they didn’t love family members who weren’t good to them.

The past few hours had rattled Tim’s notions and beliefs about Damian’s home dimension, though. And all the fantasies he’d built up in his head over alternate possibilities shattered in a matter of seconds.

Robin had died.

Tim had been a bit disappointed, days ago, when Damian cut off the interrogation he’d promised to humor him with. Even back then, he’d wondered if he’d touched on a sensitive subject, for him to get shut down like that as soon as he asked about the second Robin. Then, at Hotel Desrosiers, as Damian had talked about the dangers of vigilantism…

It had scared him. The depth of those words. The pain and grief hiding behind the young voice. And once Damian had gone into more detail, had mentioned the word ‘fatal’…

Of course, Tim knew, on a surface level, that Batman and Robin’s activities had them risking their lives every night. Everyone knew that. He’d never seen an injury that could break them, though. Nobody had. Gotham’s protectors would disappear for a few days, heal, then come back stronger than ever. Batman and Robin were untouchable. Immortal. But to hear it from Robin himself, in crystal clear and sober coldness, that being a hero did kill, had killed…

It had broken a part of him – a tiny, childish part – that had seen Robin and all he did as the extension of one Dick Grayson, a carefree boy who lived to fly, who lived to entertain and bring light even to Gotham’s darkest corners.

He’d watched for months as Dick Grayson treated Robin as a game – hope and justice and kindness culminating into a real-life version of fictional heroes – only to be confronted by reality shattering the glass case protecting that revered image.

Then, in the midst of that rude awakening, he’d remembered the second Robin. The one Damian hadn’t told him about. The one he’d refused to tell him about. And he’d needed to ask, just to make sure it wasn’t true. That it wasn’t Robin who had died.

Tim might not have known who Robin number two was – had been – but it sufficed to know he’d been a Robin. A brother to an alternate Tim. A brother to Damian.

Oh. He hadn’t wanted to return to the shell-shocked grief he’d felt back at the bus stop, but it appeared there was no way past it. Quickly, Tim leaned into Jason, just like he’d done on the bus. Squeezing his eyes shut so no tears would escape, he took a deep breath, building up the courage to break the silence.

Jason promptly beat him to it. A hand landed on his head, gentle but nonetheless pushing him away so the older boy could scrutinize his red-stained, tired, and somewhat teary face.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on? You two have been acting weird ever since we got home. Did I miss something?”

“We need to talk,” Tim blurted at that prompting. His wide eyes stayed on Jason, even as he started trembling, and could thus watch as the boy’s frown deepened at the sorry sight of him. Finally, he sat upright (Jason’s hand might’ve slipped off his head but it lingered on his shoulder) and turned to Damian, leaning forward until his elbows were on the table and his back hurt from its slouched position.

Damian looked back at him, emotionless.

“We need to talk,” he repeated, even though he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, all of a sudden.

What did he really want from Damian? For him to explain his brother’s death to Tim? To comfort Tim about it? To tell Tim that it wasn’t true, that he’d been joking and that Robin Two was perfectly alive and well?

“It doesn’t matter. It happened a long time ago,” Damian said stiffly.

“What?” Jason asked impatiently, raising his eyebrows. “What are you talking about? What happened?”

“Damian’s brother died.” Tim stood up. His eyebrows furrowed even further, his shoulders were still visibly trembling, and he felt a fresh heat settle behind his temples that distinctly differed from the dull pain of his headache. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”

“His brother?”

“How did you come to the conclusion he died, Timothy?”

“Remember when you made me food and answered some questions? You didn’t want to talk about him then. Shut me off when I asked who the second Robin had been.” The words spilled out of Timothy as if a dam had broken. “And then, today- It- It was more of a lucky guess- Or, well, not quite a lucky one, but… Yeah. And then your reaction confirmed it.”

Damian gave a curt nod in response. His reaction to the topic didn’t seem to stretch past that half-passive, lackluster acknowledgment. No deep grief he’d been thrown back into to drown, no violent guilt weighing down his shoulders. None of the emotions he’d revealed when he’d ranted about the dangers of vigilantism just an hour or two ago.

He appeared deep in thought, that was all.

Now it was him refusing to meet Tim’s eyes.

Tim didn’t know what to make of it. He’d never had anyone close to him die, but he’d imagined it to be a much more emotional affair. The Graysons’ death certainly had been. Maybe the second Robin had died so long ago that Damian had been able to make peace with it by now?

He wanted to ask about the boy. It felt only right to know about the person who’d taken over the Robin legacy from its creator, to learn his story and mourn his death. And to reconstruct the image of an alternate Wayne family in his mind, this time with the newfound information.

As if looking for encouragement to speak, he glanced over at Jason. The kid’s shifting and fidgeting had slowed and he too was staring at Damian slack-jawed, waiting for an explanation.

They didn’t get one. Damian looked up, any traces of internal conflict gone from his face. “Is that all you wanted to talk about? Yeah, he died. But then he came back. You can stop making such a big fuss about it.”

All color drained from Tim’s face. Only the burning warmth behind his forehead remained as his mind, too, went blank for a second. If there was any relief stirring in him, it was overshadowed by sheer surprise and confusion. So- So Robin had died, but he’d come back to life? That was apparently a thing that could happen? How? Gotham might have been home to a lot of insane things and people, but resurrection? That is, a resurrection not of the Grundy variety?

“Dude,” Jason stammered.

“Tt. I told you. Father’s mission claims some lives. A lot of us have died before. Myself included. And I am fine, am I not?”

Tim didn’t know about that. There were a myriad of words he could use to describe Damian, none of them negative, but with the stress he’d been facing the past few days…

“What do you mean he came back to life? And you too?” Jason crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you grew up with assassins, not wizards.”

That was the more unnerving thing to Tim, too. Just like he’d thought Batman or his partners getting lethally injured impossible before now, he’d also never heard about anyone getting resurrected before. Had alternate Batman invented immortality?

Is that why Damian was so protective over them? Because he wasn’t used to his family being this vulnerable?

“The League of Assassins is more than capable of bringing people back to life,” Damian said, giving Jason a skeptical once-over. “But I will not be discussing any of that with you. You will not be following me downtown anymore, so resurrection methods will be unneeded.”

“So you’re just not going to explain anything?” Tim demanded. “You’re saying multiple Robins have died over in your universe and you don’t feel the need for clarifications?”

It was then that he realized the heat at his temples was growing anger. At Damian, for being so cruelly nonchalant and indifferent about his and his brother’s death – Robins’ deaths – when he had shown so much worry toward Jason and Tim just a few hours earlier; but also at Damian’s entire dimension, for unapologetically causing so much pain and destruction and being nothing like Tim would have liked it to be.

But mostly at Damian. How could someone just say all that and then not expand on it?

“I’m also going to need an explanation,” Jason chimed in. “What brother are we talking about here? Are there more Damians where this one came from?”

Damian scowled at Jason. “Father has many children. A few too many, if you ask me. They do not resemble me in any way, however.”

“They’re probably not all zombies, for one,” Jason said.

“If anyone in the family is a zombie, it’s-” Damian growled, clamping his mouth shut to swallow the end of that sentence. He rubbed a hand across his face, visibly pausing to think things over. “Fine. What do you want to know, Tim? You get one question.”

Tim met the scrutinizing gaze directed at him head-on. Damian was clutching the mug in front of him in a two-handed death grip, fingers turning white at the tips from the pressure. His lips pressed into a paper-thin line, and he suddenly didn’t resemble Mr. Wayne at all, the tense shoulders and furrowed brows nothing like the pleasant smiles and loose body language of Gotham’s prince.

It did not escape Tim that he’d only been granted a question to distract from what would’ve been a slip-up from Damian – the older boy didn’t want to reveal too much about his family, for whatever reason. But he understood that. Batman’s son and all that, it made sense why Damian was the way he was, grunting and grumbling and secretive and moody. No point in getting hung up on things he wasn’t ready to share yet, be it his occasional weird comments or his refusal to explain more.

If Tim was only getting one question, he’d better use it well.

His hands held onto the edge of the table, as if he was at risk of falling if he didn’t cling on, and he tentatively lowered himself back into his chair.

He’d wanted Damian to just explain everything, starting from the beginning. He wasn’t prepared to ask anything. Or rather, he wasn’t prepared to have to decide between all the questions at the tip of his tongue.

Who was the second Robin? How did he die? How did Damian die? Did they come back immediately? Or did it take a while? How long? Did the family know they were coming back? Did they mourn them? Just how many Robins have died before? Could this universe’s Dick Grayson suffer the same fate?

Alternate Tim must’ve become Robin after Damian’s death. That must’ve been the event that had sent Batman spiraling enough to require Tim’s help. His resurrection had to have taken a while, then, and Batman likely hadn’t known he would come back to life. Right? Though it did not make sense why the same thing wouldn’t have happened after the second Robin’s death, or why Dick Grayson didn’t become Robin again after Damian died…

Tim grimaced into his mug of tea, frowning at the unappealing light brown liquid as if it held the secrets to Damian’s universe.

“Are we sure Timmy should be talking about your death before bed?” Jason asked, the genuine concern in his voice clouded by an interrupting yawn. “Doesn’t sound like an appropriate bedtime story to me.”

“It’s fine,” Tim shook it off. Even ignoring the fact that he was long used to bad dreams about people dying, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep with all his questions unanswered, anyway. Robin had died, even if he hadn’t stayed dead. Dick Grayson’s legacy had become tainted to Tim, the mortality of heroes suddenly just as real as the bloody corpses of John and Mary Grayson had been in his many nightmares. Robin could die, and it took time and effort and pain to undo it when he did. Robin wasn’t magic, he was reckless and vulnerable and mortal.

He deserved to have his question answered now.

His question. Whatever that was. A perfect opportunity to learn more about what things were really like, over in Damian’s universe. A chance to figure out who alternate Tim’s siblings were. How exactly Tim ended up with the Waynes. Maybe even who Jason was over there.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he took a deep breath and blurted it out. “Are you always able to bring people back from the dead? Or could it be that one day, Robin dies and is gone forever? Has that happened before?”

It wasn’t the smart question to ask. It wasn’t the one he’d intended to ask, even. But it was the question he’d needed to hear the answer to. Because having to do everything to bring back a Robin was one thing, and being able to do nothing was another, and Tim dreaded the possibility of the latter ever being the case.

Damian had made it clear that his universe had seen many tragedies. Injuries, deaths, all of it. But if the second Robin had come back to life, and Damian had as well, and all of them could, maybe it wasn’t that bad after all. Maybe alternate Tim was happy, with two present guardians and lots of siblings and a dog and a Batcave.

The alternate universe couldn’t be that bad if Damian was missing it so much.

Tim desperately wanted it to be good.

The clock ticked to fill the silence as Tim’s gaze slowly wandered from his mug to the two boys at the table. First Jason, frowning at him, then Damian, studying him with an unreadable expression. Tim considered it unreadable as he’d never seen it on Damian’s face before – or anyone’s, for that matter, but if he had to guess, he would’ve described it as a distant cousin of bewilderment.

Then Jason coughed, and Damian seemed to jolt back into awareness. His eyes dropped to his tea, where he relaxed his fingers and let go of his cup, hands sliding to restlessly wait in his lap instead. He looked at Tim again, curious, wary – as if coming face to face with a wild animal – before his features pulled into a frown.

“Our family has stayed intact so far. But there is no guarantee at all that the next death will be reversible. What we do is highly dangerous. Luck plays a considerable role,” Damian began. He faltered a bit, thinking over his words. “That being said, Father is much more experienced and skilled than he is here, and he has far more allies. We can look out for each other and make sure we don’t repeat past mistakes.”

Tim nodded, a small and vehement motion. He shifted on his chair, unsure what to feel. He’d been caught up in his head this entire time, to the point that he now didn’t know what to do with a realistic answer to his questions.

Nonetheless, he did recognize Damian’s attempt to reassure him.

Once again, he hopped off the chair, this time walking around the table. Steps slow, socked feet not making any sound, he slid over to the older boy and wrapped his arms around him, chin carefully dropping onto Damian’s shoulder as he squeezed.

He considered saying something. Muttering something into Damian’s neck. Like ‘sorry’ or ‘thank you’ or ‘you’re a good brother and I’m sure they miss you as much as you do them’. Nothing made it past his constricting throat, though – he settled on an extra strong squeeze before he let go and stepped back.

His mind was still storming with questions and conclusions and theories, and he still itched to learn more and figure things out and make sense of it all. But the anger behind his temples had dissipated, exhaustion taking its place. Maybe he could do all that later.

Damian didn’t appear angry about the impromptu hug. He looked just as tired as Tim felt.

“You two should go to bed,” he spoke, getting up, a hand absently settling on Tim’s shoulder, squeezing it before disappearing again.

Tim obediently stepped towards Jason, who was now also on his feet, reaching to take him from Damian while shooting the older boy an unreadable look. He received a shake of head in response before Damian disappeared into the kitchen with their half-empty mugs in hand.

“I seriously don’t get you guys,” Jason muttered.

“I’ll explain tomorrow,” Tim replied.

“...Just don’t wake me up again.”

Chapter Text

That could’ve gone better.

He’d been trained to handle distressed civilians. He should’ve been able to do better.

Damian set the half-empty mugs into the kitchen sink with a loud clink and paused. Now that the boys had left, the room was his alone, dim and quiet and private in a way it hadn’t been just a minute ago. He could allow his muscles to ease up, transferring the tension from his shoulders into a shaky exhale and giving free rein to the feelings he’d been holding in for the past two hours. Even if that meant trembling in angry frustration and scowling at the growing pile of plates and cups in the sink as if the dirty dishes were responsible for his predicament.

They weren’t, of course; but they were a fragment of evidence to a larger issue – namely, Drake Manor going from a morbid imitation of a home to a clearly lived-in something.

Damian hated it. He hated having to look after two children, hated having to alter his plans to account for them, hated having to keep everything secret even from his brothers because they couldn’t understand.

As much as they were civilian kids, as much as they were his Father’s future sons...

He wasn’t any good at taking care of them. Fighting, investigating, aiding the mission, he excelled at, but not babysitting.

There was no progress being made. If he wanted to get out of this situation, he needed to stick to what he knew. And eliminate all distractions.

He’d already acknowledged that days ago, and it was about time he started acting accordingly and stopped playing house.

His siblings were safe in Drake Manor. And if they didn’t know where Damian was, they wouldn’t be able to follow him, either. Keeping to himself would minimize the damage to the timeline. So why couldn’t he just-

The chat he’d just had with Tim and Jason went against everything that he actually needed to do. All the unnecessary effort he put into dealing with the two only hindered him in getting home.

Why had he insisted on mincing his words for a younger version of Drake? He shouldn’t have. It was idiotic. He could’ve told the truth. All of it. He would find a way back home, erase Timothy’s memories someway, and then the brat wouldn’t remember that conversation anyhow. Nor would Todd.

Not that it should have mattered to them. Why did they care so much about the death of a Robin they didn’t even know? Or about his death, for that matter?

Damian couldn’t count the times their adult selves had told him to die in a ditch. He’d lost count of how many times he’d wished them the same. What made their younger versions so terrifyingly different? So weak? So caring?

To him, it only made sense that a few people in the family had died. They were battling deranged maniacs every night, after all. It was the fact that they’d come back to life that merited such strong emotions. Now that was unusual.

And yet... Timothy had cried when Damian had acknowledged the second Robin’s death. Not to mention the horrified looks he’d received after admitting he’d died before, too.

Horrified looks which then turned into pitying or childishly-angry disbelief.

Because neither boy understood anything yet.

Not death. Nor that coming back to life wasn’t nearly as simple as they thought. That it sometimes seemed like the worse part.

He could feel bile rise in his throat. A hand flew to his mouth as he tried to ground himself – holding still, fingers digging into his cheek, other hand gripping the cold marble of the countertop. His eyes squeezed shut and he forced a deep inhale to fill his lungs with air. The itch to punch something, to smash a plate, to get rid of the explosive energy rising inside of him overcame him; at the same time, he felt violently ill.

The shaking in his limbs had gotten worse, and combined with the sudden vertigo, it almost felt like Damian was unsuccessfully trying to vibrate through the floor.

