Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Billy Batson is tired.

Not the kind of tired that a nap or a night’s rest can fix — not the tired you feel after running too far or skipping breakfast. No, this is the kind that digs under your ribs, the kind that burns behind your eyes and turns your bones into lead.

He hasn’t slept properly in… three days? Four? Maybe five. He stopped counting somewhere between the second night without a safe place to crash and the fifth cold bench in a row. His hoodie smells like rain and city grime, and there’s a tear at the cuff that catches on his skin every time he moves.

But none of that matters when he’s him.

When Billy says the word — that ancient, electric word — the hunger, the exhaustion, the shaking all vanish.

SHAZAM.

And suddenly, he’s fire and thunder, power and grace. A god in the flesh.

The cold is gone. The hunger, the fatigue, the ache in his chest — all erased like they never existed. The god doesn’t know exhaustion. The god doesn’t need food. The god doesn’t need anything.

Shazam doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t mumble when he talks. He doesn’t flinch when someone raises their voice or reach instinctively for a backpack that isn’t there anymore because Billy doesn’t have anything worth stealing.

Shazam doesn’t swear, either.

Billy does. A lot. It’s how you survive on the streets — words sharp enough to cut before someone else cuts you.

But Shazam? He’s the picture of heroism. He’s what kids point at on TV and say, I wanna be like him someday.

And every time Billy looks down at his glowing hands, he tries to pretend he’s that person.

Tonight, the Justice League is on another late-night mission. Some interdimensional rift thing over Metropolis — the kind of nightmare the League handles before breakfast.

Shazam stands among them, shoulder to shoulder with gods and legends. Superman nods to him, a brief, reassuring look. “You’ve got the perimeter, Marvel?”

“Of course,” Shazam answers, voice deep and confident. The voice of someone who’s never missed a meal.

He means it, too. When he’s Shazam, he can. He will.

The battle isn’t even the hard part. It’s easy, really—punch the monsters, close the rift, save the world. He’s lightning incarnate, a storm in motion. Every blow lands perfectly. Every move calculated. The League trusts him.

But then—

It ends.

The rift closes, the monsters turn to dust, and the others start to talk logistics. Superman thanks everyone, Batman’s already analyzing data, Wonder Woman offers a proud smile.

And Billy feels it again. That pull. That ache in his gut that says you’ve been Shazam too long.

The god doesn’t get tired, but the boy inside does.

He finds an alleyway once they’re dismissed. A quiet one, just behind a row of flickering streetlights. He makes sure no one’s looking before whispering the word.

“Shazam.”

The lightning strikes, and suddenly he’s fifteen again — small, hungry, shivering in an alleyway that smells like wet trash and smoke. The hoodie is back, hanging off him like a rag. His stomach twists. He hasn’t eaten since—

He can’t remember.

His knees hit the ground before he realizes it.

The weight crashes in all at once — every sleepless night, every mile walked, every skipped meal. His body trembles violently. The world tilts.

He’s so tired. So damn tired.

He curls up against the wall, trying to make himself smaller. His head droops forward. The adrenaline drains out of him like water through a sieve. His eyes sting.

It takes everything he has not to cry.

He’s Shazam. He’s supposed to be strong. He’s supposed to be—

But that’s the god. Not the boy.

The boy’s just Billy Batson. A kid without a bed. Without a family. Without a break.

And as he falls asleep, his breath shallow and uneven, a single thought echoes in the back of his head:

If Shazam is a god… then why does Billy Batson feel so damn disposable?

Billy—no.

Shazam.

It’s Shazam who gets the call.

It’s always Shazam.

The word comes through the League communicator like thunder in the middle of a stormy night. “All available members to the Watchtower. Priority One.”

Billy jerks awake on the park bench, heart pounding. His hoodie’s damp again—he must’ve fallen asleep after the rain started. His backpack’s gone. Someone must’ve taken it. Again.

Doesn’t matter.

He rubs the exhaustion from his eyes, looks up at the cloudy sky, and whispers, hoarse and quiet—

“Shazam.”

The lightning hits.

It’s instant—one second he’s a freezing kid in a city park, the next he’s divine. Warmth floods through his veins, power crackles in his chest, and the hunger, the cold, the fear—all of it—burns away in an explosion of light.

The god stands where the boy once was.

Shazam straightens, his cape fluttering lightly in the wind. The clouds don’t look so heavy anymore. The rain doesn’t reach him. The exhaustion—gone.

He doesn’t hesitate.

A flash of red and gold shoots skyward, cutting through the atmosphere.

The Watchtower waits.

By the time he steps through the teleport pad into the gleaming halls of the League’s headquarters, most of them are already there. Superman. Wonder Woman. The Flash, pacing with that restless energy he always has. Green Lantern’s ring hums faintly beside him. Martian Manhunter stands near the front, silent but commanding, eyes fixed on the holographic display hovering over the table.

And Batman—of course Batman—stands at the head of it all, cloak drawn tight, jaw set like stone.

Shazam takes his usual place, nodding respectfully. “Apologies for the delay,” he says, voice smooth, steady. A god’s voice. Not the shaky tone of a fifteen-year-old who hasn’t eaten in days.

Superman smiles. “Good to have you, Marvel.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Shazam replies.

Even though Billy would have, if he could.

Batman doesn’t waste time. He never does. The holographic display spins and flickers, showing what looks like… an energy mass. Planet-sized. Swirling red and black.

“Two hours ago,” Batman begins, voice clipped, “satellites detected an anomaly forming outside Earth’s orbit. We’ve confirmed it’s a rift—similar to the one from Metropolis last week, but far larger. It’s drawing energy from nearby stars.”

He pauses, glancing around the table. “If left unchecked, it will destabilize the planet’s gravitational field.”

In other words: world-ending. Again. When is it not world-ending?

Green Lantern whistles under his breath. “So, we’re talking what—alien weapon? Interdimensional thing? Magic?”

“Unknown,” Batman says. “But it’s growing.”

Wonder Woman leans forward, her expression solemn but steady. “We must contain it before it consumes the Earth.”

Superman nods. “Agreed. What’s the plan?”

Batman’s already got one, of course. He always does.

“Superman, Lantern—you take point. We need to contain the rift’s core before it spreads. Flash, you’re on evacuation logistics. Wonder Woman, Martian Manhunter—you handle containment and crowd control if it breaches the atmosphere.”

He turns to Shazam. “You’re our anchor. If this thing has a magical component, you’re the only one here with enough to counter it. The other magic users are off planet. It’s just you.”

Shazam straightens. The god doesn’t hesitate. The god doesn’t doubt.

“Understood,” he says. “I’ll be ready.”

But deep down, Billy’s voice flickers through like static. I’m tired. I can’t keep doing this.

The god doesn’t listen.

Batman taps a control on his wrist, and the holographic display zooms out, showing the dark shape of the rift pulsing like a second sun beyond the moon.

“Team launches in five. We move fast, stay coordinated, and end this before it reaches the atmosphere.”

Everyone nods. Chairs scrape back, armor clicks into place, boots hit metal. The air in the room changes—goes sharp, tense, charged.

Shazam can feel it. That quiet hum of anticipation. The kind that fills the air before lightning strikes.

He walks beside Superman toward the teleport bay. The Man of Steel glances at him. “You holding up, Captain Marvel?”

Shazam grins, bright and confident. “Always.”

Because gods don’t get tired.

The others file in around them. The Watchtower lights shift from calm white to warning red, signaling deployment. The teleporters hum louder, the air shimmering with cosmic energy.

For a brief second, the god glances at the reflection in the polished steel wall beside him.

For just a heartbeat, he swears he sees a boy—thin, pale, tired—staring back.

Then the light takes them.

The world folds, and the gods go to war.

Chapter Text

It’s a long fight.

Too long.

The kind that starts as a clean mission and ends as a blood-soaked scramble for survival. The kind that makes even the gods bleed.

The rift wasn’t just a tear in space—it was alive. A black hole with claws, spewing creatures made of shadow and teeth. The League fought for hours, every blow echoing through the void above Earth’s orbit.

Superman was the first to take a hit that made him grunt instead of glide. Wonder Woman’s armor had cracks running down one shoulder, glowing faintly from the energy burns. Flash’s movements were a blur of pain and adrenaline, and Lantern’s constructs were dimming from strain.

And through it all, Shazam stood in the center of it. The storm itself. Lightning flashing from his fists, voice thundering through the vacuum, every strike carrying divine force.

But something was wrong.

The god was slowing down.

At first, no one noticed. Just a half-second delay. A breath too long before the next punch. A stumble where there shouldn’t have been one.

Superman caught it first, mid-flight, as they fought back to back. “Marvel! You good?”

“Fine,” Shazam said. Too quickly. Too sharply.

But fine wasn’t true. Not even close.

Billy’s exhaustion—his human exhaustion—was seeping through the cracks in the god’s skin. Every second of sleeplessness, every skipped meal, every time his body had given up but his will hadn’t— it was catching up.

Shazam’s chest burned with fatigue. His hands trembled around the lightning. He didn’t get tired—he wasn’t supposed to—but the illusion was breaking.

And then—

Something hit him.

A blast of energy, black and red, pure void made flesh. It slammed into his chest with the force of a meteor. For a split second, the light around him flickered—like a bulb about to die.

Then the world went silent.

He hit the ground hard enough to shatter a crater into the ground beneath him. The shockwave rippled across the battlefield, sending dust and debris into the airless void. The earth below quaked.

Shazam lay there for a heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

Breathing hard. Chest heaving. The kind of exhaustion that crawled up his throat and pressed against his skull until all he could hear was his own pulse.

He hit the ground again—his fists slamming into the cracked surface with a thunderclap that made the air shudder.

“ARE WE DEADASS?!” he shouted, voice echoing across the comms.

The League froze.

“BE. SO. FUCKING. FOR REAL!”

It wasn’t the god’s voice. It wasn’t calm or divine or noble.

It was Billy’s voice. Raw, human, furious.

Lightning surged around him, wild and erratic. His eyes glowed brighter than they ever had, pupils lost to pure light. The storm broke loose.

He launched himself from the crater, a bolt of fury, electricity splitting the sky. The creature that had hit him didn’t even have time to react. Shazam hit it once—just once—and the thing disintegrated into dust and static.

Then another. And another. Every strike faster, harder, more desperate. There was no hesitation, no careful restraint. Just a god’s rage and a kid who hadn’t slept in weeks.

When the last of the monsters vanished, silence followed. The battlefield stilled.

Superman turned, blinking against the fading light. “Marvel?”

No answer.

The storm was gone.

Where Shazam had stood, there was nothing. No flash of lightning. No sound. Not even the faint hum of magic.

Just the crater.

The comms crackled once, a burst of static. Then nothing.

When the storm cleared, the world fell quiet.

The last traces of the rift faded into nothing, the energy signatures dissipating into the atmosphere. One by one, the Justice League drifted back toward the Watchtower, battered but victorious.

It should’ve been a relief.

And, for the most part, it was.

Superman clapped Lantern on the shoulder as they walked into the hangar. “We’ve had worse,” he said, with that warm, easy grin.

Flash was already sprawled across a maintenance crate, half-laughing, half-groaning. “Remind me to never fight something that literally eats stars again. My everything hurts.”