Maybe now was a bad time to think about death. Or how his family had no idea where he’d gone and probably assumed the worst to have happened again. Or how Damian was stuck here and couldn’t do anything about it except make things worse. For himself, for the timeline, for his family – past and present.

That particular tangle of thoughts decidedly pushed him well into the nausea territory of growing panic. And so, he shut it off. Just…shoved past it, compartmentalized, used the very techniques his father had taught him to erase any thought of it from his mind.

He’d deal with it later. Just like with everything else. Tim’s emotions, Jason’s concerns, Batman’s investigation. The ominous feeling of doing everything wrong, with no solution in sight.

(Damian couldn’t describe, let alone understand that one. He wasn’t used to making mistakes.)

Turning off the lights in the kitchen, he crept upstairs. Didn’t stop at the sliver of golden light coming from Tim’s door, didn’t listen in to the murmured conversation the children were having, but steered toward his own room with single-minded determination.

As any Robin would attest, there was one distraction one could always fall back on.

Even as Damian proceeded to banish all thoughts of his death, of failure, of doom from his mind, something remained. That ache in his bones, that raging need to act – a restlessness not born out of fear but cultivated by more than a decade of rigorous training.

Something he’d severely neglected between the cooking and the shopping and the making-sure-no-children-fell-off-rooftops.

That must’ve been it. The passivity was driving him insane.

How was he only realizing that now? It all made sense. He would’ve long figured out a solution to everything if only he hadn’t been sitting by idly but keeping his mind and body as active as usual.

He glanced at the clock. It was way past patrol time. Neither Batman nor Robin would be in town anymore, and even if they were, Damian knew to avoid their routes and the cameras. They wouldn’t be expecting him to be wandering around aimlessly. A swing around Gotham couldn’t hurt. Maybe it was just what he needed to escape his horrid headspace. Even if it wasn’t, it would do him some good. He missed the burn in his legs and the stinging in his side that came with all the grappling.

Swinging by Chinatown again would allow him to do what he’d planned for the night’s patrol before the children interrupted him, or he could take a look around mob territories and confirm what Tim had told him about the city’s current criminal climate...

And maybe he could look for a new hideout while he was at it.

The thought struck him out of nowhere and was immediately followed by guilt.

He’d seen what the suspicion that he’d been abandoned had done to Tim. Even if he left a note to explain, the boy would try to search for him without a doubt, maladjusted and attached child-stalker that he was.

Jason hadn’t signed up to deal with that, let alone to have to parent Tim if Damian left.

On the other hand… If working alone sped up the process of fixing the alien device and helped with repairing the timeline faster – which it undoubtedly would… It would be no time before Damian could erase the children’s memories and leave them for good. They could hold out and survive on their own till then. And then they wouldn’t remember anything.

They wouldn’t remember.

Damian kept telling himself that as he slipped into his uniform – pulling it on felt right like nothing else had these last few days – and silently gathered all his belongings (and a few extra things) into a backpack.

They wouldn’t remember. They were a hindrance to the mission and they wouldn’t remember.

He could always come back if he changed his mind.

×××××××××××××××

Dick threw himself off Wayne Tower, the pavement approaching fast as the sharp wind howled in his ears and rain blew against his face. He deployed his grapple at the last second, the sudden change in direction tugging on his muscles before he was flying upwards again and twisting himself into pirouettes and flips.

Bruce would find him eventually. He always did – as inept as he was at communicating, he was also stubborn. And he loved Dick, even if he failed to show it most of the time.

Dick knew that much, but he refused to cut the man any slack for it. Hence the trip through the high-rises of downtown Gotham.

High spots were the preferable hideout for now. Killer Croc had given Batman a nasty cut on the arm two weeks ago, just the kind to make hanging from a grapple gun painful and annoying for at least another few days. If B was really that dedicated to ‘talking about things’ – something he hadn’t deemed important to do before now – the least he could do was suffer a little bit.

Not that he would learn anything from it. He never did.

It would’ve frustrated Dick, if only he hadn’t been so caught up in the fact that it wasn’t just between him and Bruce now.

Every other time, it was easy to stay mad at B. He would prioritize Batman over promises made and not explain why he wouldn’t let Dick do things and make decisions without accepting the input of anyone else and it sucked but the only people impacted were Dick and Alfred. This time? This time, potential dozens of child-assassins were involved.

Children. Children who Robin was supposed to protect.

But goddammit, Dick was allowed to feel overwhelmed, right? He’d known the topic of giving the League defector a new and secure home would come up eventually, but the Batcomputer’s databases contained a file full of trustworthy and experienced foster parents – more than experienced enough to take on even the most traumatized of children. Bruce was a good parent, too, but…

Dick doubted a kid who’d escaped from the League of Assassins needed the Dark Knight. No, the kid needed a parent; and while Bruce was good, a lot of people on the Batcomputer’s list were better. More normal, and, well, just more well-adjusted in general.

So. Never in a million years would Dick have guessed that Bruce was planning to take the kid in. There had never been any talk of him wanting more children. Dick had seemed more than enough. Sometimes, he feared he was too much for Bruce, even.

Of course he hadn’t been prepared for Bruce to announce wanting to what, foster the defector? And a handful of other kids likely even more brainwashed?

Dick had been caught off guard, and he didn’t want any of it. Not without talking about it first. Which Bruce never did, because even after seven years he somehow still hadn’t figured out that talking to your kid about decisions pertaining to the family was basic courtesy.

And once Bruce had pissed him off by making it clear that no one’s opinion but his mattered, all the remaining aspects to consider just made Dick’s anger bubble up more. Because what sixteen-year-old could be expected to be happy about a group of strangers invading on his birthday? Especially combined with his guardian shutting him out and refusing to involve him in the process of getting to said strangers?

And in what world was Bruce Wayne taking in a large group of children out of nowhere not going to get the media’s attention?

Reckless, hypocritical, and rude. That’s the only way Dick could describe Bruce’s behavior.

But he also knew B was acting this way because he wanted to help.

It made Dick feel like an asshole for being upset.

He landed on the roof of some bank, on the edge of the skyscraper-jungle that was the Diamond District. From there, he could see almost every building in Midtown, museums and offices surrounding and yet keeping a wide berth from Robinson Park, a green stain amid the sea of smog and the downpour. Ships crawled in and out of Miller Harbor and the Upper East Side slowly came alive as the gray clouds took on a slightly lighter color to signal the arrival of the morning.

Taking a seat on the rooftop, Dick watched lazily as the first cars turned onto the bridges over Finger River and concluded (with no small amount of joy) that Bruce would have to grapple the entire way to him. Couldn’t have the Batmobile getting stuck in traffic, as funny as the mental image might have been.

Then his eyes caught onto the tiny black spot swinging over the Natural History Museum, and his glee evaporated.

No way B had found him so fast. If it turned out he’d added another tracker to the Robin suit, he’d-

Dick stood up to go – perhaps through the Upper East Side towards Robbinsville – before taking a second glance at the figure and faltering.

No cape. No bulk.

That wasn’t B.

He jumped off the bank and gave chase.

His heartbeat picked up with every swing, curious and wary. Aside from the Bats and Selina, he couldn’t recall seeing anyone using grapple guns in Gotham before – rogues and mobsters tended to stick with cars. And it couldn’t have been Catwoman, she disliked going out in costume during the daytime. The only ones who risked the daylight and could parkour were the occasional ninjas sent by Ra’s, but-

Oh.

Dick dropped to the lower rooftops of the Upper West Side, rolling to soften the landing, then pushed himself to keep running. He’d parked his bike in Old Gotham; rushing back to get it would’ve taken too long. Even so, he’d lost track of the kid near the bridge about a minute and a half ago.

But what was the League defector even doing here?

They knew virtually nothing about his activities in Gotham. Was he staying somewhere nearby? Was he on a mission? If so, what was he even up to, when not attacking rogues or kidnapping street kids?

Dick pressed his emergency beacon, almost as a second thought, as he stumbled onto another row of buildings. He might have been mad at Bruce, but this was more important – if the man got there fast enough, combing through the south of Gotham together was much more likely to yield results.

Though, what would they even do if they found the boy? Capture him? Try to convince him to trust them? Hope he was willing to answer their questions and be taken in by Batman?

His com buzzed, but he didn’t bother to pick up. B would make his way to him either way and he couldn’t spare the air to talk while sprinting across rooftops right now.

A faint, almost imperceptible thud – a bad landing, Dick guessed – betrayed the kid’s location, and Dick redirected accordingly, relief washing over him over not having lost the boy. He slowed his steps, moved without making the slightest noise, and made sure to stay out of sight. Maybe that wouldn’t be enough, if he was truly dealing with someone brought up by the League of Assassins, but he had to try.

He crept on, despite not hearing or seeing any further movements. The streets were empty bar for a couple of early-risers walking their dogs or jogging (this part of town could afford to sleep in), and he couldn’t spot anyone on the rooftops either.

Then he saw him. Crouched low in an alleyway, almost on the border to Chinatown.

Dick didn’t think. He approached.

The figure in black froze when he was still at least ten yards away and Dick stilled in response. He expected the shadow to move, to go for an attack or try to grapple away, but instead the defector turned his head, just ever so slightly, not even to face Dick but merely as if scanning the rooftops. Even though he must’ve been aware of Dick’s presence already, for him to go all tense.

Ready for any sudden movements and keeping to the high ground, he inched closer, eyes fixed on the unmoving kid.

He looked tiny. Definitely younger than Dick.

The katana strapped to his backpack ruined any illusion of harmlessness, however. Not that he really had that, to begin with: the running jacket might’ve obscured his physique, but his posture betrayed his training, and the hood-facemask-combination hiding his face screamed ‘someone up to no good’.

An uncomfortable sensation of coldness settled in Dick’s gut as he reached the rooftop right above the kid. He couldn’t quite reconcile the boy still standing still with the memory of him beating Crane and his goons – where was that energy now? He waited for that explosion of aggression, but it...wouldn’t come.

Was the kid willing to talk? Was that it?

×××××××××××××××

Robin wasn’t supposed to be here. Patrol should’ve ended hours ago.

But it clearly hadn’t, and he clearly was, and where Robin went, Batman followed.

So why couldn’t Damian sense him?

Brownstone buildings towered over him, the smells and sounds of downtown overwhelming his senses even as he tried to listen for a second set of footsteps in the drumming of heavy rain. He could hear Robin’s just fine – he had appeared just a minute ago, light steps at first impossible even for Damian to pick up on but his shadow betraying him. Once his ears knew what to listen for, they locked in and couldn’t ignore the sounds.

With Batman, he had no such luck. The man couldn’t hide that well in the current lighting, though, not from Damian, which meant he hadn’t arrived yet.

But he could show up anytime. If it hadn’t been for that, Damian would’ve long since made his escape. The longer he spent frozen with indecision – waiting for Robin to drop his guard, listening for Batman, discreetly checking the rooftops for a rogue Batgirl – the worse things would get. He needed to leave. He could evade Richard and shake him off and find a hideout and stay there for the next few days…

If only he knew where Batman was so he could account for him.

A Robin would be easy to take on. A Robin with an extra Batman lying in wait, much less so. And if he didn’t get away...

His lungs protested as his throat constricted and refused to allow air in.

Things suddenly seemed much harder to compartmentalize and ignore when Richard was involved.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw as the man – the boy, a half-naked gangly amateur who was not his brother – lowered himself into a squat on the roof and gave him a tentative smile.

“Hey, there! I’m Robin. It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Damian almost sneered. Because on one hand, this Richard obviously couldn’t hurt him; on the other, because he very much could and was, just not physically.

If only the teen hadn’t decided to wander around in broad daylight, he wouldn’t be damaging the timeline with every second he spent hovering over Damian. And he also wouldn’t be provoking this deep, inexplicable ache in Damian’s chest that made him want to give up and ask for help.

He wouldn’t. He’d put in too much effort already for his determination to fail him now.

This younger Richard merely resembled Damian’s in appearance, anyway. They were nothing alike. He would not find the comfort he needed from this weak imitation. His affections were misplaced here.

Not daring to look over at Robin, Damian kept his eyes on the tiny kitten hiding behind a pile of trash further down the alley. The cause of all this, the reason Damian had jumped into the alleyway in the first place.

He swallowed past a lump in his throat. It was demeaning to ask, but he didn’t have it in him to play games right now. “Will you let me leave?”

Richard didn’t respond. Damian almost debated looking over. Then, after a long, shaky exhale, the boy wonder jumped down to street-level and he had no choice but to face him (and that eyesore of a costume) head-on.

“I saw you beat Scarecrow, a few days ago. Impressive stuff.”

While the domino mask hid Richard’s eyes, Damian could tell he was getting a once-over.

The same panic as earlier began to seep into his bones, thick as honey, gluing him to the ground, and he suddenly felt trapped despite being in an open alleyway with several escape routes. His own heartbeat was all he could hear, his limbs growing tingly and numb.

Would Richard recognize the physical similarities to Bruce Wayne? The costume covered everything but Damian’s eyes, and those he had inherited from his mother, but Alfred always swore that he looked just like his father. Maybe someone so close to him could see the overlap even with all the layers.

Richard might have been young, but his intellect was not to be underestimated.

And yet he gave no indication of recognition.

Damian glanced at the rooftops again, if only to not have to look at… At the person in front of him.

The garish costume bothered him the most, or so he told himself. Shorts in this weather were a death wish, the choice of bright colors a grave tactical mistake, and the unkempt haircut a nightmare for one’s field of vision when combined with rain. Not to mention that stupid smile, so reassuringly bright. Or the deep blue eyes full of goodwill and steadfast trust he knew were hiding under the mask.

“You’re new in town, though, right? I don’t think I’d seen you before that... Do you do stuff like that often? Fight bad guys?” Richard tried again.

The coast seemed clear. He could’ve grappled away, now that the two of them were on the same level.

And yet something kept him there.

Idiocy. Something called idiocy.

Leaning against a wall with a casualness that would have almost looked convincing if only Damian didn’t know him so well, Richard tilted his head, studying him. He appeared utterly unbothered by the one-sided conversation.

That is, until he started knocking on the stone behind him. It could’ve been mistaken for fidgeting, just someone drumming on a surface out of boredom, but Damian picked up the morse pattern immediately.

‘Are you being watched?’

He looked at Richard, eyes widening. Wouldn’t Robin know more about that than he did?

Was this some kind of mind game? ‘Guess how many heroes have got you surrounded?’

His eyes flickered to the sky again. The clouds didn’t seem to be hiding any reinforcements, though Damian had enough kryptonite on him to take on Superman if necessary. It could also have been someone with the power of invisibility, however.

He didn’t feel like setting fire to the district just to ward off Martian Manhunter…

Or...had Batman caught on to Jason and Tim? Were they expecting the two to be lurking on some rooftop nearby?

He threw Robin a desperate glance. There was no coming back from that. If his father took in the boys-

“No.”

“I can help you,” Richard whispered, stepping toward him with his hands raised in an effort to placate him. “Batman is on his way here, he’ll-”

“I don’t need help,” Damian snapped. “Leave us alone!”

A heartbroken frown settled on Richard’s face. It looked uncanny, so familiar and yet so wrong, and he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to punch Richard for it or hold him and not let go.

He grabbed his grapple gun at the same time as Robin snagged a fistful of his jacket.

The angry hiss of ‘Nightwing!’ had left his mouth before he realized his mistake.

Robin’s eyes snapped to his face.

Then Damian punched him.

As soon as Richard stepped back, hands flying to his face, he stumbled away from him. Forced his legs to create distance, even as he grew dizzy with dread and his blood ran cold. His body strained to disobey him – Richard was bleeding, he needed to-

“Stay away from me,” it spilled out of him on autopilot. “Scarecrow was a one-time thing. A- A job. Lots of people have grudges against him, I was just the messenger. I’ll be moving on from Gotham, so you don’t need to bother with me, anyway.”

A distraction. A false trail. Overwhelm him with information, so he would forget about the misstep. If anything, his panic helped sell it. Robin believed panicked children.

It was weak. Nothing like the fabrications his usual capabilities could come up with, but Damian was compromised. And scared.

He ran.

×××××××××××××××

“Robin?”

“I’m okay. Kid just knocked a tooth out.”

“You encountered the defector.”

“Yep.” Robin extended a hand. Bruce copied him, only to have said tooth dropped into his palm before the boy returned to petting a stray cat.

“And?”

“He kept obsessively checking the roofs. Either he’s under constant surveillance and didn’t want to be seen with me or he was running away and I just ruined that for him. I think it’s the latter. Had a bag and everything.”

“You were trying to help.”

A frustrated huff. “I know, but… B, the kid was afraid for his life. Trembling. He would barely talk to me, begged me to leave them alone, but his body language looked like...” Robin shrugged. “Like he trusts me. Like it took all his restraint to stay away from me. He wanted my help, and I failed.”

“He told you to leave them alone?”

“Yeah. ‘Leave us alone’, that’s what he said.”

“Trying to protect his mentor, then. Or other kids.”

“Jason?”

“Possibly. Did he say anything else?”

“When I tried to keep him from leaving. I grabbed him, and he said ‘Nightwing’, then punched me. Either it’s a codeword, or… I’m thinking of Uncle Clark’s stories, but it can’t be that.”

“We’ll look into it,” Bruce sighed. He ran a gloved hand through Dick’s wet curls. “And I also owe you an apology. Come on, chum.”

Chapter Text

That asshole. That goddamn son of a bitch.

Damian had told Jason he didn’t want anything from him but his trust. He’d said he only wanted to give him food and shelter.

That lying bastard.

The post-it note trembled between Jason’s fingers as his eyes swept over the hasty handwriting over and over again.

‘On a mission. I will be gone for a few days. Do not come looking for me or tell anyone about my existence. Take care and don’t get into trouble.’

His gaze snapped over to the bed he’d just climbed out of. Tim still lay tangled in the covers, blissfully soaking up the remainders of body heat Jason had left behind.

The disturbing revelations of the previous night didn’t seem to have had an impact on his sleep.

Or maybe Jason being there had helped.

The boy blinked back at him slowly, eyes still sticky with sleep. “What is it?”

Staring at the soft furrow of Tim’s brows, all gentle, childish worry and naive ignorance as to what was happening, a hollow feeling began spreading inside Jason. He could feel his limbs tingle with energy – with anger – while his chest slowly became a vacuum without air, leaving him gasping for breath, heart drumming a desperate rhythm.

He’d told Damian he couldn’t take care of Tim. What was he going to do now?

He walked back to the bed and pressed the piece of paper he’d found shoved under the door into Tim’s hands before sitting down on the edge, gaze deliberately turned away. He didn’t want to watch as Tim read it.

Two seconds passed in silence. Then Tim shot up, scrambling to sit and get away from the note.

“But he’s coming back,” he blurted. “It says he only left for a few days. Not forever. He’ll probably be back by Friday.”

Jason shook his head.

Tim paid him no attention. “It was probably an emergency. Shouldn’t take too long.”

Only days, Jason thought. Or weeks. Or more.

If Damian really was coming back after his mission, Jason could weather it out in Drake Manor while Timmy went to school like nothing happened. But if it took longer than a week or two, he would have to make sure they had food and supplies and didn’t land on Child Protective Services’ radar.

He’d- Hell, maybe he’d really have to raise Tim.

He’d been right all along.

That’s what he got for trusting people.

Screw ninjas or undead vigilantes or terminal illnesses. It didn’t matter why Damian had left, it didn’t matter who Damian was, it didn’t matter where Damian had come from. He’d abandoned them, that’s what mattered. In the end, he was a selfish prick, and giving him the benefit of the doubt had been Jason’s mistake.

Or, well-

Jason was being too emotional. Too harsh. If anything, Damian’s display of his hypocritical concern for them during their outing the day before did more than enough to show the guy cared for them. And he had told Jason he’d have to focus on his mission. Whatever that was.

Yeah. Jason was being unfair. But he’d gotten fed up with the constant secrecy, the half-truths, the confusion. That uncertainty of being the only one out of the loop, of being the only one not getting the situation.

Knowing what was going on, knowing who to trust, those skills had helped him make it on the streets for years.

Now, he didn’t understand anything. Not undead-assassin-Batboy-from-an-alternate-dimension, at least, and certainly not what he had to do with any of it.

Not that Damian or any of his secrets mattered now. It seemed as though he wouldn’t be a concern for a while. Even if he planned on coming back.

Tim would be a concern. Keeping Tim from getting into trouble would be a massive concern.

It’d be safer out on the streets, in the long term. Tim still had adults looking out for him – somewhat, though Jason was being generous – and they didn’t need the trouble of someone finding the alley rat hiding amongst the rich.

But he couldn’t leave Tim behind, and Tim couldn’t afford to disappear off the face of the earth.

(Nor was Jason particularly eager to abandon the warmth and safety of a luxurious mansion. If they did end up leaving for Crime Alley at some point, he’d make sure to take as much stuff as they could carry.)

So they were staying. For now.

And waiting, even if Jason knew better.

“You don’t think it’s because I upset him yesterday, do you?”

His attention jumped back to Tim.

“He shouldn’t have said all that weird shit if he wasn’t prepared to explain it,” he growled, scowling at the way Tim looked like he’d just watched a baby bird fall out of its nest. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Honestly, he doubted most of what Damian had told them. The boy had been visibly upset yesterday, in that weirdly stone-faced, pretend-stoic way, so clearly he had strong feelings about the matter, but the things he’d said…

People coming back to life was where Jason drew the line.

If anyone had asked him a week ago, he’d have put that line between child vigilantes and unsupervised kids regularly parkouring around Gotham’s rooftops. Alas, the last few days had rapidly adjusted his tolerance to the bizarre and dangerous.

Still, the more fantastical stories and explanations Damian came up with, the more Jason turned back to his original hypothesis.

Which, well, wasn’t good. Mostly because his original hypothesis included Damian dying.

He hoped he was wrong.

He surely was. While he couldn’t make sense of everything that had been thrown at his head so far, he had to trust Damian not to have made his entire story up. He’d seemed honest, when he’d told Jason about his intentions.

And yet, when Damian opened up about his ‘alternate universe’ – which, to be fair, rarely happened – he spoke only of danger and death. To Jason, at least, but Tim’s reaction the previous night had given him the distinct impression that Tim wasn’t much more well-informed than he was.

Well, besides about that one dead brother of Damian’s. What was the deal with that, anyway?

Jason couldn’t make sense of it all, but all of it certainly added up to a concerning amalgamation of hints.

Not that the truth mattered, at the end of the day. Damian was gone, and Tim only had Jason left for now. That’s what it boiled down to.

Tim wiped his nose with the sleeve of his pajamas and gave a shaky nod.

Jason couldn’t tell if he really felt comforted or just didn’t want to argue.

“Do you-” he began tentatively, only to be cut off by Tim vehemently shaking his head and then pressing his face into Jason’s chest, arms quickly following and wrapping around his torso with a near-spine-breaking strength.

The question turned into a quiet sigh as Jason went to return the hug, a hand rubbing awkward circles into the younger boy’s back.

His throat clogged up as if the weight of Tim on his chest had crushed his airways. It suddenly felt like an insurmountable task to breathe, much less to speak.

He didn’t know what to do.

“It’s going to be okay, you hear me, Timmy? I’m going to take care of you. I’m not leaving.”

Tim didn’t respond for a long while. Didn’t even sniffle. If it weren’t for Jason feeling the steady fall and rise of Tim’s rib cage against his stomach, he would have been worried about the kid having passed out from the lack of air he got, pressed into him like that.

“Damian said that too,” the mumbled words came eventually, “I’d thought he’d left and I freaked out, and he told me he wouldn’t be leaving for a while yet. So I know he’s coming back. It’s just… I’m kind of mad at him, you know? For… For being the way he is?”

That made two of them, Jason thought bitterly.

He gulped, searching for the right words. His hand drifted to Tim’s hair.

“I…” Another gulp, trying to wet his dry, closed-up throat. “I think he’s overwhelmed. We scared him yesterday, appearing in Old Gotham. Having to take care of someone while juggling other responsibilities… It’s not easy. Especially when you do dangerous stuff like he does.” Jason cringed at the lameness of his words. Comforting others didn’t come easy. Especially when he himself didn’t believe half of what he was saying.

“My dad-” Even worse. “It was... It was similar with my old man. Working shady jobs to keep us afloat. My ma was… She got sick, and he had to take care of her too. It was hard on him. He… He’d let it out on us, from time to time, even when I tried to help out.” Fidgeting with a strand of Tim’s hair, he blinked past the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He had to get where he was going with this fast. It was starting to sound weird. “I think Damian’s doing a hell of a better job. He wants to take care of us. He just doesn’t know how.”

In that moment, Jason decided that was what he wanted to believe. Even if Damian never came back, and no matter why that would be.

Tim pulled his head back just enough to peer up at him with large blue eyes. “That doesn’t make any sense, though. Damian has lots of siblings. He’s supposed to know how.”

Jason furrowed his brows. “You keep mentioning siblings.”

“Yeah?” Tim said with raised eyebrows, puzzled over the sudden change in topic. “His family’s huge.”

The unspoken ‘duh’ in Tim’s voice irked the part of Jason still preoccupied and angry with being the only one in the dark an awful lot. His face pulled into an affronted grimace. “Well, I know absolutely nothing about anything you guys keep talking about. All I know about his family is that they’re zombies. And that his dad is Batman.”

“Oh. Uhm, well, Damian didn’t tell me much either. Just the very basics, actually. I kind of came to my own conclusions. But they make sense, so I think I’m right? I can tell you about them, if you want.”

Any lingering frustration or grief left in the room evaporated at once. Tim sat up from his position draped over Jason and launched into a wild and long-winded tale of an alternate Batman’s family history. Or rather, his suspected version of it.

Tim’s theory of an alternate universe’s family of an alternate universe’s Batman. A family whose Robin, known outside of the mask as Damian, had appeared in downtown Gotham a few days ago, right in front of Tim. Tim, who just so happened to be this universe’s version of Damian’s kind-of-almost-like brother.

Jason would have gotten hung up on the unlikeliness of Damian’s supposed (adopted? foster?) brother being the first person he met after landing in another dimension, had it not been for the fact that Tim didn’t leave him any time to. The kid talked a mile a minute, about dimension travel devices in Chinatown and Damian’s many siblings and alternate Batman’s parenting choices. And the more he raved about Robin – the first one, as Damian’s universe apparently had multiple – the more he seemed to forget about Damian’s note. By the time he’d included himself and somehow Jason in his musings as well, his theories lacked any trace of factual basis, but the bright smile on Tim’s face as he explained how he figured their alternate selves were brothers more than made up for it.

Attempting to sort out fact and fantasy from Tim’s ramblings would have been a futile effort. Jason didn’t try. It was kind of fun, actually, to listen to the stories, especially when the topic drifted to the adventures of Batman and Robin that Tim had witnessed himself. He turned out to be quite a Batman expert, eerily knowledgeable on the details of grizzly murders and dramatic mob feuds, which resulted in quite thrilling storytelling. It reminded Jason of the stories he’d used to read back when he had time to go to the library – perhaps he could pick that habit back up, now that he had plenty of time and a huge house with lots of books.

One thing bothered him, though. He could finally voice it once Tim had worn himself out talking and announced it was time for breakfast.

“You said you believe Damian because he looks just like Batman, has similar moves, and knows stuff only Robin would know. But what evidence is there to us actually being his siblings in the universe he’s from?”

Tim froze on his way down the stairs.

“What?”

“In the past week since you’ve met him. Did he say or do anything to suggest he knows you particularly well? That he cares for you like a big brother would?”

Tim didn’t respond. He stared at Jason, slack-jawed, mulling the question over. Jason could almost see the gears turning in his head, his gaze gaining a far-away quality to it.

“Yes. Well- I- I don’t know,” he muttered finally.

“He seemed pretty awkward when he took me shopping,” Jason said, the words falling out of his mouth despite his mind not knowing what direction he was going with them.

“I’ve never had siblings before,” Tim admitted. “I don’t know what’s normal behavior for them.”

Jason shifted from one foot to another. He’d stopped when Tim had, the two of them now aimlessly standing in the middle of Drake Manor’s grand staircase. “Me neither.”

“He seemed really worried for us last night. He tried to help when I was upset. And he stayed, even though I was clearly annoying him.”

Tim’s brows furrowed fiercely.

“I want him to be my brother.”

There was nothing Jason could think of in response to that.

A red tint took over Tim’s face and he lowered his head, turning away from Jason and stomping down the stairs with newfound vehemence.

Breath caught in his throat, Jason watched the boy go.

×××××××××××××××

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Neither of them brought up Damian again – which made things awkward at some point, given Jason and Tim didn’t have a lot in common aside from being involuntary sidekicks to the guy (and maybe the alternate versions of his brothers, but Jason tried to avoid thinking about that).

Tim gave Jason a tour through Drake Manor after breakfast, and they ended up just lounging in a parlor for the remainder of the day, Jason watching curiously as Tim did his homework and gossiped about his teachers.

They didn’t go out at night. Tim didn’t even suggest it.

But Damian’s name sat on Jason’s tongue like a heavy weight all evening. He couldn’t quite decide what to make of Tim’s sudden silence on the topic when the boy had been spouting plans and theories nonstop since the second they’d met.

It wasn’t that Tim seemed particularly depressed or awkward over Damian’s absence. No, Jason would have instead described it as if a switch had flipped inside Tim, causing his focus to shift entirely. Damian and all that came with him were out of sight, out of mind, replaced instead by genuine joy over the semi-permanent sleepover with Jason. Tim enthusiastically threw himself into making Jason feel at home in Drake Manor, dusting off old board games and his toy car collection and rare comics to impress him.

Jason played along, not daring to bring up his concerns over Tim’s behavior. He quite enjoyed getting to play like a normal kid again, anyways. And if it helped distract Tim from missing Damian, well, all the better.

As for himself, he tried to cling onto the little trust Tim had infected him with. He knew Damian’s story now, and having gotten rid of that mountain of secrets had in fact lifted a considerable amount of his doubts over the two boys’ intentions with him.

If Damian had told them the truth, maybe he really would return, if only to make sure they hadn’t told anyone else about him. Jason could hold onto that much.

Then Monday came and Tim went to school.

Jason was worried, restless, and unsupervised.

Which is how he found himself back in Crime Alley at half past nine in the morning.

Thick gray fog hung over the streets like grim curtains, throwing the dilapidated buildings into Gotham-typical semi-darkness despite it being the middle of the day. Gunshots rang out a few blocks down as half-passed out junkies yelled profanities through the streets.

Jason sucked in a lungful of air riddled with the smell of weed and gasoline.

He was home.

Clutching his backpack full of canned food and other treasurable necessities tightly, he wove through side streets and hidden back doors toward the heart of the Alley.

Several distrustful eyes followed his every step, perhaps even more than usual. Unsurprising, given his clean appearance and stuffed bag. Nobody tried to jump him, at least, which was honestly a lot better than he’d been expecting.

“Jason?”

He stopped in his tracks at the sound of a young voice calling out to him. Turning towards it, his eyes landed on a blonde girl leaning out of a window. A second later, she disappeared, only to come rushing out of the building towards Jason.

“Where have you been? Did you start working corners? Did some asshole-”

A drop of warmth fell into the swirling whirlpool of emotions in Jason’s chest, only to be followed by a stormy downpour of alarm.

Someone had been worried about him. The other Alley kids had noticed his absence.

He hadn’t been gone nearly long enough for it to have been that noticeable, though, let alone alarming. He wasn’t involved in anything, didn’t play a significant role anywhere, wasn’t important enough to be missed. Which meant-

The girl grabbed his shoulders, brows furiously furrowed, eyes stormy, and voice harried.

“Robin was looking for you.”

Jason’s blood froze in his veins.

“What did you get yourself into, Jason?”

“Nothing,” he stammered, taking a step back. His eyes jumped to the rooftops above them, as if Robin could’ve been towering over them that very second, watching. “When- When was he here?”