“Noted,” Wonder Woman said, amused.

Someone cracked a joke about dinner. Someone else suggested debriefing tomorrow. The mission was over. The world was safe.

And Shazam—well, he’d vanished.

Again.

“Guess he’s doing his disappearing act,” Lantern said, shrugging as he peeled off his gloves. “I swear he always does this. Dude’s mysterious like that.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like debriefs,” Flash added, wincing as he stretched.

Wonder Woman gave a small, diplomatic smile. “He is… young in spirit, perhaps? Many of the divine are unpredictable.”

Superman chuckled. “He’ll turn up. He always does.”

The conversation moved on. Reports, injuries, next steps. They didn’t worry. None of them ever did.

Because Captain Marvel—Shazam—was a god. A cosmic powerhouse. He vanished sometimes, yes, but he always came back. Unshakeable. Unbreakable.

Always fine.

Always fine.

Except—

Batman didn’t move.

He stood apart from them, half-shadowed, cape torn and cowl cracked at the jawline. The others were already talking about repairs, debriefs, strategy notes. Batman didn’t hear any of it.

That moment. The sound of Shazam’s voice wasn’t something he’d forget easily. Not a god’s fury. Not divine wrath.

No—he’d heard it before.

“ARE WE DEADASS?! BE. SO. FUCKING. FOR REAL!”

The words still echoed in his head. Raw. Human. Desperate.

That wasn’t the anger of someone untouchable. That was the voice of someone holding back tears. Someone pushed past breaking point.

Bruce knew that sound. He’d heard it in the cave a hundred times, through clenched teeth and cracked voices.

It wasn’t the voice of a god. It wasn’t anger born of battle. Batman knew rage—real rage. He’d lived it. Raised it. Buried it and watched it bloom again in every one of his kids.

That wasn’t just fury. That was exhaustion.

He’d seen it in Dick, when he push himself past the point of breaking because he couldn’t stand to let anyone down.

He’d seen it in Jason, the slumped shoulders, the bitter jokes that weren’t really jokes.

In Tim, after too many nights at the computer with just coffee.

In Damian, trying to pretend he wasn’t lonely.

In Cass, silent but shaking.

In Steph, laughing while she bled.

In Duke, hiding the tremor in his hands after a 48-hour patrol.

That tone—the exhaustion, the near-hysterical edge of someone who couldn’t carry another ounce of weight—Bruce recognized it instantly.

And suddenly, all those tiny oddities clicked together in his mind.

The way Shazam sometimes flinched when someone called him “kid” as a joke.

The way he disappeared without a word.

The awkward pauses, the half-second delays when someone mentioned childhood.

The strange mix of awe and naivety hidden under confidence.

Not a god.

Not an ancient warrior.

Someone pretending to be one.

Someone young.

The realization hit like a cold knife twisting in his chest.

Bruce didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask for help. Didn’t tell the others what he’d figured out—or what he feared was true.

They didn’t need to know. Not yet.

The League saw Shazam as untouchable. If Bruce was right, if the truth got out too soon, they’d handle him differently. They’d treat him like a liability. A risk.

And Bruce didn’t want that.

No—if this really was a kid, he deserved privacy. Protection. A chance.

So Batman stayed silent.

He slipped away as the others talked, unnoticed except for the faint whisper of his cape. He moved through the Watchtower corridors, fingers already flying across his wrist computer, searching for traces of divine energy, magical residue—anything.

Nothing.

Not even a whisper.

“Clever,” he muttered under his breath. “Too clever for an adult.”

He switched tactics. Global scans. Lightning surges. Unexplained power fluctuations.

Still nothing.

He paused, staring at the blank monitor. The hum of the Watchtower felt loud all of a sudden.

It had been a long time since something truly unsettled him.

He knew how to track gods. Monsters. Metahumans. He’d even found people who didn’t want to be found.

But this?

This was different.

Because he wasn’t hunting a threat.

He was looking for a child.

And he had no idea where that child might be sleeping tonight.

Where he’d get a meal.

Someone to keep him safe.

Bruce exhaled slowly, the weight of it heavy.

He turned the monitor off, the light vanishing from his eyes. For a long moment, he just stood there in the dark, silent and still, before murmuring quietly to no one—

“…You’re not as unbreakable as we think you are, are you?”

Then, without another sound, he walked toward the Zeta-Tube.

The others would assume he was going back to Gotham. Business as usual.

And he’d let them.

Because Batman didn’t share theories until he had proof.

And this wasn’t a theory he could afford to get wrong.

Not when the evidence looked too much like every broken, brilliant kid he’d ever tried—and failed—to protect.

Chapter Text

The Batcave was quiet when Bruce returned.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that clung to the ribs and made every keystroke sound like thunder. The hum of the computer filled the cavern, low and constant, mingling with the drip of water from the stalactites high above.

He didn’t tell the others where he was going.

He didn’t tell the League.

He didn’t tell his family.

And he didn’t tell Alfred.

(Though, of course, Alfred already knew. Alfred always knew.)

The Batcomputer lit up the cave in a cold, blue glow as Bruce worked. Screens opened and closed, data feeds from satellites flickering across his eyes. Every keystroke was deliberate, methodical—dissecting patterns, cross-referencing files, eliminating false leads.

He’d done this a thousand times before, tracing the faintest evidence of a missing person, a criminal, a god. But this time was different.

He wasn’t tracking a suspect.

He wasn’t even tracking a hero.

He was tracking a kid.

And he didn’t want to be right.

He started with Fawcett City. It made sense. That was where Shazam had first appeared. Where the lightning struck most often.

Even now, years after the first sighting, there were still reports.

Random lightning strikes on clear days.

Thunder with no storm.

Flashes of light that left scorch marks on the ground—and, sometimes, witnesses swearing they saw someone standing there one second and gone the next.

Bruce scrolled through dozens of incident reports. His jaw tightened.

Each strike was unpredictable, erratic. The energy readings were always the same—ancient magic, divine in origin. Every trail ended the same way: nowhere.

But he kept going.

He checked surveillance cameras, weather data, cell phone footage. He mapped every strike over the past six months, creating a constellation of impossible lightning across the city grid.

Then, quietly, he pulled up the public records.

Missing persons.

Runaways.

Children who’d vanished without a trace.

One by one, their faces filled the screen. Grainy photos, smiling portraits from school IDs, security stills—dozens of them. Bruce went through them all.

Night blurred into morning, and still he sat there, his eyes dry, his shoulders locked.

One file after another. Every lost kid, every runaway. He knew the signs—he’d seen them in Gotham, in Crime Alley, in his own home. The system failed these kids long before the streets did.

He saw the same pattern, over and over.

Too many moves.

Too many “behavioral issues.”

Too many “uncooperative subjects.”

And then—

There.

William Batson.

Age: 15.

Status: Missing.

Reported: Four days ago.

Last known address: Fawcett City, foster residence under the Robins family.

The report was short. A single page. He’d “run away again,” it said.

Again.

Bruce opened the history.

Multiple runaways over the past three years.

Several placements.

Repeated behavioral notes: “defiant,” “uncommunicative,” “secretive.”

A pattern. A desperate one.

The last note from the caseworker caught Bruce’s attention:

“Family appears stable but overwhelmed. William has been resistant to authority and often disappears for days at a time. He’s resourceful—possibly sleeping on the streets. Police have been notified, but given his history, no further action is expected unless foul play is confirmed.”

Bruce’s hands stilled on the keyboard.

A fifteen-year-old boy.

A serial runaway.

A foster system ghost no one cared enough to chase.

And lightning strikes following his disappearances.

The same pattern. Every single time.

Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose, a near-silent sound. He leaned back in the chair, staring at the screen, the blue light washing over his face.

It wasn’t confirmation. Not yet. But it was close enough that his chest felt heavy.

If he was right—if William Batson was Shazam—then the Justice League had been working alongside a kid barely older than Damian.

And none of them knew.

Bruce shut his eyes for a second. The weight of it pressed down like lead.

He thought of that voice again—raw, tired, angry.

“ARE WE DEADASS? BE. SO. FUCKING. FOR REAL!”

Not divine.

Not ancient.

Just… fifteen.

He didn’t want to imagine what kind of exhaustion could drive a child like that to scream in the middle of a war.

And he didn’t want to imagine what kind of life forced a boy to hide behind a god.

He reopened his eyes and started a new file.

Subject: William Batson.

Age: 15.

Location: Fawcett City.

Status: Missing.

Possible alias: Shazam.

A quiet voice interrupted from behind him.

“You’ll burn your eyes out staring at that screen all night, Master Bruce.”

Bruce didn’t look back. “I didn’t tell you I was home.”

A faint, amused hum. “You never do. That doesn’t make it any harder to notice when you are.”

He could hear the faint clink of porcelain as Alfred set a cup of tea on the console beside him.

“You’re searching for someone,” Alfred said softly. “Someone young.”

Bruce didn’t respond.

He didn’t have to.

Alfred’s voice gentled. “You’ve got that look again. The one you wear when it’s a child. It’s never just the mission, then.”

Bruce stared at the glowing file on the screen. The photo attached to the report showed a boy with dark hair, tired eyes, and a grin that didn’t quite reach them.

“…He’s not what we thought,” Bruce said finally.

“I know,” Alfred replied simply. “You wouldn’t be down here if he was.”

The detective’s jaw tightened. “He’s a kid, Alfred. Fifteen. Alone. The system failed him.”

“And so you intend not to.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I’ll prepare another room.”

Bruce didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He turned back to the screen, tracing the pattern of lightning across the map of Fawcett City with one gloved finger.

Each strike was another cry for help.

And he was going to find the boy behind them.

Even if it meant tearing the sky apart to do it.

Bruce didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

Not the League. Not the family. Not Alfred—though Alfred had left a neatly packed bag sitting beside the hangar door before Bruce even reached it, as if he’d known exactly what his son would do the moment he found that name: William Batson.

He didn’t use the Batwing. Too distinct. Too loud. Too… Batman.

Instead, he took one of the smaller, unmarked crafts—sleek and quiet, built for distance, not combat. The kind of plane that could pass as a private WayneTech prototype. No insignias. No red glow. Nothing that screamed “vigilante billionaire.”

Just Bruce Wayne, philanthropist.

He didn’t put on the cowl or suit.

This wasn’t a mission.

Not yet.

It was a search.

He wasn’t tracking a criminal. He wasn’t chasing a lead. He was looking for a fifteen-year-old boy who the world didn’t notice had gone missing—because the world didn’t notice kids like that at all.

It was a two-hour flight to Fawcett City. The air was calm, the night clear, the city below glittering faintly in the dark. But Bruce’s mind wasn’t calm. He replayed everything he’d read, every lightning strike, every note in those foster system records.

Fifteen.

Multiple runaways.

Behavioral issues.

Vanished four days ago.

And no one was looking for him.

Bruce adjusted the controls, jaw set. “Hang on, kid,” he murmured under his breath. “I’m coming.”

The plane cut through the clouds, silent and fast.

He didn’t hear the soft scuff of movement behind him.

Didn’t notice the faint blue light of a phone screen glowing near the storage bay.

Didn’t realize that one of the shelves in the back—just big enough to fit a very small, very stubborn fifteen-year-old—was currently occupied.

Damian had been there since takeoff.

He hadn’t said a word. He’d simply followed his father down to the hangar, unseen, ducked into the back of the craft before the engines even came online, and stayed hidden.

He didn’t know exactly what Bruce was doing—but he knew his father was hiding something. Something serious.

So he watched. Drew absentmindedly on his phone to pass the time. Listened to the hum of the engine and the steady, deliberate breaths of the man in the pilot’s seat.

Bruce Wayne might be the greatest detective alive, but Damian Wayne was his son.

And he was better at noticing when something was off.

The flight passed in near-perfect silence. The only sounds were the hum of the engines and the faint blue light as Damian drew quietly on the screen of his phone.

Bruce never turned around.

He didn’t sense the boy’s presence—not over the noise in his own head.

He was thinking about lightning. About boys who wore the masks of gods. About exhaustion and broken voices and what it meant for a child to save the world while the world failed to save him.

By the time the plane reached Fawcett airspace, dawn was a thin silver line along the horizon.

Bruce set the craft down just outside the city limits, in a clearing behind an abandoned factory. He powered down the engines, slipped on a black jacket over his button up shirt, and checked the mini map on his wristwatch.

The first lightning strike from two nights ago had hit less than a mile away. A neighborhood near the industrial district—half boarded-up houses, half empty storefronts.

He didn’t waste time.

He stepped out into the crisp morning air, gravel crunching underfoot, mind already calculating routes, possibilities, contingencies—

Then he stopped.

Because behind him, the faint sound of a latch clicking open echoed through the quiet.

He turned.

And there, stepping down from the back of the craft like he owned it, was Damian.

Hands in his pockets. Superboy sweatshirt pressed without a wrinkle. The picture of calm irritation.

He slipped his phone away, like he’d been caught sneaking snacks instead of smuggling himself across state lines.

“Father,” he said evenly.

Bruce blinked once. “Damian.”

There was no anger in his tone. Just tired resignation.

“I don’t recall authorizing passengers,” Bruce said, crossing his arms.

“I don’t recall needing your authorization,” Damian shot back. “You’re clearly on a mission. You left without notifying anyone, and Alfred was ‘strangely’ silent about it. Which means he knows, which means it’s important.”

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t a mission.”

“Then what is it?”

“A private investigation.”

Damian tilted his head. “Which I am now part of.”

“You’re going back to Gotham.”

“I’m already here.”

“Damian.”

“Father.”

They stared at each other—an immovable force and an unstoppable child—until Bruce exhaled sharply and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Stubborn.”

Damian smiled, just a little. Victory.

Bruce adjusted his collar, setting his expression back to neutral. “Stay close. Stay hidden. And do not interfere.”

“Understood.”

He fell into step beside Bruce, eyes already scanning their surroundings with practiced precision.

“Who are we looking for?” he asked after a moment.

Bruce hesitated.

He didn’t want to say it. Not yet. Not until he was certain.

But as they walked toward the city, the sky rumbled faintly above them—clear skies, no clouds—and in the distance, a single bolt of lightning split the dawn.

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t answer Damian’s question.

But Damian noticed the way his father’s eyes followed that lightning bolt. The way his shoulders tensed just slightly.

The way his silence wasn’t just secrecy—

but worry.

And Damian, for all his sharpness, didn’t ask again.

Not yet.

They kept walking. The city waited ahead—quiet, unsuspecting, and hiding the boy who was both storm and child.

And Bruce Wayne had come to find him.

Chapter Text

Fawcett City was quieter than Gotham, but no less heavy. The air carried a strange stillness—like something was waiting to happen.

Bruce walked the streets with his hands in his coat pockets, posture casual but eyes sharp, scanning every reflection, every window, every face that lingered too long. Damian followed half a step behind, looking the part of a surly teenager dragged along for “quality time.”

It wasn’t hard for them to blend in. Fawcett wasn’t a city that asked questions. It was old brick and faded neon, small-town charm built on top of urban weariness. People were polite enough, but their smiles didn’t reach their eyes.

They’d started at the foster home.

A beige, two-story building with a peeling porch and a tired woman who clearly hadn’t slept in three days. Bruce had knocked with the polite warmth of a concerned donor.

“Wayne Foundation,” he’d said, offering his business card. “We’re reviewing state-funded facilities for potential grants.”

She’d blinked at him like she couldn’t believe her luck. “You’re him? Oh—oh, come in, please!”

Inside, the air smelled faintly of instant coffee and detergent. Toys littered the corners. A TV hummed low in the background.

Bruce kept his tone even, his smile faint but kind. “You’ve had a lot of kids through here, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” she sighed. “Hard to keep track sometimes. But they’re good kids, mostly.”

He nodded. “You ever have one named William Batson?”

The pause told him everything.

Her hands froze around her coffee mug. “Billy?”

“…Yes.”

She sighed, eyes softening—but not with worry. With exhaustion. “That boy… he’s a good kid, just… too wild for his own good. Always running off. I swear, I tried. We all did. But he doesn’t like to stay anywhere.”

“Why?” Damian asked from beside him, voice clipped.

The woman hesitated. “I think he’s scared of getting attached,” she said finally. “You know how some kids are. When life teaches you not to trust anyone, it’s hard to unlearn.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw tightened slightly.

They thanked her, left politely, and kept walking.

Everywhere they went, it was the same story.

A kid people barely noticed. A name that faded faster than a lightning flash.

A handful of store owners remembered him—vague mentions of a polite boy asking for odd jobs, or a small figure lingering near the bus stop late at night. But no one had seen him recently. No one looked too hard.

Because kids like that… disappeared all the time.

They’d been at it for hours. Walking block after block. Asking questions. Following faint rumors. Nothing.

Damian was silent most of the time, but Bruce could feel the boy’s eyes on him—watching how he worked, how he asked, how every “friendly chat” was really an interrogation.

The sun dipped lower, painting Fawcett in golds and blues. Bruce checked his watch. “We’ll circle back through the industrial district. Then head out.”

Damian just nodded.

They walked another few blocks before Bruce stopped. His instincts prickled. The hair on his arms rose.

And then—

CRACK.

A bolt of lightning slammed into the air a few streets over.

The sound was deafening. A single flash that split the sky—and vanished.

No clouds. No rain. Just that one impossible strike.

Damian’s eyes snapped up, scanning the sky. “There’s no storm.”

Bruce was already moving.

He pulled his hood up, face darkened by the shadow of the fabric. His voice was low. “We move.”

Without a word, Damian pulled up the superboy hood and reached into his pocket, he handed something to his father—a black domino mask.

Bruce stared at it for half a second.

“Of course you brought these,” he muttered.

Damian smirked faintly. “Always prepared.”

He slipped on his own mask, already darting into the nearest alley. Bruce followed. The change was instant—civilian to shadow. Their movements shifted, sharper, more precise.

They scaled a fire escape in silence. The metal barely made a sound beneath them. The city blurred below as they rose to the rooftops.

From above, the faint smoke of the lightning strike was visible—a thin plume twisting up from a block near the edge of the old market district.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Half a mile. East.”

They moved.

Rooftop to rooftop. Fast. Controlled.

Damian ran ahead, small and quick, leaping gaps like he was born to do it. Bruce followed with silent strength, his longer strides keeping pace easily.

Below them, the city’s noise dimmed. No traffic. No shouting. Just the wind and the faint hum of energy that seemed to hang in the air after that strike.

They crossed another alley, the smell of smoke growing stronger. Bruce felt the charge in the air—too strong. It wasn’t just lightning. It was magic.

They slowed as they approached the source.

A burned-out intersection came into view, the pavement cracked and smoking. A streetlight had been split in half, the metal twisted into molten ribbons. A car alarm wailed weakly nearby.

But no one screamed. No one ran.

The street was empty.

Damian dropped down first, landing lightly on one knee. His gaze swept the area. “No body. No burn pattern consistent with human contact.”

Bruce joined him, crouching to study the scorch mark. It wasn’t random. The center was focused—a perfect circle. Like lightning had struck one point.

And that point was gone.

No debris. No shoe prints. Nothing.

Just silence.

Bruce stared at it for a long moment, the storm reflected in his eyes though the sky above remained clear.

He could feel the echo of it—the same energy he’d seen when Shazam fought.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

Damian straightened beside him, eyes sharp. “He was here.”

Bruce nodded once.

They looked up at the night sky, the stars blurred by faint traces of smoke.

And somewhere in the distance, the air rumbled again.

Not thunder.

Magic.

They moved toward the sound.

The bell over the door gave a tired jingle when Billy pushed it open.

The sound barely carried over the low hum of the diner’s flickering lights. One bulb near the front window buzzed like it was trying to die but couldn’t quite manage it. The smell of old grease and burnt coffee filled the air—strong, stale, but familiar.

It was home.

Or the closest thing to it.

The place didn’t have a name anymore. The sign out front had lost half its letters years ago, leaving only “24/7 DIN—.” Nobody cared enough to fix it. It was the kind of place you passed without noticing. The kind of place that was only ever occupied by people passing through town, homeless people or drug deals waiting to happen.

A hole in the wall between two abandoned storefronts. Three booths, four barstools, one worker who did everything.

Billy knew it well.

He slipped in quietly, shoulders hunched, hood up. The bell chimed again and the man behind the counter—Frank, or maybe Fred; Billy could never remember which—didn’t even look up from his paper.

Just muttered, “Back again, kid?”

“Yeah,” Billy mumbled, voice rough. “Just gonna sit for a bit.”

“Long as you don’t bother anyone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Frank/Fred didn’t push. He never did. That’s why Billy came here.

He shuffled toward the corner booth, the one near the back where the lights didn’t quite reach unless they flickered bright. The blue and white vinyl was cracked, the table sticky no matter how many times someone wiped it down, and the air vent above rattled every few minutes like a dying car engine.

Perfect.

He dropped down into the booth and exhaled shakily. His legs felt like lead. His stomach cramped from hunger, twisting in ways that made him want to fold in on himself. He hadn’t eaten since—

He didn’t even know.

He set his book bag on the bench beside him. The zipper was half-broken, and the bag itself looked worse than he did. He unzipped it anyway, peering inside.

Nothing.

Completely cleaned out.

Whoever had gone through it and left it in the subway had been thorough—they’d taken everything. The few crumpled bills he’d managed to save. His spare gloves. Even the stupid little notebook he’d been using to keep track of where it was “safe” to sleep for a few hours.

Gone.

He rubbed his face hard with both hands, biting back the burn in his throat.

He was so tired.

Not the kind of tired a nap could fix. The kind that lived in his bones.

Every time he powered down, the exhaustion slammed into him like a truck. Every bruise, every sleepless night, every skipped meal—his body remembered all of it.

When he was Shazam, it was easy to forget. Gods didn’t starve. Gods didn’t ache. Gods didn’t sleep on benches and hope no one bothered them before sunrise.

But right now, sitting in this half-dead diner under the buzz of flickering lights, he wasn’t a god.

He was just Billy Batson.

And Billy Batson was wrecked.

He pulled his hood up further, blocking out the world as best he could, then slid down in the booth until his head rested on the tabletop. It was cool against his cheek.

He turned his face away from the light, towards the window with the dead street lamp and grabbed his bag, tugging it toward him. It made a decent pillow—thin, empty, but better than nothing.