“Maybe two days ago? Wanted to know about your run-in with that ninja guy. Jason, what did you do?”

How did Robin know about that? Tim had said Batman knew of Damian after Scarecrow’s latest attack, but how could they have made a connection to Jason through that? The Bat never patrolled through Crime Alley, he couldn’t have seen them together…

His hands grabbed fistfuls of his hair, the ache in his scalp grounding amid the sudden panic buzzing through his every cell. He took a deep breath, then another, trying to sort his thoughts.

“Listen, Emma. Don’t tell anyone I was here, alright? I’m... I’m trying to find a guy who… Who might be my brother,” he hissed. “But he’s involved in some shady shit, so it’s important no one but you and the other kids know. If someone gets wind of him or my involvement with him, we’re fucked. Understand?”

He finished with a pleading look at the girl, who looked back at him with wide eyes.

She nodded.

“He’s a bit taller than me. Tan, dark hair, green eyes, resting jerk face. Probably dressed like a wannabe-Batman. And carrying a sword. If any of you see him, tell me when and where you did. I’ll come back tomorrow, too. I… I kind of have a proper place for now, that’s where I’m staying. I’ll bring you more stuff when I come again.”

With that, he yanked the backpack off his back and pushed it into Emma’s arms.

“Jason, wait-”

“I’m going to try and find some of the others and talk to them too. I’ll see you tomorrow. Do not tell Robin anything,” he stressed. “Nor Batman. Especially not Batman.”

With that, he turned and took off, sprinting through the streets as if chased until his lungs couldn’t take it anymore. He clambered up a fire escape, making good use of the techniques Tim had taught him in Old Gotham until he was alone on the unstable-looking roof of an abandoned theater. Up where no one could get to him and he could think in peace.

He needed a plan.

His previous one had been to return to the Alley and ask around if anyone had seen Damian. If he could track him down, maybe he could talk some sense into him and get him to return to Tim.

But that plan wouldn’t work if he wasn’t just Jason, random street kid, but Jason Todd, boy wanted by Batman for associating with a vigilante-shtick-plagiarizing-assassin-kid. News spread fast around this place – if the street kids knew Robin was looking for him, soon enough even the gangs would know, and being a person of interest for the Bat and his Bird was the last thing one wanted to be when gangs were involved. Even before any gangs were involved, actually. Batman looking for one was bad news, period.

That also again confirmed that Damian’s paranoia regarding Batman turned out to be justified. The Bat wanted to hunt him down, for whatever reason.

A captured Damian would never make it back to Jason and Tim, not without getting them both in trouble. Hell, Damian would probably end up in juvie for being an assassin, Jason right there with him for all the pickpocketing, and Tim would be thrown into some shitty foster home and then die on the streets once he escaped.

So.

Either Jason had to find Damian before Batman did, or he’d have to make sure Batman never found him.

He’d try his best.

For Tim’s sake, his mind supplied, but he found himself realizing he couldn’t wholeheartedly convince himself of that.

For Damian’s sake, as well. And maybe for his own sake, too, a little bit.

He didn’t hate the trio they’d become.

×××××××××××××××

Jason made sure to get back to Drake Manor before Tim did. He’d raided the kid’s room for old schoolbooks and holed up in his guest room to teach himself the stuff he’d missed, having had to drop out of school after his ma died.

It felt like no time at all before Tim announced his arrival with an unintelligible yell, followed by the sounds of socked feet bounding up the stairs.

“He left Gotham! Batman left Gotham!”

Poking his head out of the door, Jason came face-to-face with a disheveled Tim coming to a sliding stop in front of his room, body twisted to counteract the slipperiness of the polished wood and avoid falling into the doorframe.

Jason stared at the boy dumbfounded, trying to grasp the situation while Tim fought to catch his breath.

Belatedly, the meaning of the yelled words registered.

“What?”

He sized up Tim. Still in his school uniform, a giant red backpack strapped to him, no obvious grazes or cuts – at least no new ones. The kid’s appearance didn’t exactly suggest he’d been out stalking Batman instead of attending class, but with Tim, it was hard to tell. His eyes sparkled with a manic excitement and his hands clutched his phone so tight his fingertips turned white. Really, Jason half expected the boy to start bouncing in place with all that bottled-up enthusiasm. He suspected that glee didn’t come from a particularly thrilling school day, though.

Then again, Batman disliked going out during the day. A Justice League mission would’ve offered a reasonable explanation, but even with Tim’s extraordinary capabilities for his age, there was no way he could keep so up to date with the JL’s activities.

Before he could ask for an explanation again, Tim pressed the phone screen into his face.

Jason leaned back and squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to decipher the news article pulled up on the small device.

“...Bruce Wayne announces two-week vacation on private island despite upcoming WayneTech expo,” he read. “What is this, Tim?”

“If Batman’s out of town, Damian won’t have to watch his back anymore. Maybe he’ll even come back earlier than planned,” Tim explained, giddy smile stretching across his face.

Jason frowned. Looked back at the phone, then at Tim, then at the phone again.

“This article’s talking about Bruce Wayne, though. Sorry, Tim.”

A failed attempt at a suppressed huff left Tim’s mouth. He looked at Jason with a pinched expression.

“Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

“What?” Jason couldn’t help but laugh a little. “No he isn’t.”

“Yes he is.” Tim smiled triumphantly. “I can prove it.”

Judging by the self-assured look he sported, Jason didn’t doubt he actually could. Tim at least was fully convinced of his own theory, that was for sure.

Oh boy.

The revelation that Gotham’s biggest buffoon might also be her most feared protector evoke a sense of first impressed disbelief – even atop everything else Jason had learned the past few days – then a hint of cowed fear.

If Batman was so infinitely powerful both in and out of the cowl, infinite resources of money and information at his disposal, weren’t they absolutely powerless against him? Rules didn’t apply to the rich and the strong – Batman was both. If he wanted to find Damian…

“So Bruce Wayne is Damian’s father?” he asked.

“Mmmh.”

“Does he know that?”

Tim frowned, leaning against the doorframe as he considered the question. “I don’t think so? Damian never mentioned the possibility, and I don’t think Mr. Wayne has ever seen him unmasked to recognize his features. Batman’s got plenty of other active cases, lots of them international. If he’s out of the country, it’s a good sign he’s focusing on something else right now.”

Jason crossed his arms over his chest as he regarded Tim’s excitement waning in favor of contemplation, only to return tenfold once again.

“This is good news for us, Jason. With Mr. Wayne away, Robin’s not allowed out alone either. Damian has a lot less to worry about. He’ll be back in no time.”

Hopefully he would be.

Jason had little confidence in them finding Damian if the guy didn’t choose to return to them first.

×××××××××××××××

Cassandra S. Thomas had grown up in northern Italy as the daughter of a tech company heiress. As the illegitimate child of late Gothamite and old-money royalty Frederick Buchanan – a fate she, if the Gotham Gazette was to be believed, shared with just about twenty others – she hadn’t met her father once in her life, and there was little chance he or anyone close to him had even known of her existence before he died.

Until her mother passed away too and she made the decision to move to Gotham.

She took to the gigantic city like a duck to water, unbothered by the looming presence of crime and death. Not that she really encountered that side of the city, anyway – no, her place was in the glitz and glamor of Gotham’s luxury parties. No more than five days after the newspapers reported of her arrival, she made her first appearance at a gala.

Cassandra waltzed through the crowd of attendees effortlessly, uncaring of the unfamiliar faces and the judgmental looks. As a born and bred socialite, being a stranger fazed her little – if anything, it was a little exciting. She hid her smiles and giggles behind her champagne glass as Gotham’s elite stumbled over themselves in embarrassment having to admit to not knowing her, faces burning in shame as they explained they didn’t run in European circles. Her emerald eyes sparkled with arrogant mirth as she struck up conversations left and right, bonding with diplomats’ wives over ski trips and laughing after CEOs’ jokes. She nodded along politely as old ladies lamented that her father didn’t get to meet her and slandered his character, only to go on and introduce her to his friends and business partners, parroting what a great tragedy his passing was.

After an hour, her presence in the room felt as natural as anyone else’s there.

Maybe most of that could be attributed to her willingness to learn more about Gotham’s state of affairs: she sought out the mayor to introduce herself and eagerly listened as he and his colleagues debated which policies to focus on next, but also didn’t shy away from charming the businessmen with rumors of rather shadier deals hanging over their heads.

Considering that, it came as no surprise that she eventually stumbled into a conversation with Ernest Tillman.

“Miss Thomas, was it?” Tillman had appeared on her right after she’d excused herself from a conversation with a lawyer droning on about the latest case he’d won. “All this talk about a beautiful young lady gracing this rotten city with her presence and I couldn’t even get to introduce myself until now. Such a shame. Ernest Tillman, at your service.”

A winning smile appeared on Cassandra’s face as she took in the man in front of her. “Cassie Thomas. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tillman.”

“The pleasure’s all mine. I’m surprised anyone would willingly leave Italy for Gotham.”

“I’m sure Gotham’s not so hopeless, Mr. Tillman,” Cassandra laughed. “It’s got to have some redeeming qualities, for my father to have stayed here. I hear the parties are exquisite, for one. And operating a business out of this place also has its perks.”

Tillman flashed his veneer-perfect teeth before taking a sip of his drink. “Seems like you’ve talked to a wide variety of people already, huh?”

“What can I say? I love to mingle.”

“Is that what you came to Gotham for? Business?”

“I’d like to broaden my horizons, I suppose.” Cassandra shrugged casually, coy smile stubbornly clinging to her lips. “I’d been thinking of expanding my grandparents’ company to overseas, but some other business ventures I’ve heard about tonight have also piqued my interest, I must admit. But that’s not your area of expertise, is it, Mr. Tillman? I heard you’re in politics?”

“Please, call me Ernest. And yes, I have to admit that’s what I’m best at. But the two areas do always intersect, don’t they?” Tillman winked, eliciting an approving chuckle, before his eyes drifted to something behind Cassandra. He stepped aside, waving in large motions before offering the young lady a grin as apology.

She turned her head to find a group of four approaching them.

“Oh, allow me to introduce you to some friends of mine: these two would be my colleagues, Eric Wang and Lewis Gabor. The ladies next to them are Mrs. Dora Wang and Miss Selina Kyle.”

Cassandra took a step back. Her smile faltered, if only for a second, unnoticeable to anyone, before it returned as if nothing had happened. Adjusting her dress, she quickly went to shake everyone’s hands.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I managed to catch us the famous newcomer, Miss Cassandra Thomas. She’s absolutely lovely, you’ll adore her.”

“Ernest, please.” She threw him a playful look, before returning her gaze to the four others. Her eyes lingered on Miss Kyle. “I take it you’re in politics as well, then, gentlemen?”

Mr. Wang began to explain something, but his words didn’t register in Cassandra’s brain. The soft classical music in the background had faded into static as her heart rate picked up, limbs going tingly and skin suddenly itching irritatingly under the uncomfortable dress and the silhouette-altering bodysuit.

Cassandra wanted nothing more than to run out of the ballroom and rip off her disguise.

She’d planned for days. She’d invented entirely new people, forged documents and connections, hand-made a new appearance with no equipment on hand. She’d waited patiently for Bruce Wayne to leave town so she could attend a gala without the danger of encountering him there.

She’d left behind her brothers for this.

Only to have forgotten about Catwoman and have it all ruined by her.

Mr. Gabor said something amusing and Cassandra giggled along despite feeling completely breathless. She steered the conversation towards trade, natural charm blinding everyone to the cold dread crawling under her skin, and shared anecdotes with Tillman until clinging to his arm while laughing felt natural, all while Selina Kyle’s eyes never left her.

But Miss Kyle never called her out, either. Not even when she snuck a tracker onto Tillman’s suit jacket. No, Miss Kyle smiled at her warmly and deflected any offhandedly creepy remarks made at Cassandra’s expense without blinking an eye. She asked her about her interests and recommended good restaurants in Gotham and wished her a pleasant rest of her evening when she slipped away from the conversation with four watches and a necklace in her handbag.

It was three hours later, after Cassandra had been introduced to the ‘promising business opportunity’ and had secured a dinner with Tillman, as she was leaving the gala, that Catwoman struck.

“Cassie.”

Cassandra – speed-strutting down the street and counting the seconds till she could take off her high heels – glanced over her shoulder and stopped in her tracks.

“Miss Kyle?” she smiled.

Nothing was lost yet. Maybe Kyle hadn’t even realized her disguise.

The woman took her sweet time catching up to her, the Cat coming out a little in the way she swung her hips and sized Cassandra up like potential prey. Once she reached her, she placed a delicate hand on her hip and looked at the girl with her dark red lips turned down into a frown.

“Who paid you to do this, kitten?”

Of course she’d caught on. She was an expert of disguises, even the most well-crafted one wouldn’t escape her notice.

“I’m sorry?”

“Was it Tillman? This some sick fantasy of his?”

“I apologize, Miss Kyle, but I don’t understand what you’re getting at-”

“Look, kitten, I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re not old enough to be doing this. You have a talent for dressing up, I’ll give you that, but these kind of jobs take more from you than you’d think. Listen-”

“It’s not like that!” Cassandra turned away, mortified, and resumed walking. “Goodnight.”

Kyle could’ve caught up to her effortlessly, but she didn’t even try. Cassandra still didn’t stop until she was five blocks away, gala and its guests and the mission a safe distance from her.

She turned into an empty alley and practically tore her dress off, ripping shoes and wig and tights away as if they were on fire.

What remained was Damian.

Pulling out the set of clothes he’d stashed behind a dumpster beforehand, he put them on just as the shivering set in. By the time he finished and sat down on the curb, furiously wiping the make-up from his face, his entire body was shaking.

He had been mortified.

But he’d done it.

Finally something was going well for him.

An elated smile broke out over his face as he heaved a sigh of relief and stood up, starting towards his hideout.

He had the first step of the plan behind him now. Not even Kyle’s interference had managed to blow the mission, the rotten woman coming to false conclusions and failing to thwart his actual plans.

Father was away, Jason and Tim were safe, and Damian was one step closer to going home.

Beginning to stuff his disguise into his backpack, a bright orange something on the back of his dress caught his attention. Apprehensively, he picked it off the fabric.

A post-it note.

Damian unfolded it.

‘Call me if you need help’. And under that, Catwoman’s phone number.

He stuffed the note into his pocket with a sour expression.

Chapter Text

Dick waited till Alfred had gone to bed to sneak down to the cave.

He didn’t delude himself into thinking the butler didn’t know about his independent investigations – it was just the principle of the matter.

It’s how they always did things. Bruce would leave, Dick would be barred from solo patrol, and he and Alfred would both pretend he complied with B’s rules. He would sneak out, but he would keep to Gotham and immediately tell Alfred if something had gone wrong. For all that it was worth, Alfred had expressed several times how he much preferred this over Bruce’s behavior back in the day, so Dick didn’t even need to feel that bad.

Besides, it’s not like he was acting out of selfishness.

He’d gotten home from school, breezed through his homework, spent dinner listening to Alfred telling him about his day (the highlight of which was a particularly pleasant conversation he’d had with the neighbors’ kid while tending to the garden, apparently), then checked up on any new digital traces of their persons of interest while he waited for night to fall.

It was a disheartening research, to say the least.

Nothing on the League defector.

Nothing on Jason Todd.

Nothing on Nightwing.

The name had possessed his every thought like a mad spirit. It was perhaps the strongest clue they had gotten to unravel the mystery around the defector; a clue he himself had given to Dick, albeit not really on purpose. An olive branch born out of panic and desperation, but an olive branch nonetheless.

Dick owed it to the boy to decipher its meaning.

It could’ve been a code word. An alias. The name of an organization or group. Whatever it was, Dick couldn’t find anything conclusive. Not to mention the red herring that was the Kryptonian legend of the same name – his mind kept drifting to Uncle Clark’s stories, even though that couldn’t have been it, given a boy from the LoA would have never heard the folk tales of a planet long wiped out, shared only among family and friends of the survivors.

So… Dick hadn’t made any progress since B had left.