He curled one arm under it and pressed his forehead against it. His eyelids felt heavy.

Around him, the diner moved in slow motion. The sizzle of something half-heartedly frying on the griddle. The clink of a mug being set down. The soft shuffle of someone entering and leaving without speaking.

Billy let the sounds blur together.

For a few minutes, he almost let himself drift.

Then—

“Hey, kid.”

The voice came from the counter. The worker again.

Billy cracked one eye open. “Mmph?”

“You want something to drink? You look half-dead.”

He blinked blearily, trying to focus. His throat was dry enough to hurt. “…Water?”

The man nodded, grabbed a glass, filled it from the tap, and set it on the counter.

Billy didn’t move for a second, then sighed and dragged himself up enough to go get it. His legs wobbled on the way, but he managed. He took the glass carefully, nodding in thanks before returning to his booth.

He sipped it slowly, every swallow feeling like it took more energy than he had left.

The water didn’t fix anything. But it helped him pretend, for a few minutes, that he was okay.

That maybe he wasn’t falling apart.

He set the glass down and laid his head back on his bag, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself.

Outside, thunder rumbled faintly. But there were no clouds.

Billy didn’t notice.

He was already asleep.

The worker behind the counter looked up once, saw the kid out cold in the corner, and just sighed.

“Damn city,” he muttered, turning the page of his newspaper.

They’d checked every alley within a six-block radius. No damage. No body. No trace. Just faint scorch marks that faded faster than they could analyze them.

Damian was growing restless. “If he was here, he’s gone now,” he muttered, crouching to check a set of boot prints near a dumpster. “The pattern’s inconsistent. Someone else walked through here.”

“He doesn’t leave trails,” Bruce said quietly, scanning the rooftops from above. “Not when he doesn’t want to be found.”

That earned him a look. “You’re talking about him like a trained operative.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “He’s surviving. There’s a difference.”

They leapt to the next rooftop, silent but in sync. The night air was cool, the city lights stretching out like a sea of flickering stars.

A few blocks ahead, the faint neon sign of a diner flickered 24/7 DIN—. A tired light, half-dead, half-alive. The kind of place that was invisible until you needed it most.

They were about to pass it when Damian stopped abruptly.

“Father,” he said, voice sharp but low.

Bruce followed his line of sight—and froze.

Through the grimy diner window, beneath the buzzing fluorescent light, sat a boy.

Red hoodie. Damian’s age. Black hair sticking out at odd angles. Backpack tucked under his head as a pillow. His face was half hidden by his hood, but even from here, Bruce could see the exhaustion written across him.

It was the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from battle.

It came from life.

For a moment, Bruce didn’t breathe.

Damian’s tone softened, barely a whisper. “It’s him.”

Bruce nodded once. “It’s him.”

They stood there in silence, the realization heavy between them.

Then Bruce said quietly, “Let’s go.”

They dropped soundlessly into the alley beside the diner. Gravel shifted under their boots. The hum of the city felt distant.

“Take off the domino mask,” Bruce said softly.

“Father, if he recognizes us—”

“He won’t.” Bruce’s voice was low, but it carried weight. “He doesn’t know the truth. And even if he did…” He paused, eyes drifting toward the diner’s flickering light. “He’s a child. Alone. We know who he is, Damian. The least we can do is the same.”

For a second, Damian looked like he wanted to argue—but the set of Bruce’s jaw told him it wasn’t up for debate.

He sighed, tugged the domino from his face, and stuffed it into his pocket. “Fine.”

He kept the hood of his sweatshirt up anyway, muttering, “I’m still keeping this.”

Bruce gave a faint exhale that might have been a chuckle. He removed his own hood, tucking the mask away. Without the cowl or domino, he looked older. Softer. More human.

Together, they crossed the short distance to the diner’s back door. The bell chimed weakly as they entered.

The worker behind the counter barely glanced up. Just two more late-night faces in a city full of them.

They didn’t speak as they approached the booth.

Billy stirred at the sound of footsteps. His head lifted slowly from his makeshift pillow, eyes half-lidded, unfocused.

“Sorry, dude,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. “This one’s taken—”

Then he froze.

Blink.

Blink.

His brain caught up with his eyes.

“Wait—”

The hooded teenager standing across from him looked vaguely familiar. But the man next to him—that man—was unmistakable. Perfectly pressed jacket. Sharp, unreadable expression. The kind of calm power that didn’t need to be announced.

Billy’s breath hitched. His exhaustion cracked into pure disbelief.

“Holy— shit, you’re— you’re Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. Just gave a faint, almost apologetic nod.

Damian’s lips twitched upward—not quite a smirk, not quite friendly either. “And you’re sitting in our booth.” Bruce just let out a sigh at his son's words.

Billy blinked at him, eyes flicking between the two Waynes like his brain had officially blue-screened.

“What—what are you even doing in fawcett?” His voice cracked slightly. He sat up straighter, trying to play it cool, but his heart was pounding. “Did I—uh—did I wander into, like, a billionaire secret diner or something? I swear I’ll leave—”

Bruce raised a hand gently. “It’s all right, Billy.”

Billy froze again.

He hadn’t said his name.

“…How do you know—”

Bruce didn’t answer. He just sat down across from him, movements deliberate but calm, like he was afraid of scaring him off. Damian slid into the seat beside his father, his hood still up, arms crossed.

The worker behind the counter didn’t even look over. It was just the three of them in that flickering corner of the diner—the billionaire, his quiet son, and the boy who carried the responsibilities of a god inside him.

Billy shifted uneasily in his seat. His hands fidgeted with the strap of his bag. He looked from Bruce to Damian, then back again.

“What do you want?” he asked finally, voice small but edged with suspicion.

Bruce met his eyes. And though the man didn’t say it, something in his expression softened.

He saw the tremor in Billy’s fingers. The way he tried to look alert but could barely keep his eyes open. The way his shoulders tensed like he expected to be yelled at, or told to leave.

Bruce recognized that look. He’d seen it on every one of his children—every time they were more afraid of being seen than being hurt.

“We just want to talk,” Bruce said quietly.

Billy’s jaw worked, like he wanted to come up with something clever to say—but couldn’t find the strength.

He glanced toward the door like he was considering bolting.

Then the bell over the counter jingled faintly as the wind pushed through the cracked window, and he slumped back down, too tired to run.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Talk.”

Outside, thunder rolled faintly again—one small, impossible sound in a cloudless sky.

The storm had finally found its center.

Chapter Text

For a long moment, no one spoke.

The hum of the diner’s old ceiling fan filled the silence. The one worker—half-asleep behind the counter—didn’t even look up. The world outside the grimy windows stayed still.

Bruce Wayne sat across from a kid who looked too tired to stand. Damian sat beside him, quiet but watchful, eyes sharp even beneath his hood.

Billy shifted in the booth, rubbing a hand over his face. His hair stuck up in a dozen directions, his red hoodie wrinkled and stained. He looked small. Just a fifteen-year-old who’d seen too much.

Bruce could see it all. The exhaustion. The hunger. The distrust.

He knew that look.

So before he said anything, he raised a hand to get the worker’s attention.

“Can I get two plates?” he asked, voice calm, polite. “Anything hot. And a coffee if you don’t mind.”

The man blinked, caught off guard that Bruce Wayne—Bruce Wayne—was still here, but eventually nodded and shuffled off toward the grill.

Billy’s eyes narrowed instantly. “What’s that for?”

“You haven’t eaten,” Bruce said simply.

Billy frowned. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Damian gave a small huff, leaning back in the booth. “You look like you haven’t eaten since last week.”

“Gee, thanks,” Billy muttered.

“You’re welcome.”

Bruce gave Damian a quiet look, his son muttered under his breath and busied himself with examining the salt shaker.

When the food came, the smell hit hard—eggs, pancakes, bacon, all cheap and greasy, but real. Billy’s stomach twisted painfully at the scent. He tried not to look interested, but his body betrayed him.

Bruce gestured slightly toward the plate. “Eat.”

Billy stared at him, suspicious. “Why?”

“Because you need it.”

“I didn’t ask for—”

Bruce didn’t press. Just took his coffee and began drinking quietly while glancing at Damian. Damian followed suit, taking his plate like this was just a normal breakfast… late at night.

Billy hesitated another few seconds, staring between them. Then, finally, hunger won. He picked up the fork and started eating fast. Too fast. Like someone who wasn’t sure when the next meal would come.

Bruce didn’t say anything. He just waited.

When Billy slowed, the edge of panic fading into drowsy relief, Bruce finally spoke.

“Billy,” he said softly.

The boy looked up, wary.

Bruce leaned forward slightly. “We know who you are.”

Billy froze. Fork halfway to his mouth.

His voice came out small. “What?”

Bruce didn’t raise his tone, didn’t let it carry past the booth. “We know who you are,” he repeated, deliberately vague. “You don’t have to hide it.”

For a heartbeat, Billy didn’t move. Then he laughed. It was sharp, humorless, the kind of sound that tried to be brave and only came out scared.

“Okay, yeah, sure,” he said quickly. “You know me. Totally. I’m—what? A runaway kid from Fawcett? You gonna call my foster family or something? Because good luck. They don’t care.”

Bruce didn’t respond. Just watched him quietly.

And Billy hated that.

His fingers clenched around the fork. “What do you mean you ‘know who I am’? You don’t know anything about me.”

“Billy—”

“Don’t call me that!” he snapped. The panic bled through now. “How—how do you even know my name?!”

His breath hitched. His pulse was racing.

Bruce kept his voice steady. “We’re not here to hurt you. Or expose you.”

“Expose me?” Billy’s eyes widened. He sat up straighter. “Wait—wait, what does that mean? You think—”

He broke off, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “I don’t know what you think you know, but you don’t know anything about me.”

Damian shifted slightly, hand twitching toward his pocket, but Bruce raised a hand, silencing him.

“Billy,” Bruce said again, firm but not harsh. “We won’t tell anyone.”

The boy didn’t believe him. He was shaking his head, too fast, too scared. “No. What are you even talking about! I’m not—”

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes darting to the single worker still reading his paper. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Please don’t tell anyone. I’ll do whatever you want. Please.”

Bruce met his gaze. And for the first time in a long while, there was no detective, no billionaire, no Batman—just a man looking at a frightened kid.

“I won’t,” Bruce said quietly. “You have my word.”

Billy wanted to believe him. He really did. But the world had taught him that adults who promised safety usually didn’t mean it.

Bruce could see it in the way Billy’s fingers trembled on the edge of the table. The way his eyes darted to the door, to the window, to every possible escape route.

Slowly, Bruce reached into his coat pocket. “You don’t have to trust me,” he said softly. “But you deserve to know who’s asking you to.”

He set something on the table.

A small, innocuous device. Matte black. Compact. Looked like a fancy radio or maybe a pager to anyone else.

But to them—it wasn’t just a device.

Billy’s breath hitched. His eyes flicked from the comm to Bruce, then to Damian.

Then back to the comm.

His mind spun. No way.

He looked again—really looked—at the way they sat. The way they carried themselves.

The precision. The calm. The quiet control.

And suddenly the hoods, the masks, the flight—it all clicked.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

He stared at Bruce. Then Damian.