The guilt was eating him alive. He couldn’t get the boy’s desperation off his mind. Couldn’t forget how afraid the kid had been, how he’d needed and wanted Robin’s help but couldn’t ask for it.

On his way down to the cave, Dick replayed their encounter in his head. It had been down in Chinatown. He’d been searching through that part of the city for the past week, hoping he’d stumble into some traces of the defector, but had come up empty so far.

Then again, he’d gotten the distinct impression that the boy had been on the run during their last meeting – the bone-deep fear that had come over him when Dick had asked whether they were being watched certainly led one to believe that, at least. Possibly, the kid had been headed for the docks, hoping to hide out on one of the cargo ships and escape from his captor that way.

...Though he’d also been defensive over whoever he’d been staying with. Protective. He’d yelled at Dick to leave them alone.

Dick let out an exhausted sigh as he gave up his mental spiral and grabbed his costume.

No use pondering over stuck leads. All he could do was go out every night and look for more clues.

At least Bruce wasn’t there to question his every decision.

Armed with a bike, his utility belt, and an extra emergency button with a tracker included (courtesy of Alfred), he sped out of the Batcave. With days growing longer again, the sky still sported a violet streak as he booked it down Bristol’s streets. Dick doubted he’d find any League defectors this early, given how Gotham’s criminal element – most of Gotham, that is – was still bleary-eyed and half-asleep at this hour. Though their previous meeting had occurred in the early morning as well, so he could at the very least try.

In the end, it only took Robin four hours to get lucky.

Turned out, a kid matching the League defector’s description had been sighted in Crime Alley. Had been sighted in Crime Alley a lot, that past week.

Dick had overheard some henchmen talking about having seen him. A black-clad preteen. Spotted on rooftops and fire escapes, barely noticeable unless one knew to look for him. Watching over street kids and hovering menacingly over shady deals, melting in and out of the shadows of the Alley’s decrepit buildings.

Seemed he’d been hiding out there all this time and not Chinatown, after all.

But what was he doing?

As far as Dick was concerned, his actions had no rhyme or reason, observing all suspicious activities indiscriminate of criminal affiliations or how petty the crime. He failed to decipher any ulterior mission being forced upon the deserter by his new mentor.

Had he maybe managed to escape despite Dick’s meddling? Or was he surveying the neighborhood on his captor’s command, kept on a tight leash and tasked with playing watchdog around their hiding place?

A morbid thought struck Dick.

Jason Todd. A street kid from Crime Alley.

Had his disappearance been deliberate after all? Was his encounter with the League defector all part of a plan?

Were more homeless children about to vanish off the streets?

Tentative dread bloomed in his chest and his heart rate began to pick up. He scurried up the building he’d been hanging from to eavesdrop and started towards Crime Alley, leaping across rooftops, only stopping every once in a while to scan the skyline for any child-sized shadows.

Whether his fears were unfounded or not, Crime Alley was the likeliest place to come across the defector. Once he found the kid, he could… Talk to him? Interrogate him? Call Aunt Kate for advice?

He could make sure no other children were in danger, first of all. Then figure out what the defector’s actual mission was. And convince the kid to let them help him, hopefully.

A shrill cry below him interrupted Dick’s thoughts. He slid to a halt, leaning over the edge of the building to see two teens menacingly cornered by what looked to be four gang members interrupted in their dealing (stupid of them to discuss gang-war-plans outside, honestly).

Oh well.

He leaped into the alleyway, landing a kick on a thug’s back and punching another in the jaw. After another blow to the back of a third guy’s knee, he flipped between the gang and the kids, cutting off the fourth goon attempting to grab a teen with a birdarang to the hand.

Within two minutes, all four were passed out on the ground.

Dick stretched, feeling for any injuries. The men had gotten in a few good hits, but none of them were worse than nasty bruises he’d have to ice when he got home.

It seemed the teenagers had gotten away unharmed, too. They’d run a few seconds after he had stepped in.

He released a deep breath, preparing to get to work tying up the unconscious gang members.

Somewhere above him, gravel crunched under shoes and something banged against a rooftop’s HVAC-unit with a deep metallic clang.

He stilled.

The scuffle had attracted some attention.

Now, Dick could feel watchful eyes on the back of his head, observing his every move.

Seemed like tonight would be his lucky night after all.

The rumors had been right.

This was...suspiciously easy. Much easier than it had been a week before.

He couldn’t tell whether that was good or bad.

Maybe a trap? Or a confrontation?

A small shadow threw himself from one roof to land in a clumsy roll on another, then ran to the next one and disappeared into the darkness.

Dick winced at the unfortunate landing before deploying his grapple to take up the chase. He hadn’t meant for the kid to flee, but maybe he was worse at acting inconspicuous than he’d thought.

Or the boy had learned from last time not to trust him.

He didn’t want to think about that. Instead, he focused on the dark silhouette before him, vaulting over exposed pipes and squeezing through narrow spaces between buildings.

Four times, he lost sight of the kid. Three times, it was merely a lucky guess that he managed to pick up his trail again; the other one a nasty fall that disturbed surrounding pigeons and alerted Dick to the boy’s location.

Within three blocks, he caught up to the defector.

The kid seemed to realize the hopelessness of running, too, coming to a stop and cowering in the corner on the other side of their current rooftop.

Dick surveyed their surroundings, searching for signs of a trap – nobody watching them from above, average apartment buildings filled with families all around them. Nothing looking like a bomb detonator or a communicator on the kid at a first glance, either, only the black jacket, leggings, and sword combo from last time.

With suspicions of an ambush out of the way, he considered the costumed child in front of him.

He’d messed up once before and was on thin ice once again. He needed to take things slow. Think first. Act only after careful deliberation.

Something was...off, though. Different from last time.

The small thing was cradling his knee, rib-cage rising and falling in desperate pace to suck air into his lungs after the mad chase. He’d seemed less agile than before, which could have been explained by his current condition – injured and weakened, perhaps? It certainly looked like it, though Dick was certainly no fan of that development.

Overall, it looked almost like the kid had shrunk. Hunched in on himself and looking like a sick fawn, he trembled before Dick, sizing him up with his hands balled into fists, though there was no promise of violence behind his small stature this time, only readiness to fight tooth and nail to endure. Even behind the jacket and the mask and the goggles, the drop in weight and strength was obvious.

This was a boy weak and afraid. Cowed and distressed. Much more so than the last time they’d met.

What had Dick done?

B had made it one of the first lessons of being Robin that Dick shouldn’t – couldn’t, if he wanted to preserve his sanity – blame himself for the people he failed to save. That all he could do was try, and that he should never lose sight of the greater change he was achieving by remaining a bastion of hope in the face of darkness.

But hell, was it hard to remember that sometimes.

Whatever the kid had been planning on when Dick had run into him last time, he’d been severely punished for the encounter. Very little of the previous confidence remained in his body language, likely beaten and starved out of him by his captor. There was no other explanation. Kids didn’t change that drastically within such a short amount of time if not for immense suffering.

All because Dick had failed to save him when he’d had the chance.

A suffocating tightness clutched his chest as he tried to keep his breathing even, eyes blinking away the wetness collecting in the corners.

The kid watched him, the quick rhythm of his heavy breaths the only sound Dick could focus on, blood rushing in his ears and overpowering every other noise.

Without taking his eyes off Robin, the defector’s hand moved to his pocket.

Dick didn’t dare react. He’d learned from last time.

The defector slowly pulled out a taser. He made no further moves, though the weapon spoke for itself.

“...Hey there,” Dick pressed out, placating and friendly. “I’m sorry about the chase. And about our last meeting. I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”

The boy didn’t respond. With the goggles he was sporting now, his expression was impossible to decipher, though the hunched shoulders and the taser he was still silently brandishing told Dick enough.

Yet there was also something else. A feeling of wrongness that ran down Dick’s spine as he and the defector observed each other.

The air between them felt much less charged than at their previous meeting. No sense of danger emanated from the boy.

Dick swallowed the remorse that rose in him at that observation. He could make up for his mistake now.

“Is your knee okay? Did you hurt it while you were running away?”

The kid shook his head. The taser-less hand he’d been holding onto his knee with dropped to his side.

Televising his movements, eyes fixed on the boy, Dick pulled an ice pack from his utility belt and activated it. He took two slow steps forward and placed it on the ground between them before retreating.

It remained untouched.

“You were watching out for those kids back there, right? I’ve heard you do that a lot. It’s nice of you.”

A shrug. A glance to the side.

“You know, there’s a kid you saved a while ago who hasn’t been seen since.” Dick saw a shudder shake the small boy as his eyes flew to Robin once again. He decided to pretend he didn’t notice the kid’s alarm. “His friends have been looking for him. They’re really worried. His name is Jason. Do you know what happened to him?”

The boy grew completely rigid at the name. Goggles stared deep into Dick’s soul.

“Please. His friends want to know he’s safe.”

“He’s safe,” the defector echoed. His voice sounded strange, hoarse, and straining to seem deeper than it was.

Dick crouched down to be at eye-level with the kid. “Can you tell me where he is?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Did you take him somewhere after you saved him? Is he with your caretaker?”

The defector looked away again, this time surveying the surrounding rooftops as if looking for someone.

Just like last time.

Dick figured his refusal to talk was as good as an admission. Jason Todd was with the kid’s mentor, and it was safe to assume other kids were soon to follow.

“Are you afraid of getting punished for talking to me?”

No barking remark came, but the boy’s gaze returned.

“I know you said you don’t need help,” Dick continued tentatively, “but it’s not okay for someone to hurt you for talking to others.”

A scoff.

His heart sank to his stomach.

“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you,” the defector mumbled.

“That’s okay,” Dick rushed to say, encouraged by getting some words out of the kid. “Would you like to talk to one of my friends instead?”

“I’d like you to leave me the fuck alone.” To stress his point, the defector jabbed an accusatory taser in Dick’s direction. The threat didn’t quite land, accompanied by the still persistent trembling as it was.

A sorrowful frown pulled at Dick’s face. “I understand. But a friend and I think you and Jason are not safe with the person who’s taking care of you right now. Fighting rogues is dangerous and could get you hurt – even if you’re a very good fighter, it’s something your caretaker shouldn’t be making you do.”

The defector’s fingertips grew pale as he clutched his taser tighter, “I’m the safest I’ve been in a long time.”

“I-” Dick pressed his lips into a thin line. If one grew up in the League of Assassins, being the puppet of someone who pretended to care must’ve seemed like paradise. A treasured weapon instead of an expendable soldier. The facade of attention and care had to be overwhelming. “Your caretaker might treat you better than-”

“You don’t know anything about him!” the boy interrupted, straightening. “I know what I’m doing. So fuck off.”

“What about Jason? He’s not trained, right? What if he gets hurt?”

“I-” the kid clammed up. “He… He doesn’t need your help.” Childishly, he turned away as if sulking, angrily glaring at the streets below.

Dick chewed on his bottom lip, staring at the boy in front of him. A boy afraid of the consequences of asking for help and thus rejecting the idea completely, burrowing away into a lie of safety instead. Severely neglected and abused and yet trying to act tough, just trying to protect himself and the boy he’d naively condemned to a similar fate.

He didn’t seem to be reaching out to Robin anymore. None of the trust that oozed from him during their last encounter remained, no subconscious signal that he wanted the Boy Wonder to stay and protect him. Only panic and desperation for distance.

“What’s Nightwing?” Dick asked.

That caught the kid off guard. “What’s what?”

The genuine confusion in his voice made Dick’s racing thoughts come to a screeching halt.

“Nightwing?” he repeated, slower this time. Was the kid pretending not to know? He had to have known Dick would remember his previous slip-up and want to know more.

The kid didn’t respond, staring blankly at Dick for a long moment before letting his gaze climb back up to observe the surrounding rooftops. His shoulders fell and he let out a long sigh.

“He’ll kill me for talking to you,” he mumbled, barely audible, in a tone of utter resignation.

Dick blanched.

He… He should’ve figured. If a much shorter conversation had gotten the defector punished as severely as to have completely altered his attitude, this attempted interrogation would certainly lead to worse.

“I can help you get away from him. If you tell us who he is, Batman can track him down and make sure he never hurts you or anyone else ever again. Please, kid.”

The boy tilted his head at Dick – as if his sudden alarm was a complete overreaction. He got his feet under him and stumbled into standing.

“He wouldn’t… He wouldn’t actually hurt me. Fuck, I- I shouldn’t be telling you about him, but he’s a good guy. He’s just- He’s helped me.”

“No,” Dick said. He’d had this conversation often enough with victims of abuse, but it never became less painful to listen to people justify the suffering they’d gone through. “He’s putting you in harm’s way and he’s making you abduct children off the streets. Good people don’t do that and there's no justification for it.”

“I’m putting myself in harm’s way.” The boy took a heated step towards Dick, throwing an accusing finger in his face. “Just like you are, I’m guessing? Or is Batman a bad guy too for letting you do all this?”

“If it were up to Batman, I wouldn’t be out here.” Dick held up his hands in a placating effort. “He only lets me do this because I have a lot of people who can help me if things go wrong. And he would never let me do something he knows I couldn’t bear the weight of – like harming innocents.”

The defector stopped, taken aback for a moment.

He scoffed. It almost sounded like a laugh. “Fucking hell, you’re just like him.”

Dick frowned. “What?”

“Nevermind.” he dismissed. “He just- He said the same thing to me once. About this only being okay when you have adult backup.”

He was now standing within reach, but Dick didn’t dare touch him. The one brand-new molar was enough.

“Well, why isn’t he here then? Watching over you?” Dick asked.

“It’s complicated.”

“I’ve been told I’m good at untangling complicated situations. Maybe I can help.”

The kid somehow managed to shoot him a skeptical look over the goggles and the mask.

“I’m not supposed to be talking to you about it. I should go.”

Dick scrambled for something to keep the boy there. “Are you sure he won’t hurt you?”

"He'll be pissed. But he would never hurt me on purpose."

"...You really mean that?"

He waited for the defector’s determined nod with grave acceptance.

Arguing was no good. He wouldn’t get the kid to realize the gravity of his situation tonight, so damage control it was.

Knowing what was coming, he grabbed the boy’s sleeve and yanked him towards himself. He hadn’t expected just how light the kid really was, nor the revelation that the hand he’d just been waving at Dick with was full of rooftop gravel – the latter he learned by having said gravel thrown in his face. He instinctively turned his head, letting go. The cloud of dust was followed by a sensation of blinding pain, hot and cold at the same time, his muscles contracting uncontrollably and his vision going blank.

He dropped to the ground.

The damn taser. That one he had been expecting, but knowing it was coming somehow never made it better.

He forced deep breaths into his lungs as he waited for the ache to wear off and blinked the darkness from his eyes.

Alfred was going to give him the lecture of the century for this. Not to mention Bruce, if (or when, knowing the butler’s loyalties) he found out about it, too.

By the time he managed to sit up, he was alone on the roof. Clumsily searching the compartments of his utility belt, he fished out a small tracking device and turned it on, heart drumming impatiently as he waited for the screen to load.

When it finally did, a single red dot blinked at him happily from a map of Crime Alley. It was moving towards Otisburg.

An elated grin split his face.

Totally worth it.

Chapter Text

Bruce watched Talia’s silken hair dance between her fingers as she brushed through it at her hotel suite’s vanity. Through the mirror, her sharp eyes flicked to him for a second.

It immediately robbed Bruce of the poise he’d entered the room with, composure and single-minded focus shattered by the sheer beauty.

She was just as breathtaking as the last time he’d seen her.

“Beloved.” Rising, she walked over and placed a kiss on Bruce’s jaw. “On what grounds have you sought me out?”

His hands twitched in an urge to hold her waist. He steeled himself to hold still, to not give in to the familiarity of it all. Having known Talia for over a decade, he knew getting too comfortable in her presence was the gravest mistake one could make.

He wasn’t there for her. He was there for the League’s secrets.

“I had sent you a message.”

Fingers brushed along his face as her eyes searched his. “And I have answered it.”

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows. Even after spending the past week searching the globe for her, he could hardly spring his suspicions on Talia right away if he wanted to get anything out of her. Which meant playing along, despite being almost certain the reply to his message had been sent by the defector.