The way the older man’s shoulders squared when he said his name. The way the younger one’s stance screamed training.

He realized it all at once—who they were when they weren’t pretending to be normal.

“You’re—shit, you’re Ba—,” Billy stammered, panic creeping up his throat. “Fuck—.”

Bruce didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Billy’s chair scraped hard against the floor as he stood, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “I have to go.”

“Billy—”

“No, you don’t get it!” His voice cracked. “You can’t—I can’t—”

He was already backing away.

The worker glanced up once, uninterested, then went back to his paper.

Billy’s heart was pounding so loud it hurt. He didn’t wait to hear what Bruce would say next.

He turned and bolted.

Out the door, past the flickering neon sign, into the cold night.

The bell above the door jingled as it slammed shut behind him.

Damian was on his feet in an instant. “I’ll get him.”

But before he could take a step, a gloved hand caught his shoulder.

“Father—”

Bruce shook his head once. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes followed the door.

“Let him run,” he said quietly.

Damian frowned. “He’s just a child.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because he’s been running his whole life,” Bruce said softly. “running is how he survives.”

Outside, lightning cracked faintly again, far away.

And the boy in the red hoodie disappeared into the night.

Bruce walked with his hands in the pockets of his coat, hood up against the chill. He looked almost like a normal man—almost. The people who passed gave him curious glances, but no one stopped him. Fawcett wasn’t the kind of place where anyone asked questions they didn’t need to.

Beside him, Damian stalked through the cracked sidewalks, his posture sharp with irritation.

“This is pointless,” he muttered for what must’ve been the tenth time in the last hour.

Bruce didn’t respond.

“I could’ve had him tracked by now,” Damian pressed, his voice low but edged with impatience. “You know that, Father. He left prints, stray fibers, probably half a trail of lightning residue. It wouldn’t even take me fifteen minutes—”

“We’re not hunting him,” Bruce interrupted quietly.

Damian frowned up at him. “That’s what it looks like we’re doing.”

Bruce gave him a look that managed to be calm and firm all at once. “We’re finding him. Not cornering him.”

Damian exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath. “Semantics.”

They kept walking. The city was smaller than Gotham—louder in color but quieter in sound. Billboards painted with washed-out smiles loomed over tired storefronts. Stray cats darted through alleyways, and the occasional flash of blue from police lights reflected off puddles.

Every few blocks, Bruce would stop and glance around, eyes scanning rooftops, corners, bus stops. He didn’t call out Billy’s name—didn’t risk drawing attention.

But he looked. Carefully. Patiently.

Damian, on the other hand, fidgeted every few steps. His hood was up, a pair of earbuds in though no music played. He was pretending to be a regular teenager walking with his father, though anyone who looked closely would see the way he scanned his surroundings, cataloging every shadow.

After another block of silence, he huffed.

“He’s just a few months younger than me,” Damian said, quietly this time. “He shouldn’t be living like this.”

Bruce’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second. “No. He shouldn’t.”

“Then why aren’t we—”

“Because,” Bruce said gently, “he’s terrified. If you chase someone who’s been running his whole life, they don’t stop. They just run faster.”

Damian didn’t answer. He kicked a loose pebble down the sidewalk. “You’re infuriatingly patient.”

Bruce smiled down at his son. “I’ve had practice.”

They walked for another hour, moving through the rougher parts of town—places where cracked signs and empty buildings outnumbered people. Bruce’s eyes caught small things: a half-eaten sandwich near a dumpster, a torn school flier with faded handwriting on the back, a string from a hoodie sleeve snagged on a chain-link fence.

He didn’t say anything, but Damian noticed too. The boy’s eyes narrowed.

“He’s close,” he said.

Bruce nodded once. “Stay calm. No sudden movements.”

Damian rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He tugged his hood lower over his face, following his father silently into a narrow alley that smelled faintly of wet cardboard and engine oil.

At first, it looked empty. Just a row of dumpsters and the remains of someone’s sleeping bag shoved behind them.

Then Damian caught movement—a flash of red near the back wall.

A boy.

Billy Batson.

He was kneeling by a tipped-over trash bin, shoving things into his frayed backpack with fast, jerky movements. The bag itself was ripped near the zipper, stuffed with a few crumpled notebooks, a hoodie, and what looked like two cans of soup. All that he probably just took from a dumpster. His fingers trembled as he worked.

He looked thinner in the dim lighting of the street lamp. The circles under his eyes darker.

And he was muttering under his breath—something too quiet to make out but that sounded like a half-formed pep talk.

Bruce motioned for Damian to stay back.

Damian ignored him, stepping closer. “He’s preparing to run again.”

“Damian,” Bruce said quietly.

But Damian had already moved forward a few steps. Not enough to be threatening—but enough for Billy to notice.

The sound of a footstep on gravel made Billy’s head snap up. His eyes went wide the instant he recognized them.

“Seriously?” he said hoarsely, already shoving the last of his things into the bag. “You followed me?”

Bruce lifted his hands slightly, palms out in a gesture of peace. “Billy—”

“No!” Billy’s voice cracked. “You don’t get it, okay? You can’t just—just show up and act like everything’s fine! You can’t!”

Damian frowned. “We’re trying to help you, idiot.”

Billy barked a humorless laugh. “Help me? You don’t even know me!”

“I know you’re exhausted,” Bruce said evenly.

That made Billy flinch. He looked away, jaw tight, eyes glassy.

“I’m fine,” he said finally, voice breaking around the word. “Just—just leave me alone, okay?”

He swung his bag over his shoulder and stood. He looked smaller now, more kid than hero.

Damian crossed his arms. “You can’t even stand straight. Where are you planning to go?”

“Anywhere that’s not here,” Billy snapped, voice thick.

Bruce took a cautious step forward. “You’re not in trouble, Billy.”

Billy shook his head. “Everyone says that right before they make it worse.”

Bruce hesitated—because he knew that tone. He’d heard it from Jason once, years ago, in a back alley not much different from this one.

He took another slow step. “We’re not the system, Billy. We’re not the people who failed you.”

Billy’s breathing hitched.

For a heartbeat, something in his eyes softened—hope or disbelief, Bruce couldn’t tell. Then thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.

Billy froze.

Bruce and Damian exchanged a glance.

A single streak of light flickered across the gray sky, small but sharp, like the universe itself was holding its breath.

Billy’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag. “I have to go.”

“Billy—”

“Don’t follow me,” he said, stepping back. “Please.”

And then—he was gone.

Not lightning-fast this time. Just a boy vanishing into the maze of streets, red hoodie flashing once before disappearing around the corner.

Damian sighed, frustrated. “You’re letting him go again.”

Bruce watched the space where Billy had been, his expression unreadable.

“For now,” he said quietly.

Damian crossed his arms, jaw tightening. “You think he’ll come back?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on the horizon, where a faint streak of gold lingered against the clouds.

“I think,” he said finally, “he’s been alone for too long. But no one can run forever.”

The wind picked up, carrying the faint crackle of distant thunder through the alley.

And somewhere out there, Billy Batson was still running—one step ahead of lightning, one breath away from collapsing.

Chapter Text

The flight home was silent.

The hum of the engines filled like static, steady and low, a background noise that didn’t distract from the quiet—it just made it heavier.

Damian sat slouched in his seat, arms crossed, hood still up even though they were halfway back to Gotham. He hadn’t said a word since the alley. Not since Billy ran.

Bruce hadn’t either.

The clouds outside rolled in gray and white waves, the sun bleeding faintly through them. The kind of sky that looked like it could hold a storm but never quite committed to it.

Damian finally broke the silence.

“He was right there,” he muttered.

Bruce glanced at him but said nothing.

“We could’ve followed him,” Damian pressed. “You could’ve tracked him with nothing. I could’ve done it blindfolded. You let him go.”

Bruce kept his eyes forward. “He’s not a criminal.”

“That’s not the point,” Damian snapped.

Bruce’s tone was calm, steady. “It is.”

Damian turned toward him fully, eyes sharp. “You think if you wait long enough he’ll just come to you?”

“No,” Bruce said quietly. “I think if I push too hard, he’ll disappear for good.”

Damian huffed and turned back toward the window, muttering under his breath, “You’re infuriating.”

Bruce allowed himself the faintest ghost of a smile. “So I’ve been told.”

They didn’t speak again until Gotham’s skyline emerged beneath them—dark, angular, familiar.

When they finally settled into the cave, the soft hum of the engines died, replaced by the echoing drip of condensation and the faint screech of bats in the upper cavern.

Alfred was already waiting at the foot of the platform, tea tray in hand.

He took one look at Bruce’s expression and didn’t bother asking the usual “How was your trip?” Instead, he poured two cups of tea and handed one to Bruce.

“No progress, I take it,” Alfred said.

Bruce shook his head. “Not yet.”

Alfred’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened. “You’ll find him.”

Bruce took the tea and exhaled slowly. “He doesn’t want to be found.”

“Few frightened children do,” Alfred said gently. “But they all want to be seen.”

Bruce didn’t respond, only set the tea down on the console and turned toward the computer screens, already scanning reports from Fawcett. Damian hovered behind him for a moment, looking like he wanted to argue again—but he didn’t.

He just sighed and headed toward the stairs, muttering, “You’ll chase him eventually.”

Bruce didn’t look up. “I always do.”

Two Days Later — Fawcett City

Billy Batson sat on the edge of an old bridge, legs dangling over the cracked concrete, a half-eaten granola bar in his hand. The river below reflected the gray sky, sluggish and still.

He’d found this spot by accident. A half-collapsed storage building nearby had just enough shelter to crash in, and no one came around unless they were looking for a shortcut to nowhere. Perfect for a kid who wanted to disappear.

His backpack sat beside him, still torn, stuffed with whatever scraps he’d managed to keep and whatever he found along the way. Now he had a blanket. A water bottle. His hoodie. A few granola bars. And two comic books so creased they barely stayed together.

He hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time. Every noise made him tense up, half-expecting someone to find him.

Bruce or Damian Wayne. The League. The foster system. Cops. Someone.

Anyone.

He took a bite of the bar, chewed slowly, swallowed dry. His reflection in the water looked back at him—fifteen, messy, tired.

You’re fine, he told himself silently. You’re fine. You’ve been fine before.

He didn’t feel fine.

His body still ached from the last fight. The one that ended with him face-first in the dirt, cursing at the sky. His arms trembled just remembering it.

Billy pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them.

He missed his mom. The memory came without permission, and it hurt like always. Her voice, soft but tired, telling him to be brave. Telling him to smile even when it hurt.

He hadn’t smiled in a while.

The air buzzed faintly.

At first, he thought it was his imagination. Then—

click

His Justice League communicator lit up in his pocket.

Billy froze.

The red light blinked steadily. The faint hum filled the silence, familiar, commanding.

His pulse jumped.

He didn’t move.

It could be a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t for him. Maybe— Maybe Batman told them. Maybe they found out who he really was and this was some kind of trick—some test.

He stared at it, his hand hovering just above the device.

It kept blinking.

Once. Twice. Three times.

He exhaled shakily. “C’mon, Billy,” he whispered to himself. “It’s the League. It’s fine. You’re Captain Marvel. You’re—”

He stopped, voice faltering.

Shazam.

The name felt heavy tonight.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be a hero right now.