“Your letters have never bothered to go into such detail about internal conflicts in the League before.”

Talia cocked an eyebrow. “You’d given me the impression that you had developed a keen interest in the League’s inner workings, Beloved.”

He took a step back, away from the light touches and inquisitive looks. His eyes wandered to the skyline of the city visible from the large windows of Talia’s room. “My interest in keeping innocents away from the Demon Head’s violent methods isn’t new.”

“And yet you’d never been desperate enough to include me in those endeavors,” Talia noted, only to continue after a deliberate pause, her voice softer. “...Children, my dearest detective? What put that thought in your head?”

Bruce took a deep breath. It seemed Talia didn’t want to play the slow approach today.

Still, he had to tread carefully. While Talia likely knew about the defector – his high skill suggested he’d been trained by higher-ranking members of the League, possibly even Talia herself, meaning she had to have been aware of his existence – Bruce couldn’t be sure just how much she knew about the child’s current whereabouts and situation. She was willing to claim the reply to Bruce’s message as her own: either she was covering for the child to protect him, trying to hinder Bruce’s investigation to recapture him, or indeed the author of the response. In the first two cases, she could easily conclude that the child was (or had been) in Gotham, for Bruce to have come across him. With every single thing he said, he could give away even more.

“You and I both know the League is training kids, Talia. I’d even wager a guess that you’re quite involved in it all. It’s why I came to talk to you.”

Talia’s expression shifted into something more closed off. She let herself fall onto the bed.

“I didn’t lie to you. There was a girl, once. Years ago. Cain had brought her. He and my father treated the poor thing terribly. You can’t imagine how happy I was when she managed to escape.”

Her words sounded honest – as honest as Talia could get, anyway. Bruce could feel his stomach churn with dread at the picture she painted, his brain racing with thoughts this potential new lead brought up.

A young girl… Could it have been the defector? They’d assumed the child to be male until now, but there was nothing speaking against the opposite being a possibility… But the girl could have been an entirely separate person as well. Talia's insistence that her case was the only one of a child being trained in the League of Assassins seemed unlikely at best.

“There are no other children,” she finished in a near-whisper, voice growing teary. Her eyes refused to meet Bruce’s, but he was too busy watching as her hand drifted to her stomach, anyway.

All of a sudden, Bruce felt more worn-down than he had in weeks. An ache he’d fought to forget about for years flared up again, weighing him down and making every breath he took labored and painful.

He remembered how happy they’d been, almost four years ago. How he’d kissed Talia and promised her he would be a good father, how he’d sworn he would give up Batman for their child.

He also remembered the tears that followed after Talia had lost the baby. Breaking the bad news to Dick. Getting hugged by Alfred.

Talia’s ‘but I wish there were’ went unsaid.

Bruce joined her on the bed. He carefully pressed his lips against her temple as she let herself be embraced.

Then his communicator started buzzing.

Stilling, Bruce didn’t dare move from his position pressed into Talia as his hand clumsily found the comm and turned it off. Whatever Dick – or possibly some Justice League member – was calling about, it could wait. If it was an emergency, Alfred and Kate (or literally any other superhero in the case of the JL) were there to help. There wasn’t much Bruce could do to assist from the other side of the globe anyway.

Talia glanced up at him with the exasperated look of someone long used to meaningful moments getting interrupted. Kissed him, then leaned in close to whisper into his ear. “Why don’t you tell me about what’s going on in that city of yours, Beloved? What has you spying on the League after months of no contact?”

Bruce’s throat bobbed as he swallowed down the frustration with Talia rapidly rising in his throat. He knew her affections for him had waned long ago – and using a painful part of their shared past fit Talia’s modus operandi perfectly – but using her own loss to steer his emotions… Well, it wasn’t a new low by far, but it still stung.

“I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“Enlighten me.”

Bruce entwined their fingers. “The girl isn’t the only one, is she, Talia?”

He was rewarded with a coy smile. “If she isn’t the one having you chase after me, then I suppose not, no. You seem to know about more League-trained children than I do, though.”

“Or maybe the ones I’m looking for are closer to your heart than I’d assumed. So dear that you’re not willing to give them up even if I tell you now that I will not leave this matter alone until I know those children are safe and sound and away from anyone causing them harm.” His voice had taken on the Bat’s deep gravel by the end to counter the silent storm brewing underneath Talia’s expression. With her chin raised defiantly, she stood up, hand pulled away from Bruce’s hold.

They’d reached a stalemate. Neither of them seemed willing to offer up more information; they were long past the times of mutual assistance out of sheer affection.

Nonetheless, Bruce had gotten what he’d come for. Talia wouldn’t have offered up the fact of the girl’s existence if it didn’t serve as a distraction – a sacrifice of information – to keep Bruce from going after something more valuable to her. Meaning there were indeed children in the League, likely trained by Talia herself. Children of high importance. High enough that Bruce would have to fight a bloody battle with Talia and Ra’s and the rest of the League to rescue them.

Of course, there was also the girl. Bruce would have to find her as well.

“I appreciate your warning, Beloved, but I’m afraid your attempts will be futile,” she spoke. “There isn’t much you can rob my heart of – you, however, have so much you care about. Quite the unwise tactical decision, if you ask me.”

×××××××××××××××

“Dammit, Bruce,” Dick groaned after his fifth unsuccessful attempt to contact B via comm-link. He was tempted to hurl his communicator into Gotham Bay and revel in his mentor’s panic when the tracker inside the thing showed him to be somewhere in the middle of the ocean. Maybe then Bruce would realize that the line kept active for emergencies was, indeed, used for emergencies. And that he better pick up next time.

Alas, he didn’t actually want to give Bruce a heart attack. Being Batman had probably already shaved off twenty years of the guy’s lifespan, he didn’t need any added complications.

Still, Dick wasn’t entirely sure the current situation wouldn’t also cause some serious health issues for Bruce.

The blinking red dot indicating the defector’s location heading towards Wayne Manor spelled bad news. Well, it was still a five-minute car ride away from the Batcave, technically, so Dick couldn’t be absolutely sure that that was the destination, but it didn’t bode well.

Especially because he hadn’t even gotten to his motorcycle yet – turned out, getting tasered did inhibit one’s ability to parkour across rooftops fast and without stumbling – and it would take him at least thirty minutes to get to the manor even if he disregarded traffic laws. The defector had a considerable lead on him.

Should he call Alfred? He figured this counted as the kind of thing that warranted waking up the elderly butler, though he’d rather not leave Alfie to defend the manor alone. For both his and the defector’s sake. (Not to mention how he’d never be allowed to sneak out against B’s rules again if Alfred knew what trouble he’d gotten into.)

Kate was hardly an option either, what with a quarter of her bones currently broken and all.

Babs it was, then.

“Di- Robin? What’s up?”

He cringed at the mumbly, half-asleep voice on the other end of the line. Right. Babs wasn’t patrolling tonight. Any reasonable person would be sleeping at this time of day.

“Sorry for waking you, Babs. It’s an emergency. You know the kid B and I have been investigating this past week?”

Getting to the cave would take her at least an hour and a half, he knew. But Batgirl also had an impressive knack for technology, and right now, Dick was putting all his faith in her ability to maybe activate one of the manor’s lock-down protocols remotely.

It was something B’s gauntlet had access to, but Dick’s Robin costume didn’t – most definitely not because B was a control freak with trust issues or anything. But Babs could connect her laptop to the batcomputer (she’d done it before, at least) and seize control of the manor’s security that way.

The program would be difficult to hack into within five minutes even for her, though. Especially since at least two minutes had passed since Dick had last checked the defector’s location and he-

Finally reaching his bike, Dick breathlessly leaned against it and whipped out his tracker to check up on the status of the kid’s location.

The defector had passed Wayne Manor.

“Oh.”

“What is it, Robin?” Babs asked, much more awake by now.

“False alarm,” Dick sighed, suddenly light-headed from all the adrenaline. “Or, well, not a false alarm exactly-”

“Breathe, Boy Wonder. Tell me what’s going on, calm and steady.”

Dick tried to follow her instruction until he felt capable of talking without gasping for breath in between words.

Babs let him take his time.

“I encountered the League defector an hour ago. He appeared shaken up and scared of me, so I let him go but put a tracker on him. Thought I’d follow him, make sure he’s not in active danger,” he finally explained. “For the past ten minutes, I thought he’d figured out our identities or something because he’d been heading straight towards the manor. Turns out, he’d actually gone to the neighboring house. My tracker at least says he’s there.”

A short pause. “He’s at Drake Manor?”

“Not much better, I know,” Dick admitted. He hauled himself onto his bike and backed out of the dark alley he’d parked it in. “I’m on my way.”

“I’m coming, too,” Babs said, her words accompanied by the sound of several objects being thrown through her room. “Might just take a while longer. Want me to send the GCPD to the Drake house?”

“Don’t bother, the Drakes are gone all year. Pretty sure the kid and his mentor are just squatting there, the cops would just- Wait. No.”

“Robin?”

“Alfred mentioned talking to the neighbors’ son today. They’re home.” Dick cursed under his breath and sped up. He could feel a headache building, anxiety throbbing underneath his skin. “...But then what is the defector doing there?”

“Maybe the Drakes are involved,” Babs pointed out. The sound of furious typing followed. “Give me a minute.”

While she dove into research, Dick sped through Burnley. Traffic being virtually nonexistent in the middle of the night, it took him half as long as it would in the daytime to reach the bridge leading to Bristol. Still, with every passing minute watching the blurred city running past him in his peripheral vision and listening to Babs mumble while she worked, worry gnawed away at him at what he’d find when he got to Drake Manor.

When he’d first let the defector run, he’d feared the boy’s mentor would punish him brutally if Robin wasn’t there to intervene. Then, he’d feared the child’s proximity to the Batcave – had worried the defector would escalate things past the level of secret identities and get the people Dick loved hurt in the process.

Now, Dick dreaded to imagine what was happening in Drake Manor.

Perhaps the defector’s new mentor had laid siege on the mansion to use as a base of operations, the Drake family paid off or tied up while the defector got hurt for running into Robin. Maybe Jack Drake was in truth the young League-escapee’s new keeper, using him to do his dirty work downtown while he worked on his evil-rich-jerk-plans in the comfort of his home (most Bristol homeowners had skeletons in the closet) and currently letting his anger out on the boy for messing up. Possibly, the Drakes had been disposed of, their son suffering the same fate as Jason Todd in whatever sick plot the defector’s mentor had come up with.

There was no telling what scene Robin would arrive to.

“Flight records suggest the Drakes are in Indonesia. Been there for a month now,” Babs spoke eventually. “Their son Timothy attends a boarding school downtown, but his school records have clearly been tampered with. I don’t think he actually stays overnights. I can trace the edits back to Drake Manor, but the records have been getting changed for months now, way before case 149792 popped up.”

Huh. Either the defector or his mentor had been active in Gotham way longer than they had assumed or whatever was going on with Timothy Drake was unrelated to it all. In both cases, the parents’ supposed absence threw up a lot of questions. Were they really abroad? Were they alive? How involved were they in the manipulation of their child’s school records and whatever cover-up they were used for? Even if they turned out to be entirely innocent in a legal sense, what kind of scumbags left their son in a Gotham boarding school while they traveled for months at a time?

“What are the Drakes up to in Indonesia? Any dirty business?”

“Nothing as far as I can tell. Aside from archaeology and all that artifacts business.”

Dick hummed as he drove past Wayne Manor, Drake Manor coming into view. “Well, I’m there. I’ll take a look around and report back to you.”

“Don’t go in without backup, Boy Wonder.”

“If anyone’s getting hurt, I’m going in,” he asserted. “I’m not waiting just because B’s too busy ‘reconnecting’ with Talia or whatever to answer his comm.”

Parking the bike a few yards from the property, he took a good minute just scanning the building for any cameras before approaching. Drake Manor looked considerably younger and smaller than the Wayne Estate, the roof sporting not even half as many gargoyles, the windows missing embellishments and decorations. Overall, the mansion seemed to lack...character. Liveliness. Now that Dick thought about it, he couldn’t recall ever paying particular attention to the house or the neighbors who lived in it.

“Could you hack into the security system for me, Batgirl?”

“Already did. It was all disabled.”

Not a good sign, Dick’s mind supplied helpfully. He slid through the small gap of the not-fully-closed iron gate and snuck to the nearest window, straining not to make a sound or be visible from anywhere in the house.

Considering the state of Drake Manor, though, all the effort felt unnecessary.

He couldn’t hear a single thing inside. The interior looked like something out of a luxury furniture magazine, clean and tidy but not lived in. No tables or chairs turned over, either, no broken vases, no signs of a struggle.

Maybe the defector hadn’t come here after all? Maybe it really was just the empty house of a family always on the road.

When he reached the kitchen window, though, the scene changed drastically.

Plates and cups left in the sink, dried mac and cheese clinging to used utensils. Recipes scribbled out in a child’s handwriting on post-it notes littering the counter. A half-finished sandwich abandoned on the table.

Again, no signs of violence. Just a messy room left behind by a kid.

So Timothy was indeed staying here rather than at his boarding school. Did his parents know? The state of the room suggested they hadn’t been home in a while.

Dick flinched when a light turned on, suddenly blinding his eyes used to the darkness. Once he managed to adjust, he glanced up to the first floor where the brightness was coming from.

As quietly as a grapple gun could be deployed, he hooked his line onto the roof and crawled up to the source of light.

Just as he pulled himself up by the window’s ledge and peeked inside, a tiny, frail boy stepped into a room devoid of any personality. Too-large cotton pajamas clung to his frame, sticking onto his skin still wet from a shower. Overgrown black curls hid his face from view as he walked to the bed, kicking aside a heap of black clothing before climbing under the covers. As he grabbed a book from the nightstand, Dick’s eyes wandered to the sword lying across the desk atop schoolwork and classic novels.

Something told Dick that the boy wasn’t Timothy Drake.

His heartbeat picked up as his eyes searched the room for more clues.

A taser peeking out from under the pile of clothes. A nose he could remember as one of the few visible features of the face he’d stared down an hour ago. A body just as small and still slightly shaky.

It had to have been the defector.

But it all looked...oddly peaceful. By all means, the boy showed no signs of fear, body language exhausted but comfortable. He didn’t glance to the door in panic every few seconds, kept his weapons scattered around the room rather than close by, and appeared fully immersed in the novel he’d picked up.

The kid wasn’t on edge at all. As if his physical deterioration and injuries and the supposed death threats meant nothing.

Strange.

“I think I’ve found the defector?” Dick whispered into his comm.

“And?”

“He’s okay,” he said, and couldn’t believe the trembling relief filling his voice. An undertone of confusion, too, but above all, relief. “He’s… He’s reading in one of the rooms? No signs of anyone else so far.”

“What about the Drakes?”

“The house looks pretty abandoned to me, but I’ve only just started. They could be sleeping. I’m more worried about the kid’s new mentor.”

“What do you mean?”

“During our...talk, back in Crime Alley, the kid implied he would get hurt severely for revealing information to me. It seems credible based on my impression.” he glanced back at the small boy in the bed, collarbones sticking out, cigarette burns and a dozen old and fresh scars dotting his arms. “If the guy is in there somewhere…”

“Continue recon and do not break in yet, Robin. Wait for me, I’m almost there.”

That was a bit of a stretch. Batgirl still had to have been almost an hour away, though Dick decided he wouldn’t point that out.

With a disgruntled huff, he shuffled along the side of the house to the next room. And the next, and then the one after that. Especially in the darkness, most rooms appeared as unspectacular as rooms not being used regularly could be. They gave away no clues as to what was going on inside Drake Manor – looking in from the outside would get Dick nowhere.

Just as he was about to ignore Babs’ instructions and take a closer look at the inside of the house, he stumbled upon the room at the end of the hall.

It differed from the others. Greatly.

Posters of superheroes and games and fictional characters filled the walls. Toy cars and action figures strewn across the carpet flooring made the room impossible to traverse. An expensive camera hung from a chair, staring down the homework sitting unfinished on the desk next to it.

On the bed in the corner of the room, a small lump under the colorful sheets betrayed the presence of who Dick assumed to be Timothy Drake.

Despite having been neighbors for several years now, Dick didn’t know Timothy well. They’d met at a few galas, Timothy hiding behind his parents’ backs and Dick mostly uninterested in mingling with the socialite families. He couldn’t recall ever having a conversation with the kid.

A sense of guilt simmered in his gut as he watched the little boy’s form shift in his sleep.

They’d been right next door all this time. How could they miss their persons of interest taking over their neighbors’ house?

Nothing had been different than usual, that’s how. Drake Manor had remained silent and its occupants stayed as elusive as always. Maybe if they had paid more attention-

No use dwelling over that now. If he wanted to make up for past shortcomings, he needed to make sure Timothy was safe now.

Dick strained his eyes to see past the obscuring shadows of the room. The night-vision built into his mask didn’t help much with picking up details, but there had to be something that helped explain what was going on.

A child sleeping peacefully in his own bed while a defector from the League of Assassins and his violent mentor camped out in his house? All while his parents were continents away?

Maybe he’d missed something during his perfunctory scan. Restraints underneath Timothy’s covers. A locked door. Drugs to keep him out of it.

The person controlling the defector and holding the kids hostage didn’t seem to be there – the mansion eerily empty and quiet save for the children’s rooms – but who knew if he’d get back by the time Babs made it to Bristol. Dick had a chance now, and he’d have to take it.

“I found Timothy. No sign of any adults,” he reported, resolve giving his voice a steel edge. “I’m going in.”

He parried Barbara’s protests best he could (her arguments were very convincing but the two small boys inside Drake Manor slightly more so) and got to work on breaking open the window. It didn’t take long – with alarms disabled and no extra security measures, the task was almost underwhelming for Robin – and by the time Babs announced that she was thirty minutes out and going to give him the talking-to of a lifetime when she got there, he’d landed on the floor of Timothy’s room, his boots just closely missing a Superman action figure dropping off a gorilla at a Lego police station.

Maneuvering the minefield of toys scattered about, Dick first slunk to the door, testing for a lack of locks, then, having assured himself that the way to the hallway was clear, moved onto the boy. He crouched down in front of the sleeping kid, sticking a hand under his nose to check his breathing, only to almost jump out of his skin when Timothy chose that moment to change positions, limbs flopping out to the side in an imitation of a starfish, half-kicking off the covers. At least it eased Dick’s mission to check the kid for wounds.

But even up close, everything seemed fine. No injuries, no restraints, no abnormal vital signs. If Dick hadn’t found the defector’s room first, he would have never guessed anything was amiss in the house – aside from the obvious red flag of a nine-year-old all alone in a mansion.

Bruce was going to have a field day trying to piece things together. That is, once he was finished benching Dick for the rest of his life. Then again, if he actually managed to get the two kids (and possibly Jason? Was he in there somewhere too?) out of here, B’s complaints wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.

And he would get them out. That’s what Robin did.

Something metallic under Timothy’s head caught his eye. Careful not to rouse the boy, he reached under the pillow, recoiling when his hand grasped something sharp.

He blinked at the blood on his palm. Did the Drake kid keep a knife under his pillow?

More wary the second time around, he tried again, shimmying out a flat metal object from the bedding.

The shape resembled a very abstract bird, aerodynamic form and sharp edges making it an excellent throwing star. Kind of like Dick’s birdarangs, just a different design.

Where did Timothy get that from? The defector?

It would’ve made sense; it fit right in with the weaponry of the League of Assassins. Still, the bird-design…

Small fingers wrapped around the wrist of the hand holding the birdarang-ripoff.

“You’re such a jerk,” Timothy Drake mumbled, blinking up at him half-asleep. “You’re not taking that back, are you?”

All Dick could offer up in response was a blank stare. His eyebrows had wandered embarrassingly close to his hairline as he clenched his teeth together to keep himself from saying something stupid.

“What?” he blurted. Nevermind.

Timothy began furiously rubbing at his eyes, then looked back at Dick, looking much more awake.

“Oh. Robin.” The disapproval in his voice was palpable. His eyebrows drew into a scowl.

Robin didn’t get that reaction from children often. Still, Dick could deal with it. He figured Timothy was in shock, or drugged, or otherwise manipulated. It would explain a lot about the bizarre situation.

Taking a deliberate step back to appear less threatening, he schooled his voice into the one he used with victims.

“I-”

He was cut off by Timothy bolting upright and throwing the covers off. When the kid threw himself off the bed and made a run for the door, Dick dropped the weapon and jumped after him, arms wrapping around the small chest and holding on tight even as Timothy wiggled and flailed desperately to free himself.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,” Dick insisted for what felt like the millionth time with these kids. “You’re not in trouble, either. I just want to talk, but you have to calm down first, alright?”

“Then let me go,” Timothy growled, sounding and looking more and more like an angry Yorkshire Terrier the more he struggled in Dick’s grip.

“Only if you promise you won’t run again.”

Unsatisfied with that suggestion of a compromise, the kid launched another valiant effort at escape, letting Dick’s appreciation for the protective cup of his Robin armor grow tenfold. When all the kicking tired him out enough, Timothy finally gave up, limbs dropping to hang at his sides unceremoniously. “Fine, I promise.”

Dick nodded and set the boy down, prepared to pick him up again at a moment’s notice if necessary.

Timothy leaned against the door, gasping for breath. Giving him enough space to collect himself but staying close enough so the kid couldn’t bolt, Dick watched as the kid scanned the darkness of the room, perhaps looking for possible escape routes.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Dick began. “You’re Timothy, right? Can you tell me who the boy staying in the other room is?”

Proving he didn’t at all understand how promises worked, Timothy yanked open the door and made a run for it again.

And Dick would’ve easily caught him again, too, if he hadn’t failed to account for the defector throwing himself at him when the door flew open.

Chapter Text

Tim stumbled out of his room.

Wobbly legs threatened to give out from under him, aching from his struggle with Robin and trembling from the shock and unadulterated fear coursing through his veins. The dark hallway in front of him looked endless, taller and longer than it did in the daytime, only doors upon doors but no end in sight. And his head hurt – probably from slamming it against Robin’s chin not two minutes ago.

Behind him, Jason yelled at him to move.

Without allowing himself a glance back, Tim complied, running into the black fog of the corridor, a hand placed on the wall to guide him.

He needed to get as far away from Robin as possible.

He had no clue what was going on – why Robin was there or how he had found them – but he knew that much.

They wouldn’t be able to escape. Younger, smaller, and untrained, they didn’t stand a chance against Robin. Even Jason giving it his all wouldn’t hold off a vigilante for long.

But Damian-

If he could manage to-

Tim counted the doors he passed as he went. His father’s office was five doors down from his bedroom.
What usually took him seconds seemed to stretch into half an eternity as his head spun with nausea. Three, four, five-

Grabbing the doorknob like a lifeline, he shoved the door open with his back.

Shadows of tall shelves and displays of his parents’ finds greeted him. He fell into the room, hastily shutting the door and locking it behind him with shaking fingers.

Then, not losing an ounce of urgency in his movements, he turned on the lights and rushed to his father’s desk.

The brightness would give his location away, but he couldn’t afford to waste time stumbling around blindly while Robin and his high-tech equipment had no issue working in the dark. He wasn’t being particularly quiet, anyway – the ship of going the hiding route had sailed long ago.

Drawer after drawer, from cabinets to the safe, he opened and looked inside everything.

Annual reports of Drake Industries.

Contracts of company mergers.

Property tax receipts.

Despair clawed up his throat as the seconds passed and all he could find were documents and files. Either the sounds of fighting had ceased down the hall or the ringing in his ears had overpowered all other noise. The disorienting silence only drove Tim to work with more panic and insistence than before.

He had to find it. It had to be there somewhere.

Damian had given it to him a little over a week ago. He couldn’t have lost it already.

“Timothy?”

A hitched sob broke through. He forced a deep breath through his nose to suppress the urge to cry and carried on.

He could do this. In an alternate universe, a different Tim invented game-changing computer programs and fought by Batman’s side. This Tim could at the very least help his brothers.

Reports. Contracts. Receipts. Everywhere he looked.

His own too-fast, too-loud heartbeat paced his erratic movements as he yanked open the next unchecked cabinet. It seemed to be filled with tax paperwork, but-

But now Tim remembered hiding the stupid thing in the bottom drawer the previous weekend, hoping Mrs. Mac wouldn’t look there during cleaning and stumble upon it.

He was such an idiot.

His hands curled around the small object as he dug it out from under a pile of files.

Damian’s emergency button.

The one he had left with Tim when he and Jason had gone shopping.

Tim had tried to take it apart and examine it a few days ago, bored and missing the sight of Damian tinkering in his father’s office. That’s why he’d left it there and hadn’t bothered to move it when Mrs. Mac came for a visit.

His eyes traced the lines of the engraved bat symbol on the black button.

If the emergency signal got through to Damian…

Damian would know something had gone seriously wrong for Tim to have used the button. He’d- He would get to them as fast as he could, deal with the Robin situation, and figure out where to go from there.

He would come back if Tim and Jason needed him.

He would.

Tim pressed the button before quickly shoving it back into the drawer it had come from.

All energy seemed to leave him at once, his body deflating now that it had done what it’d had to. He half-collapsed against the cabinet, listening to his heart come down from its adrenaline high.

On the other side of the office door, Jason called Robin a dickhead. Tim couldn’t help the giggle that escaped him.

They were going to be okay. He’d done well.

The lock clicked – Robin likely having finished picking it – and the door swung open to reveal a costumed Dick Grayson with a rapidly blooming bruise on his jaw.

He approached Tim, not too fast but secure in his steps, hands raised to show he meant no harm. “Hey, kiddo. I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, but I’d like to start over, okay?”

“Don’t you dare touch him!” Jason yelled from the hallway.

Robin sighed. He sized up Tim and his surroundings with a frown.

“I know this is very overwhelming right now. I get it.” An empathetic smile replaced his puzzled look. If it was a forced one, he hid it excellently. “I can explain why I’m here and then we could talk about it, how about that?”

Tim would’ve liked that, actually. An explanation for the surprise midnight breaking and entering, that is. He could do without the interrogation part.

But the interrogation would give Damian time to get there, and time was the thing they needed most right then.

First, though…

His eyes pointedly wandered to the dark hallway before glancing to Robin and back again, chin flicking in his room’s general direction in lieu of pointing.

“What did you do to him?”

“I...” Robin followed his gaze, expression turning sheepish. “He attacked me and I had to restrain him. I promise I didn’t hurt him.”

“He was just protecting me,” Tim pointed out. Making sure none of his moves were sudden enough to warrant getting scooped up by Robin again, he got up and headed back to his room – being flanked way too closely by the older boy the entire way.

The bedside lamp was on, bathing the bedroom in a dull orange, objects visible but still hazy from a distance. Jason had been tied to Tim’s chair, loosely enough to not hurt him even when he wiggled but somehow still secure enough to be unable to escape despite the fight he was putting up. When Tim’s head peeked through the doorway, he calmed somewhat, attempting to scoot closer.

“Timmy,” he whispered, even though any secrecy was destroyed by Robin looking over Tim’s shoulder. Jason made sure to express his disapproval of that by glaring daggers at the teen. “You okay? Did he hurt you?”

Tim shook his head and looked at Robin. “Could you untie him, please?”

Robin frowned. “No can do, buddy. Can’t trust you guys not to run and I really need to talk to you.”

Ugh. That’s what Tim got for breaking his promise to Robin once.

With a huff, he plopped down onto the floor at the foot of Jason’s chair, leaning his head against the boy’s leg. He felt the limb tremble against his cheek, out of nervousness or fear or pent-up anger – maybe Jason didn’t know that Robin wouldn’t hurt them.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against Jason’s pajamas.

“It’s okay, Tim. I’m sorry you couldn’t get away.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you.”

Tim could hear Jason let out a shaky breath above him but didn’t dare look up. Instead, his eyes focused on Robin, now leaning against a shelf and watching them with…guilt? Sadness?

He felt heat warming his cheeks.

Dick Grayson had entered Tim’s life when he was only two years old. It was one of his first memories, actually – going to the circus and getting hugged by a kid acrobat full of joy and energy, then sitting in his mother’s lap as he watched that same boy lose everything mere hours later. He hadn’t known of Gotham’s dark cruelty before that night, but the nightmares that followed had familiarized him well. When they had finally lessened, the boy from the circus had moved in next door; Tim remembered seeing him at galas or on walks with his parents and wondering how the boy who’d squeezed the life out of him and whose loud laugh still echoed in his ears could wither so drastically within a few months.

Then Robin had appeared, and Tim, like many other children, had found comfort in his existence. A light to Gotham’s darkness. A hope amid the cruelty Tim had been so shaken by.

Even more, Robin had had something of the levity and compassion that had endeared one Dick Grayson to him not all that long ago, something that Tim had been able to marvel at again, something different from the stuffy adults he’d been otherwise surrounded by.

And years later, when Tim had realized Robin and Dick Grayson were one and the same, the adoration only grew. Two idols had become one.

Robin was… Robin was an anchor to Tim. The memory of Dick Grayson’s kindness back at the circus kept him company whenever the loneliness became too much at boarding school, and the adventures he experienced chasing after Batman and Robin brought some excitement into his dull, monotone everyday life. That was something he could always rely on.

Now, sitting across from the object of his year-long childish reverence, the hero-worship felt...embarrassing.

What if Robin had noticed the action figures? What if he found the Flying Graysons poster stuffed into his closet? What if he uncovered the myriad of pictures?

He wanted Robin to think he was cool, not weird or pitiable.

Either way, Tim had already ruined any first impressions by trying to kick Robin in the crotch when he’d been grabbed.

Not that Robin had been that nice so far either, to be fair. For one, he’d broken into Tim’s room, but more importantly, he’d tied up Jason and would definitely intervene if Tim tried to free him. Not to mention the fact that he was probably there to gather information on Damian.

In the past three weeks, Robin had become an...opponent of sorts. Still larger than life, still Tim’s hero, but also something else. Someone to evade, someone to figure out, someone to trick. Simply because that was what Damian needed.

As Tim’s relationship with Damian had developed, his relationship with Dick Grayson also changed.

He had gained a brother. Two, once they’d dragged Jason home with them. And out of nowhere, Tim suddenly didn’t have to go searching for traces of affection on rooftops. Didn’t have to hunt down excitement. He had it all right there with him, in the food Damian made for him and the mission he got to bear witness to. In the long, wistful looks his older brother gave him sometimes, in the jokes and games Jason would drag him into. The need to cling onto Robin had waned. Tim liked Dick a lot, but he’d also grown really fond of his brothers, and if he had to sacrifice chasing the memory of a hug to hold onto what he had now, well…

Protecting Jason and Damian would come over appeasing Robin. Even if that went against everything a younger Tim would’ve wanted.

“A while ago, Batman and I came across a kid fighting Scarecrow,” Robin began. “Rumors say he’s been getting into fights and sneaking around downtown the past few weeks. Getting mixed up in the rogues’ affairs or the Gotham underworld is dangerous – we’re worried he’ll get himself hurt or into something he can’t handle.”

Tim’s eyes met the whites of the domino. He gulped.

“I’ve met him one time since that first incident. He seemed...very panicked. I don’t think he’s doing well.”

With Robin scrutinizing their reactions, Tim tried not to make it too obvious how his pulse picked up at that. Beside him, he felt Jason tense as well.

They hadn’t known of Damian meeting Robin again after the Scarecrow attack. It had to have happened after he’d run away from Drake Manor. But what was Robin implying with ‘not doing well’? It could mean different things – even just Robin deeming a lone child running around alone a bad thing – but Tim feared it referred to Damian being just as stressed as he’d been in the days leading up to his departure.

He could imagine the boy running himself ragged over his mission to get home, cold and alone in whatever hideout he’d found.

A glance at Jason suggested the older boy wasn’t thinking any more optimistic thoughts than he was.

“Then tonight, I ran into a boy dressed just like the kid Batman and I have been looking for.” Robin inclined his head ever so slightly. The domino mask made it difficult to tell, but Tim could’ve sworn he was staring down Jason. But why? “I managed to put a tracker on him. It led me here.”