Not when he was this tired. Not when it felt like every time he said that word, he was losing another piece of Billy Batson.

But the call kept blinking. Steady. Relentless.

And something in him—the same something that made him jump in front of monsters twice his size and keep fighting—wouldn’t let him ignore it.

He clenched his fists, whispering, “Duty first. Always.”

Then he took a breath, stood up, and looked at the stormless sky.

“Shazam!”

Lightning split the air in an instant, white and gold and blinding. It hit him dead-on, swallowing the bridge in thunder.

When the light cleared, Billy Batson was gone.

In his place stood Shazam—taller, broader, radiant, the weight of exhaustion hidden behind divine strength.

The god rose into the air and shot upward, the storm he summoned fading behind him.

The Watchtower gleamed above Earth’s curve, silent and still. Inside, the meeting room buzzed with low conversation as heroes gathered. Wonder Woman, Flash, Green Lantern, Aquaman—all filtering in.

Shazam arrived in a burst of static and light, landing softly at his usual spot near the end of the table.

Batman was already there, of course. He always was.

Shazam glanced at him once. The cowl gave nothing away, but for a split second, Billy swore he felt those sharp blue eyes on him. The same quiet weight of someone who knew.

Neither said a word.

The others filed in. The air grew tense.

Superman stood at the head of the table, jaw tight. “We’ve got a situation,” he began. “Stronger than last time. Faster. Smarter.”

He tapped a display on the table. A red outline flickered into view—a massive figure, humanoid but jagged, all angles and power.

“Unknown origin,” Superman continued. “But it’s heading straight for the Pacific. If it reaches the coast…” He trailed off. He didn’t need to finish.

Shazam’s hands clenched behind his back. He forced his face into the calm, heroic mask the world expected.

Inside, Billy Batson was trembling.

Because gods don’t get tired.

But kids do.

And he was both.

The sky over the Pacific churned with black clouds.

Lightning danced along the edges of the storm, flashing against the waves like camera bulbs in a nightmare. The wind screamed. The sea boiled.

And the League was already in motion.

“Flank it from the west!” Superman shouted, voice barely audible over the thunder. “Lantern, get a containment field up—now!”

The monster was enormous—easily the size of a skyscraper. Its body was plated in molten rock, veins of orange heat pulsing beneath its surface. Every roar sent shockwaves through the water, tossing the League like leaves in a hurricane.

It had crawled out of the ocean trench and immediately begun tearing at the currents themselves, as if trying to rip the world apart.

Wonder Woman was first to meet it head-on, shield raised, bracing herself against a claw that could have split a mountain. Her boots carved trenches in midair as she caught the blow and shoved back, teeth gritted.

“Lantern! Containment!” she barked.

“I’m working on it!” Green Lantern yelled, his ring blazing emerald as he struggled to keep a field intact around the monster’s arms. The creature thrashed, shattering the construct like glass.

Flash zipped across the waves in a blur of red and gold, striking at weak spots and darting away before the creature could react. “Hey, big guy! Ever heard of moisturizer?”

“Barry,” Batman’s voice came over the comm, clipped. “Focus.”

“Right! Moisturizing later, punching now!”

Shazam hovered above the chaos, lightning coiling around his hands like living wire. He waited—patient, precise—eyes narrowed.

He felt the weight in his bones, the kind of exhaustion that didn’t belong to gods. Billy’s exhaustion, bleeding through the transformation like cracks in glass.

He couldn’t think about it. Not now.

The monster swung a burning arm toward Aquaman, who dove under the wave, trident flashing. “Now, Marvel!”

He didn’t hesitate.

Lightning split the sky, white-hot, striking the creature dead in the chest. The sound was deafening—thunder rolled across the sea as if the heavens themselves had screamed.

The monster staggered, molten skin flickering with energy.

Superman surged forward, shoulder slamming into its jaw, driving it back a few hundred feet. “Keep it down!” he yelled.

Wonder Woman was already there, spinning through the air, her lasso glowing. She looped it around the monster’s throat and yanked, dragging it toward her. “NOW!”

Shazam dove.

He was a comet of gold and red, the air vibrating from the charge. Every muscle screamed in protest, every nerve raw from power overload. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

He hit like a thunderbolt.

The impact lit the sky, the ocean, everything.

Lightning poured through the monster, filling every fissure and fracture with divine fire. The creature convulsed, shrieking—a sound that made the air itself quake.

“Diana!” Shazam roared.

Wonder Woman surged forward, shield leading the strike. She slammed into the creature’s chest with the force of an earthquake, splitting it open in one clean, final blow.

The monster went still.

Its molten glow faded to a dull, gray-black. Then it collapsed, crashing into the ocean with a hiss that sent steam for miles.

Silence.

The kind that comes after something impossible.

Flash slowed to a stop on the water’s surface, panting. “Did—did we just win?”

Lantern let his ring’s glow dim slightly. “Looks like it.”

Superman hovered nearby, scanning the area with a frown. “No readings. It’s down.”

Wonder Woman nodded once, wiping blood and rain from her face. “Good. Then we—”

But she stopped mid-sentence, scanning the air around them.

Because Shazam was gone.

Not a word. Not a flicker of lightning. Just—gone.

It wasn’t the first time.

The League exchanged glances.

Flash muttered. “Dude drops thunder, drops mic, drops out. If I did that I’d be put on monitor duty.”

Lantern rolled his eyes. “He’ll be fine. He always is.”

Superman didn’t comment. Wonder Woman just exhaled. Batman said nothing.

They turned back toward the Watchtower, their comms already pinging with cleanup assignments.

None of them noticed the faint, distant streak of light veering off course toward the horizon.

Above the coastline the clouds were breaking apart, sunlight piercing through in hazy columns.

Shazam was flying low, slower than usual, one hand pressed to his temple. Every nerve in his body was screaming. The power felt wrong—heavy, unstable.

He tried to focus, tried to stay in the air, but his vision blurred.

The world tilted.

His lightning flickered once—then again, weaker.

He grit his teeth. “C’mon, c’mon—just a little further—”

But his body wasn’t listening anymore.

The exhaustion wasn’t Shazam’s. It was Billy’s. The boy beneath the god, running on empty.

His fingers trembled. His breath came out shallow.

And then—he couldn’t hold it anymore.

“Shazam…” he mumbled, voice barely a whisper.

The word slipped out before he even realized it.

The lightning struck midair.

Golden energy flared around him—and then was gone.

The flash blinded the sky for half a second. And where a god had flown a heartbeat before, a boy now fell.

Billy Batson, fifteen, skinny and exhausted, tumbled through the air like a broken star.

For a second, he tried to catch himself, but his limbs were heavy, his thoughts fuzzed.

The ocean rushed up to meet him.

He hit the water with a splash that echoed against the cliffs.

The ripples spread, then faded.

Silence again.

The sky cleared, sunlight breaking through, gentle and unaware.

And somewhere beneath the waves, the boy who was once a god sank slowly, eyes closed, too tired to fight the pull of the sea.

Chapter Text

The storm was breaking.

Lightning still flashed against the horizon, but the clouds were thinning—torn open by the last surge of divine energy that had brought the monster down. The League was regrouping above the churning sea, scattered across comms, discussing the next steps.

Except Batman.

He hadn’t moved.

He stood, the water sprawled out below like endless black glass. His eyes, hidden behind the cowl lenses, followed a single streak of golden light across the sky—a faint trace that only he could track with the Batwing’s scanners.

Captain marvel. Shazam.

Or rather, Billy Batson.

Bruce had seen the way he flew after the battle—too low, too slow, movements just slightly off. To the others, it would look like a tired hero retreating after a fight. But Bruce had studied thousands of flight patterns. Shazam’s movements weren’t just fatigued. They were unsteady.

Something was wrong.

He turned away for a moment. “Computer,” he said quietly, activating his comm link. “Track lightning discharge pattern two hundred miles east. Narrow the spectrum to divine energy signatures.”

The computer beeped in his ear.

> Match found. Energy output falling. Altitude decreasing. Rapidly.

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t hesitate. “Send coordinates to the Batwing.”

By the time the words left his mouth, he was already moving into the sleek black aircraft waiting in the shadows.

The Batwing cut through the clouds like a knife. The engines were whisper-quiet, the radar masked.

Bruce kept his eyes on the scanner. The signal was faint now, flickering in and out, dancing across the screen like a heartbeat fading on a monitor.

“Come on, kid,” he muttered under his breath. “Don’t do this.”

Then—he saw it.

A flash of gold in the clouds ahead.

Followed by another, smaller one.

And then nothing but falling.

A tiny shape, tumbling end over end, through the air.

Bruce’s blood ran cold.

He shoved the throttle forward, the Batwing screaming through the storm. He didn’t even wait for the autopilot to stabilize—he unbuckled, flipped the cockpit open, and dove.

Cold air tore at his face. The wind howled. The world blurred around him, and below—

There.

A small body, limp, spinning toward the dark ocean.

“Billy,” he breathed, and then the boy hit the water with a distant splash.

Bruce hit seconds later, slicing into the freezing sea. The shock of cold nearly stopped his lungs, but he forced himself deeper, eyes open despite the sting of water and wind.

Below, sinking slowly, a red hoodie drifted in the dark.

He swam faster. The cape dragged behind him, heavy, but he didn’t care. He reached out—grabbed the boy’s arm—and pulled him up toward the surface.

When they broke through, Bruce gasped and hauled Billy against his chest, keeping his head above water. The kid was unconscious, barely breathing, skin pale and lips blue.

“Got you,” Bruce muttered. “I’ve got you, kid.”

He turned toward where the Batwing hovered low above the water, autopilot holding it steady. The grappling winch extended on command, lowering a harness.

Bruce clipped Billy in first. “Computer, retrieve passenger—priority one.”

The cable jerked, pulling Billy upward into the cockpit. Bruce followed seconds later, dripping wet and shivering but focused entirely on the boy lying motionless on the floor.

He didn’t waste a second. “Set course for Gotham. Engage stealth. Emergency medical protocol—alert Alfred.”

> Acknowledged. Estimated arrival: seventeen minutes.

Bruce knelt beside Billy, pressing two fingers to his neck. Faint pulse. Uneven breathing.

He reached for a blanket that was definitely one of his kids, wrapping it around the boy before leaning him slightly on his side. Water spilled from Billy’s mouth as he coughed weakly, eyes fluttering but not opening.

“You’re safe,” Bruce said quietly, voice softer now. “I’ve got you.”

Billy murmured something incoherent, half-delirious. His hand twitched, gripping the blanket.

Bruce’s heart ached.

Fifteen years old. A child. Carrying the weight of gods.

He brushed the wet hair from the boy’s forehead and sat back as the Batwing sped toward home.

The plane’s landing was silent. Alfred was already waiting at the platform, medical supplies in hand, the familiar calm in his expression replaced by a flicker of genuine concern.

Bruce carried Billy himself, refusing to let the autopilot or medical drones touch him. He set the boy down on one of the cots near the medical bay.

Alfred moved in without a word, checking pulse, temperature, pupils. “He’s hypothermic. Exhausted. He hasn’t eaten properly in days by the looks of it.”

Bruce stood beside him, silent but tense, watching every movement.