Tim froze.

So that’s what Robin was doing there.

But that… That meant…

Either Damian had come back and was ignoring the commotion going on – highly unlikely – or…

Or it had been Jason.

Questions itched at the back of his throat as his muscles twitched to storm Jason for an explanation. How long had he been doing this? Why? And why hadn’t he told Tim about it?

“I was hoping following the tracker would allow me to help the boy, but it just threw up more questions.” Robin took a step toward Jason. “You see, I have the strong suspicion that you’re not the boy I’d met the previous times. Your fighting style when you attacked me was completely different. And yet your costume is way too close to the original to be something you’ve seen once or twice in passing.”

Jason’s expression darkened as Robin got closer. “What I’m hearing is that we’re not the guy you’re looking for. Fuck off.”

“You’re not in trouble,” Robin stressed, taking a step back and sitting down on the bed instead. “I’m just trying to understand why you went along with it when I mistook you for him.”

Tim peered up at Jason, but the boy had averted his gaze to the window, lips pressed tightly together and brows furrowed as he tried to come up with a response.

Just what had happened between him and Robin?

Robin’s voice took on a much softer edge when he spoke next. “You’re Jason Todd, aren’t you?”

A full-body shudder jolted through Jason.

Whipping around so fast it hurt his neck muscles, Tim’s wide eyes found Robin again.

Uh oh.

“Who’s Jason Todd?” he blurted.

It didn’t have the intended effect. Robin humored him with a small smile, but didn’t seem to believe his confusion in the slightest. A rosy blush took over Tim’s face as his question went ignored, the teen’s expression sobering again as he returned his gaze to Jason.

“Do you know why you were taken from the streets, Jason?”

“I wasn’t taken,” Jason spat.

Robin didn’t try to argue. “So you joined willingly, then? Did you get something in exchange? Money, food, favors?”

He was using the voice he always did when talking to victims, Tim noted.

Why, though? Tim and Jason weren’t victims of anything.

Then again, Jason’s sullen silence could be seen as concerning, maybe, if one didn’t know why he was refusing to talk.

“Just now, you were in Crime Alley to serve as a distraction, weren’t you? Was there anything else you did to help out?”

“No. Nothing,” Jason grumbled, shifting in his seat. “I meant what I said back on the rooftop: you have no clue about anything. Stay out of our business.”

“I swear the things I’m asking are important. It’s to make sure you guys are safe,” Robin said, a hint of urgency – or impatience, perhaps even frustration – in his voice. “Look at Timothy – he’s what, eight? How is he involved?”

“Leave him out of this.”

“Jason-”

“He’s much more capable than you realize.”

Robin let the matter go with a long-suffering sigh. It was a good thing he did so before Tim could embarrass himself by melting at Jason’s compliment or attempting to defend his honor against Robin.

“Back in Crime Alley, you kept talking about a ‘him’ – you said he had helped you. Who were you referring to? The boy? Or the adult in charge of him?”

Tim frowned. The pressure he’d felt building up in his chest during Robin’s questioning shattered.

“What adult?”

Robin’s eyes snapped to him. Expression hidden behind the domino, the blank look directed at him lasted a good few seconds, leaving a puzzled Tim clueless as to what Robin was thinking.

“I genuinely can’t tell if you’re just trying to confuse me again,” the teen finally admitted.

“He’s not,” Jason said. “There is no adult.”

“...Right.”

“There really isn’t!” Tim insisted.

“Alright, it’s okay.” Robin threw up his hands in a placating gesture. “The boy, then. Do you know where he is?”

Either downtown or back in the universe he’d come from, Tim’s mind supplied. Hopefully alive and well. And on his way to Drake Manor.

“No clue.”

“He left over a week ago,” Jason explained. “Haven’t seen him since.”

“So you’ve been unsupervised?”

Tim suspected they hadn’t been. He’d gotten glimpses of the huge tracker collection in Damian’s utility belt before (not because he was going through his stuff or anything) and figured the boy put them to use quite liberally.

Not that Robin needed to know that.

He responded with a halfhearted mix between a shrug and a nod.

If their non-answers were getting on Robin’s nerves, he was great at hiding any annoyance. He scooted closer, just a tiny bit, mindful of their reactions but deliberate in his movements, and put on a face similar to that of Tim’s teacher whenever she’d notice a bruise he’d gotten from parkouring.

“Batman and I believe that the boy you two met is on the run from people who want to hurt him. We also think he’s currently in contact with someone who’s using his skills for their own gain. And that this person also made him recruit you two.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Jason snapped. “We just told you there’s no adult.”

“That you know of. As of now, we don’t know this person’s identity or their whereabouts, but we suspect they’re controlling what the boy does and keeping an eye on you two through him. They might want to harm you, so it’s important we get you two away from here and to somewhere safe. I know-”

Jason almost toppled over with the chair when he tried once again to rip himself free of his restraints. “We’re not going anywhere with you.”

“We’re safe,” Tim chimed in as well. He shifted onto his knees, ready to jump up and protect himself and Jason if the need arose. “’The boy’ means no harm. He’s not controlled by anyone and he loves us!”

Robin froze, eyebrows rising behind his domino mask, shoulders drawn upwards in alarm. “Loves you?”

Tim fell silent.

Why did his mouth always work faster than his brain?

He quickly retreated, burrowing into Jason’s side. Damian was coming, he reminded himself. Damian was on his way, he’d be there any minute, and he’d figure something out.

(Except maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Damian wasn’t coming, too busy or already home or not trusting Tim’s emergency signal to be an actual emergency. Yes, he had promised to return, weeks ago when Tim had sobbed over his absence, but his parents always promised, too. Promises didn’t mean much.)

“We’re like brothers,” Jason admitted.

Shoulders relaxing just a little, Robin’s expression softened. “I know he means no harm. He’s in the same boat as you. As soon as we get you two out, we’ll turn our attention to getting him to safety, too, I promise. But first, it’s important we find someone who can take care of and protect you while we’re looking for him.”

Beside Tim, Jason stilled. When he spoke next, his voice dropped into something icy. “You want to put us in a foster home.”

“It’s not-”

“We’re fine on our own! We’ve managed for weeks! I’ve managed for years before that!”

“Alright, hold on-”

“Jason-”

“We’re not even involved in your case! Tim met the guy by accident and I got dragged into it to take care of him while the fucker runs around and gets himself killed!”

The yelling died away into heavy breathing, Tim and Robin stunned into silence. The fingers grasping Jason’s pajama pants turned white at the tips from pressure as Tim pulled his face away from Jason, wide eyes scanning the sweaty mess that the older boy had become.

Was that really what Jason thought? That he was there just to care for Tim while Damian finished his mission?

Weren’t they more than that? Weren’t they kind of Damian’s family by now? At least temporarily?

It was probably Jason’s fear speaking. Even Tim, fortunate enough to not have encountered Gotham’s foster system yet, knew of its reputation: ripe with abuse and human trafficking, neglected by the city’s corrupt politicians. The Wayne Foundation’s efforts couldn’t compete with the wealthy scumbags and the various gangs set on preserving the status quo. One was lucky to get out alive.

Tim doubted Robin had any interest in putting them into the system – especially since Tim had perfectly fine parents – but he could understand Jason’s terror. The boy had likely had his fair share of that hellhole already.

“I get it’s not easy to trust me as an Alley kid, Jason. But I meant what I said on that rooftop,” Robin spoke. “We can help you get to safety. And by that, I mean complete safety, from whatever this is as well as from a dangerous living situation. I give you my word that we won’t let any harm come to you during or after this investigation.”

“Your word doesn’t mean shit,” Jason pressed out.

“I know what Gotham’s police and foster care system are like. I wouldn’t subject anyone to their horrors.”

Jason hesitated. He sized up the teen in front of him, gaze trailing across the open body language, staring at him as if waiting for tell-tale signs of dishonesty. He reined in his breathing and straightened.

Jaw set, he glanced down at Tim before returning to glaring down Robin. “We’ll only go with you if you let us go afterwards. You get your answers, we get left in the Alley. Tim’s staying with me.”

An ominous feeling settled in Tim’s gut. Eyes narrowed, he squeezed Jason’s leg to get his attention. “What do you mean he gets his answers?”

Confused incredulity took over Jason as he looked back at Tim, only to shift into something more somber. He leaned down as far as being tied to a chair would allow, eyebrows drawn into a grim line. “I messed up, Tim. It’s over. You can see the asshole’s relentless, they won’t leave us alone till they get what they want. We get a better deal if we bargain with them.”

Right. Jason had no idea Damian was coming. He probably didn’t even remember the emergency button, he couldn’t know that’s what Tim had bolted from his room for.

Not that Tim could just tell him with Robin watching their every move. Just looking at the discarded birdarang on the ground got Robin on guard – secret messages would be intercepted for sure.

He shifted, fully turning to Jason, back facing Robin to shut him out of the conversation. Flashing a hopefully-reassuring smile, he tried to put on the most trustworthy expression he could muster.

“Everything’s alright, I have a plan. Trust me,” he whispered.

Jason grimaced. “Tim...”

Someone knocked on the window.

Tim jumped at the sudden noise outside, head snapping in the direction of the sound, eyes wide in surprise.

Had Damian been closer than they’d thought? He’d gotten there awfully fast-

Except no, he hadn’t.

The one climbing through his bedroom window, sharp eyes meticulously scanning the scene, body poised for a fight, was none other than Batgirl.

×××××××××××××××

Dick thanked the heavens for Barbara Gordon’s existence.

The tension tugging at every inch of his skin left him as soon as her figure appeared in the window. He allowed his muscles to lose their tension as she made her way inside, slumping in relief.

“Please tell me you heard everything through the coms.”

“Yep.” Her posture also loosened as she sized up the two kids sitting in the middle of the room, huddled closely and eyeing her with looks ranging from distrust to hostility. “Not a talkative bunch, huh?”

Dick sighed. He hadn’t gotten far with his attempts to get information out of the boys. But it wasn’t surprising, with how protective they were of each other and the defector. Not to mention just how scary getting confronted by Robin had to be for them. Especially for Jason.

At least he’d gotten something. For starters, that who he’d believed to be the defector was actually the street kid they’d been looking for. He should’ve figured, really, what with the smaller size and the noticeably worse coordination, but he hadn’t thought that the kid grabbed from the Alley would be sent out as a distraction. Kidnapped children weren’t usually put on rooftops dressed as their kidnappers and left to their own devices.

Still, it was his mistake for not questioning all the discrepancies.

Jason had been dodgy about the purpose of his ‘recruitment’ and his role – he’d made a reference to having to protect Timothy, and he’d certainly demonstrated his dedication to that task, but he’d been tight-lipped about other obligations or why he seemed so willing to help out the defector. Dick would’ve wagered a guess that getting food and shelter with seemingly no adult supervision played a role, but he didn’t want to make any more assumptions than he already had.

On the ‘no adult supervision’ note…

“What did you think? They said it’s just the three of them.”

“Cause it is, dimwit,” Jason piped up.

“Did a sweep of the house before coming up here.” Babs gave him a ‘like you’re supposed to’ kind of look. “Signs point to only two people staying here currently. Seems to me they could be telling the truth about the boy. I don’t know about the mentor, though. If there is one, the person’s not staying here.”

“B’s pretty sure there is someone. The kid would be safer on the run if he’s really trying to get away from-” Dick pulled a face. There were adolescent witnesses present. “From the you-know-what. Staying in Gotham means he either has personal business here or someone’s directing him.”

“Who doesn’t have personal business with Scarecrow?” Timothy asked. “Everyone hates the guy.”

Dick frowned.

That was another thing. Despite not being willing to share much, the kids were insistent on defending the defector. And overly attached to him. Timothy had spoken of love, Jason of brothers – all signs were pointing to things either being more complicated or much weirder and uglier than they’d assumed. Just what had the defector told these kids to not only convince them to stay put for a week in his absence, but to outright insist on it even when offered help?

He desperately wished for it to be a misunderstanding rather than something sinister, but considering Gotham, he’d learned to expect the latter.

Which wasn’t fair. Jason and Timothy didn’t deserve to get tangled up with some manipulative love-bombing weirdo who worked through a traumatized and previously-brainwashed kid. No one deserved that.

“I still think we should find you two a different place to stay for tonight,” he said. “We can’t leave you to stay here all alone.”

“It’s just to be safe. We can talk more tomorrow,” Babs added. “This isn’t a conversation to be had when tired.”

Timothy wrinkled his nose, as if the mere suggestion of exhaustion had offended him. Jason, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be willing to argue anymore, forehead folded in deep thought and eyes fixed on the smaller boy below him.

Babs turned to Dick. “I can ask around who’d be available to take them on short notice. Can you try calling B in the meantime? He-”

“No.” Dick shook his head. “I mean- I’ll call B for you, but- But no foster care. I promised Jason.”

“Then-”

“And no police.”

Besides a pinched face, Babs didn’t bother expressing her disapproval. Still keeping an eye on the kids, she stepped over the sea of toys on Timothy’s bedroom floor to get to Dick and leaned down to reach his ear. “What about Agent A?”

Dick winced. “Not without B there. And that’s a huge escalation. They’re civilians.”

“You’re not making things easy, Boy Wonder.”

He shot her an apologetic look. “What about the commish?”

Babs drew back. “No. And you said no police.”

“He’s famously a good one!”

“Yeah, but he’s my-” Babs pressed her lips together to bite the end of the sentence off. “He’s staying at the headquarters tonight. He’s swamped with cases.”

Right. Dick had forgotten about that. Even though it was nothing new – whenever Batman left Gotham, all the work fell back on the GCPD. Or rather, the select few hardworking members it had.

“We could take them to a safehouse,” Dick suggested. “I’ve babysat before.”

Jon was a joy to babysit, and much more cooperative than Jason and Timothy, but he reckoned it still counted. Besides, he had almost a decade of experience in tending to traumatized civilians as Robin. He could take care of two for one night. Besides, maybe the boys would be more willing to give up useful information in a less confrontational environment.

Babs seemed to consider the idea, at least. “I’m for the safehouse on the edge of Otisburg. You’ll keep bugging B until he answers and comes back to Gotham ASAP, and if anything goes wrong until then, we’ll call Superman. Sounds good?”

“Sounds good.” He smiled, fully turning to the boys. They’d been exchanging whispered words – Jason looked considerably calmer when the attention was off him – but fell silent when Dick and Babs finished their discussion. “How does a sleepover at one of Batman’s safehouses sound?”

“Safehouse?” Timothy’s face betrayed a hint of worry.

“It has a special security system so it’s much harder to break into than Drake Manor,” Babs explained.

“Can we… Can we take some clothes with us?” Jason asked.

Wariness itched at the back of Dick’s neck. Personal items hadn’t at all been Jason’s priority before. He’d been outright panicking over having to go with Robin. Sure, Dick had tried to make it right for him by not involving foster care yet, but such a switch-up still felt...off.

Timothy had said he had a plan. Could that have been it?

…When Jason had jumped Dick to give Timothy a chance to flee, Timothy hadn’t tried to leave Drake Manor. He’d hidden in an office. Why, when it would’ve been clear that Dick would look for and find him?

Timothy had done something in that office. Dick had no clue what it could be, but whatever it was, the boy seemed confident it would work. And he’d just shared his plans with Jason, too, by the looks of it.

‘He’s much more capable than you realize.’ Jason had said it himself. It was easy to write Timothy off as an unwilling participant, as a tiny kid who’d stumbled into huge trouble ‘on accident’ (at least if Jason was to be believed) and had sunk so deep he couldn’t get out anymore, but it appeared he was anything but.

They needed to figure out Timothy’s involvement in the case. And keep a very close eye on him till they did.

“Only stuff you really need,” Babs replied. “It’s just one night and we have everything at the safehouse.”

Something was going to happen. If Jason wanted to take clothes with him, then they’d probably been equipped with trackers.

Meaning the four of them would either be intercepted on their way to the safehouse or attacked once inside. Not that the defector would have much success trying to break into a bat-proofed apartment.

Nonetheless, Batgirl and Robin would be prepared.

Dick walked over and began untying Jason.