When Alfred looked up, his voice was quiet but firm. “You knew, sir.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away.

He stared down at Billy—at the small, soaked hoodie, the exhausted face, the faint lightning burn across his sleeve from where he’d transformed too soon.

Finally, Bruce said, “Yes.”

Alfred gave a small, knowing nod. “And the others?”

“They don’t.”

“Wise. Not yet.”

Bruce ran a hand over his face, tired. “He fell mid-flight. Transformed too early. He would’ve drowned if I’d been a minute later.”

“Then it’s a good thing you weren’t.” Alfred covered Billy with a thermal blanket, checking his breathing again. “He’ll need rest. And food. And someone to make sure he doesn’t run the moment he wakes.”

Bruce’s gaze softened—just slightly. “I’ll handle that.”

Alfred smiled faintly. “Of course you will.”

Bruce stayed there, silent, watching the rise and fall of Billy’s chest.

For the first time in a long time, the Batcave felt utterly quiet.

No League comms. No alerts. No mission.

Just the sound of rain outside the cave, dripping down the stalactites.

And the steady, fragile heartbeat of a boy who had fallen from the sky.

The Manor was unusually still.

No clattering of dishes from the kitchen, no loud banter echoing through the halls, no faint thuds from someone training in the gym below. Bruce had made sure of that.

The others—Dick, Jason, Tim, Steph, Cass, Duke—all thought he was away on League business. He’d left vague explanations and stricter orders than usual: no patrols tonight, stay in the manor, don’t go to the cave until morning.

Because downstairs, hidden in the shadows of the Batcave, was a secret Bruce wasn’t ready to share.

A secret wearing a red hoodie and too many bruises for a fifteen-year-old.

Billy had been asleep for almost two days. Alfred had kept a steady vigil, moving quietly between the medical monitors and the boy’s bedside. Damian stayed close, half because he didn’t trust his father not to make things worse, and half because—though he’d never admit it—he wanted to help.

“Vitals are stable,” Alfred murmured, adjusting the blanket over Billy’s shoulders. “He’s still cold, but his breathing is even. We’ll need to keep him hydrated once he wakes.”

Bruce stood at the foot of the cot, arms crossed, eyes scanning the monitors like they might reveal something the scans missed. “I don’t want the others finding out yet.”

“Of course not, sir,” Alfred said smoothly. “The last thing the boy needs is six vigilantes swarming him with questions and sympathy.”

Damian leaned against a nearby console, hood down, expression half-hidden by shadows. “Or Grayson's brand of compassion. He’d overwhelm him within five minutes.”

“That’s generous,” Alfred replied.

Bruce almost smiled. Almost. “Let’s focus on keeping him calm. He’s been through enough.”

Alfred raised a brow. “He’s been living alone on the streets, fighting gods and monsters, all while hiding that he’s not old enough to drive. ‘Enough’ may be an understatement.”

Hours passed in quiet routine.

Alfred moved through the space like a ghost, setting aside warm water, a bowl of soup, spare clothes. Bruce checked League channels, confirming that no one had questioned his absence yet. Damian sat near the foot of the cot, pretending to scroll through his phone while sketching something—half doodle, half distraction.

The storm outside the cave deepened, soft thunder rolling through the earth.

And then—

A quiet sound.

A cough, weak and hoarse.

Bruce turned immediately. Billy shifted under the blanket, face scrunching in discomfort, hands clutching at the edge of the cot.

“Easy,” Bruce said softly, stepping closer. “You’re safe.”

Billy’s eyes cracked open, unfocused, pupils dilated. He blinked at the light—at the cavernous ceiling, the flicker of monitors, the figures standing near him.

For a moment, he just stared, not understanding where he was.

Then confusion crept in. Panic followed.

He jerked upright, too fast, the blanket falling away. “Wha—what the hell—” His voice cracked mid-word. He tried to move but stumbled, nearly falling off the cot before Bruce steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s all right, Billy,” Bruce said, voice calm, low. “You’re in Gotham. You fell into the water. I pulled you out.”

Billy’s eyes darted from Bruce to Damian to Alfred—faces half-recognized, half-feared. “Gotham? No, no—how do you—why—” He pressed a shaking hand to his temple. “No, no, no, no, no—”

“Master Batson,” Alfred began gently, “you’ve nothing to worry about here. You’re safe, I assure you.”

Billy looked at him like he wanted to believe it—but then his gaze snapped back to Bruce. The man was too still. Too composed. And the way Damian was watching him, arms crossed and sharp-eyed—

“Why am I here?” Billy demanded, voice trembling. 

Bruce didn’t move. “Because you needed help.”

Billy’s breath hitched.

He looked down, realizing the clothes he wore weren’t his—clean sweats and a t-shirt, courtesy of Alfred. His hoodie and shoes were folded neatly nearby. His bag sat next to them, damp but untouched. (He doesn’t know how that got here.)

His heart raced.

“You—you can’t tell anyone,” Billy stammered. “You can’t—please—you can’t tell the League. They—they can’t know—”

Bruce took a step forward, voice gentle but steady. “We haven’t told anyone. Not the League. Not my team. No one.”

Billy’s breathing was shallow. He looked like a cornered animal, ready to bolt even though there was nowhere to go. “Then why—why am I here? I need to—”

He tried to stand, but his legs gave out almost instantly.

Bruce reached for him, but Damian moved faster.

The boy caught him before he hit the floor, one arm around Billy’s back, steadying him with surprising care.

“Foolish,” Damian muttered, voice quieter than usual. “You shouldn’t even be standing.”

Billy blinked up at him, too tired to argue, eyes glassy with exhaustion.

“I—” he started, but the words failed. His knees buckled, and Damian adjusted his grip, lowering him gently back to the cot.

Bruce knelt beside them, hand light on Billy’s shoulder. “You’re safe,” he said again, voice softer now. “No one’s going to hurt you. You just need rest.”

Billy’s eyes fluttered closed, breathing still uneven. “You shouldn’t’ve found me,” he murmured weakly. “You weren’t supposed to…”

Then he went still, body finally giving in.

Alfred stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Bruce’s arm. “He’ll be all right once he’s warm and fed. Let him sleep.”

Bruce nodded faintly, eyes still on Billy. “We’ll keep him hidden for now. The others can’t know yet.”

Damian straightened, crossing his arms but not looking away from the cot. “You think he’ll run again?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

Alfred sighed. “Then let’s make sure he has a reason to stay.”

Warmth.

That was the first thing Billy noticed when he woke. Not the damp chill of the streets, not the cold metal of the Watchtower, not the musty, cramped darkness of a subway corner—just warmth.

He lay still for a few moments, eyes closed, trying to figure out where the hell he was. The air smelled… clean. Like soap and fabric softener. The sheets under him were smooth, too soft to be anything he’d ever slept on before. His brain was still foggy, the edges of memory blurring together—lightning, the ocean, falling, water burning his lungs—

Billy’s eyes snapped open.

He sat up fast, panic lighting up his chest like a live wire.

The room around him wasn’t one he recognized.

It was big—too big—with tall windows covered by heavy curtains, sunlight seeping through in thin golden lines. The walls were a soft gray, the furniture polished and old-fashioned, and everything was… neat. Too neat.

He looked down.

Someone had changed his clothes.

Soft sweatpants. A plain t-shirt. And—he blinked—a black hoodie, warm and soft, with a bright yellow bat outline stitched across the chest. The hood was thick, the kind that could cover most of his face if he pulled it up. When he tugged the edge, he realized it was sewn with white eye patches, and tiny bat ears poking up.

It looked almost handmade.

He stared at it, completely thrown off.

Who—what—?

Billy ran a hand through his hair, trying to remember anything after the fall. Water. Cold. Then… nothing.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was warm against his bare feet—heated wood maybe—and it startled him enough that he paused again. The bed was huge, the kind you could actually stretch out in, not a cot or booth seat.

Everything about the place screamed money.

Billy’s stomach twisted.

He stood slowly, still unsteady, his body heavy but functional. His head spun for a second, and he grabbed the bedpost until the world stopped tilting. His backpack—his one real possession—sat at the foot of the bed. Clean. Folded. The straps mended with what looked like careful stitches.

He swallowed hard.

“Okay,” he whispered under his breath, voice hoarse. “Not kidnapped. Probably. Maybe?”

No one answered.

The room was empty.

He turned toward the door—painted white, closed tight, with a brass handle that gleamed in the morning light. Billy hesitated for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek.

Every instinct screamed don’t open it.

But curiosity—or maybe survival—won out.

He crept closer, bare feet silent on the floor. His heart hammered in his ears. He pressed his hand against the door and slowly turned the handle. It clicked faintly.

Billy froze, listening.

Nothing.

He cracked it open an inch.

The hallway beyond was long, quiet, and bathed in soft light from tall windows along the wall. The air smelled faintly of old wood and coffee—somewhere far off, he could hear the muffled sound of the grandfather clock chiming the hour.

There was no one there.

No voices. No movement. Just a house too big and too perfect.

He hesitated again, glancing back at the bed—the folded blanket, the freshly patched bag, the hoodie that fit him perfectly. His throat tightened.

Whoever brought him here hadn’t hurt him. They’d taken care of him.

But why?

He didn’t remember agreeing to come here. Didn’t even remember making it back to land.

He reached up, instinctively tugging the hood over his head. The bat ears fell into place, the stitched fabric hiding most of his face. It made him feel—if not safe, exactly—at least hidden.

Billy took a breath.

Then, quietly, carefully, he opened the door wider and stepped into the hall.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Billy’s heart pounded louder with every step.

The place was quiet—eerily quiet—but not the kind of quiet he trusted. It was too intentional. Like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for him to make a sound.

He moved slowly down the long hallway, eyes darting from door to door. Everything was spotless, expensive, and wrong. The framed paintings, the heavy rugs, the smell of lemon polish—it all screamed wealth, stability, permanence. Things that didn’t belong to him.

Then, halfway down the corridor, it hit him.

Bruce Wayne sitting across from him in that diner. Damian right beside him. Bruce ordering food. The League comm in his hand. The mission. Fighting. The panic, the running, the water—

Billy froze mid-step.

Bruce Wayne. Damian Wayne. 

The world spun for a second as realization crashed through him.

He wasn’t just in some rich person’s house. He was in the house.

The manor.

Wayne Manor.

He’d been rescued—by Batman.

He stopped walking, pressing his back against the wall, heart pounding.

He was in Bruce Wayne’s house.

And Bruce Wayne is Batman—(which, holy crap, he really is, because the comm, the way he moved, the voice)—then that meant Billy Batson, street kid, Shazam, literal magical superhero, had been sleeping in the Batcave.

“Oh my god,” Billy whispered to himself, dragging both hands through his hair. “Oh my god.”

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near here.

They’d found him. They knew.

They knew everything.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe. He needed to leave.

He moved faster, quiet as he could, padding down the hallway toward what looked like a main staircase. He scanned for exits—windows, doors, anything. There were a lot, but none of them felt right. The manor was like a maze—every hallway looked the same.

He turned a corner and froze.

There—just ahead—was a tall set of doors. Heavy oak, sunlight bleeding around the edges. The front. The way out.

Billy took a breath, forcing his shaking hand toward the handle—

And someone dropped from the ceiling.

Like—literally dropped.

One second the hallway was empty. The next, there was a girl standing between him and the door, landing without a sound, like she’d just stepped out of a shadow.

Billy yelped and stumbled back, hand over his chest.

The girl tilted her head. Short, black hair. Dressed in gray sweatpants and a t-shirt. No cape. No mask. Her expression was calm, maybe even amused. Cassandra Cain.

“Holy shit—” Billy started, then immediately caught himself, hands up. “Sorry! Sorry, I just—I didn’t—”

She smiled slightly and said, very softly, “Hello.”

Her voice was calm. Careful. Like she didn’t want to scare him more than he already was.

Billy blinked at her. “Uh. Hi.”

She lifted one hand and signed something—smooth, practiced motions. Then she paused, looking at him, clearly realizing he had no idea what she’d just said.

“I… don’t…” Billy trailed off, still tense.

She nodded once, like that was fine, then switched to speaking again. “Cass.” She put her hand on her chest. “Stay.”

It wasn’t a command exactly—more like a request. Gentle, but firm.

Billy hesitated, still half-ready to bolt.

She noticed. Slowly—deliberately—she smiled and raised both hands, tapping her head twice with her fingers.

Like bat ears.

Billy blinked. Then it clicked.

She was pointing at his hoodie.

At the little black bat ears stitched onto the hood.

For the first time since he’d woken up, his panic flickered—just a little. “You… made this?”

She nodded once. Then grinned wider.

It wasn’t a smug grin. It was soft. Kind of proud.

Billy didn’t know what to do with that. No one made things for him.

She motioned for him to follow. The movement was simple—two short flicks of her wrist, then a small step backward, her head tilted toward the hallway that led away from the front doors.

He didn’t move at first.

Every instinct screamed run.

But the way she looked at him—calm, steady, no pressure—it felt… safe. Safer than he’d felt in a long time.

Billy sighed. “Okay. Fine. But if this is a trap or something, I’m gonna—uh—” he faltered. “Well, I’m not sure what I’ll do, but it’ll be something.”

Her smile didn’t fade.

So, he followed.

They moved through the quiet manor—past tall windows, down a side hallway that led to a wide kitchen filled with soft morning light. Everything gleamed. The smell of coffee and something warm hung in the air.

Billy froze in the doorway.

At the counter stood Alfred. Calm as ever, stirring something on the stove, a faint hum under his breath.

The old man didn’t turn right away, but his voice carried easily. “Good morning, Master Batson.”

Billy flinched. “I—uh—I wasn’t—”

“Leaving?” Alfred finally turned, a plate already in his hand. “No, I didn’t think so.”

Cass gently motioned toward one of the stools. Billy stayed frozen for a second longer before reluctantly moving forward.

He sat down, tense, as Alfred placed a plate of food in front of him—eggs, toast, and something that looked like actual bacon.

Billy stared. “I—uh—you don’t have to—”

“Eat,” Alfred said kindly. “You’ll find it much harder to panic on a full stomach.”

Cass leaned against the counter beside him, arms crossed, eyes still kind.

Billy hesitated, then picked up a fork. His hands shook a little, but the first bite burned away some of the cold in his chest.

He hadn’t eaten food like this in months.

Warm. Real. Good.

He swallowed hard, trying not to show how much it meant.

Alfred moved quietly around the kitchen, Cass stayed close but didn’t talk, and for once—just once—no one asked him for answers. No one asked who he was or what he’d done or why he’d run.

They just let him be.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The smell of coffee filled the kitchen.

It was rich and calm and far too ordinary for how Billy’s heart was beating. He was still perched on the stool, shoulders tense, hoodie hood tugged low over his eyes. Cass sat beside him, legs crossed on her chair, head tilted as she slowly, silently stirred her tea with a spoon she didn’t actually need.

Alfred moved with his usual quiet precision—like he didn’t notice how Billy kept glancing at the doorway every five seconds, expecting someone to come storming in and start demanding answers.

But no one did.

Just the ticking of the old clock. The faint hum of the refrigerator.

Billy took another cautious bite of his eggs.

They were good. Really good. Which only made everything weirder.

He glanced at Cass again. She caught his look, smiled faintly, then signed something—slowly, her hands gentle and clear. Billy had no idea what it meant.

“I don’t… know much sign,” he admitted quietly.

Cass smiled again and grabbed a napkin. She pulled a pen from seemingly nowhere—probably a hidden pocket—and scribbled:

-You eat. You need energy. ⚡︎ཐིᗢཋྀ

Then she added a tiny doodle of a lightning bolt and a bat next to it.

Billy huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “You guys just have, like, pens ready for every situation, huh?”

Cass only lifted an eyebrow, her version of a shrug.

Before Billy could say more, footsteps echoed down the hall. Slow, even, steady.

He froze.

And then Bruce Wayne walked in.

Billy tensed so hard he almost dropped his fork.

Bruce didn’t look surprised. Or angry. Or even serious. He just walked in like this was the most normal morning in the world—wearing a dark sweater, sleeves rolled up, holding a tablet in one hand.

He paused only long enough to nod toward Alfred. “Morning.”

“Good morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred said smoothly, pouring another cup of coffee.

Bruce set the tablet down and took a seat at the table—the same table Billy was sitting at. No hesitation. No interrogation.

He picked up a mug Alfred slid his way and said, perfectly calm, “Thank you.”

Billy blinked.

That was it?

No “why are you awake,” no “we need to talk,” no “hey, I know you’re the kid playing god who fell into the ocean.”

Just morning coffee.

Cass didn’t seem fazed either. She just kept sipping her tea, occasionally looking between the two of them like this was some kind of test Bruce was running.

Billy’s stomach twisted.

He leaned slightly toward Cass and whispered, “Is he, like… pretending I’m not here? Or—what’s happening right now?”

Cass smiled behind her cup. Signed something short.

Billy frowned. “What?”

She set the cup down and wrote on her napkin again:

-He’s letting you breathe. :)

Billy blinked. “…Oh.”

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Then Bruce spoke, voice casual. “I heard you were awake.”

Billy almost jumped. “Uh—yeah. Guess so.”

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asked. No pressure in his tone. Just small talk. The kind rich people probably had with their gardener.

Billy narrowed his eyes. “Fine?”

Bruce nodded slightly. “Good.”

Billy waited. And waited.

That was it.

No follow-up.

Just Bruce sipping his coffee and scrolling through whatever was on his tablet.

Billy stared at him. Then at Cass. Then back at Bruce. “You’re… seriously not gonna, like, say anything?”

Bruce looked up mildly. “About what?”

Billy blinked. “About what?! I mean—I woke up in your house. In a room that probably costs more than everything I’ve ever owned all together. And I—” he lowered his voice, eyes darting toward Alfred, “—I know who you are. You know who I am.”

Bruce set the tablet down and finally met his eyes. Calm. Steady. Not denying it. Not confirming it either.

“Right now,” he said, “you’re a kid who nearly drowned and hasn’t eaten a proper meal in days. That’s all that matters.”

Billy’s jaw worked, but no sound came out.

Cass smiled faintly beside him, like she’d just watched Bruce win an invisible argument.

Alfred quietly set another plate of toast on the table. “Master Bruce has always been partial to letting people come to him when they’re ready, Master Batson.”

“I—uh,” Billy started, still processing the fact that Alfred had just said his last name so casually. “I guess that’s nice? Weird, but nice.”

Bruce leaned back slightly, sipping his coffee. “You’ve had enough people chasing you. You don’t need another one.”

The words were simple, but they hit harder than Billy expected.

He looked away, fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie. The fabric was soft. He ran his fingers over the stitched edges of the bat symbol without realizing it.

For a long time, no one said anything.

Just the sound of forks against plates and coffee being poured.

Finally, Billy muttered, “You’re being way too normal about this.”

Bruce gave a small half-smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Normal is underrated.”

Cass smothered a quiet laugh behind her hand.

And for the first time, Billy didn’t feel like bolting for the door.

Not yet.

He just sat there, staring into his plate, pretending not to feel the strange warmth spreading through his chest. The kind that came from being treated like he wasn’t broken. Like he wasn’t a mistake someone needed to fix.

Just a tired kid having breakfast.

Billy was still sitting at the big wooden table, hoodie sleeves halfway over his hands, poking at his breakfast like it might vanish if he looked too hungry. Cass was next to him, still silent but watching everything with her usual soft, knowing calm.

The peace didn’t last long.

Footsteps padded in—quick, uneven, distracted.

Tim Drake entered the room, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, tablet under one arm, and at least three cups of coffee’s worth of exhaustion in his face.

He didn’t even glance at anyone at first. Just reached over Cass’s shoulder, stole a piece of toast off her plate like it was a natural law of the universe, and took a bite.

Cass smacked his arm.

Tim just waved a hand absently, still chewing, then finally looked up.

Right at Billy.

They locked eyes.

Billy froze, like he’d just been caught breaking into Fort Knox.

Tim blinked at him. Stared for a beat.

Then looked at Cass again.

Then back at Billy.

Then muttered through his toast, “…Damian looks weird today,” and turned around to walk right back out of the room.

Cass didn’t even bother trying to stop him. She just took another sip of tea.

Billy sat there, stunned. “…What just happened?”

Cass grinned faintly as she pointed at him. “fit in.” She said it like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Billy blinked, stared at her before mumbling. “I don’t even look like Damian.”

Cass shrugged. Then pointed to his hoodie. Then to his hair. She nodded. “Enough.”

Billy looked down at himself, realization dawning. “…Oh. Okay?”

The rest of the day slipped by like that.

Somehow, impossibly, nobody seemed to notice there was a new person in the house.

Steph walked through the hallway, gave Billy a passing nod, and kept talking on her phone. Jason breezed by the kitchen later, grabbed a soda, glanced at Billy and said, “hey demon brat” then left.

Even Dick wandered through the living room at one point, smiled at Cass, and said, “Hey, Dami—new hoodie? Looks cool!” before leaving without another word.

Apparently “black hair and blue eyes” was enough to pass the family security checks.

He has no idea how no one noticed. He doesn’t look like Damian at all! The hair, the age and the height are the only things they have in common.

It was almost funny.

Actually it was funny.

Cass stayed with him the whole day, guiding him around the manor with that strange quiet grace that made it feel less like she was babysitting him and more like she was just there. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t push. She just existed beside him.

Sometimes they sat in silence on the balcony, watching the sky turn from gold to pink to purple.

Sometimes she’d say something simple and quick, like “Hungry?” or “Tired?” and Billy would answer with a shrug or a shake of his head.

It was the most peace he’d had in… maybe ever.

By evening, the manor had gone quiet.

Dinner dishes were stacked neatly in the sink. The other bats were scattered around doing whatever it was they did—training, tinkering, patrolling… or probably breaking international law.

Billy stood in the hallway, heart hammering, staring at the closed door to Bruce’s office.

He didn’t want to do this.

He really didn’t.

But it had been gnawing at him all day—the question, the suspicion, the fear that all of this was just too easy.

So he knocked once and stepped inside before he could talk himself out of it.

Bruce was there, of course, behind his desk, typing something on his computer. He didn’t look surprised to see Billy.

“Evening,” Bruce said simply, taking his hands off the keys and giving Billy his attention.

Billy crossed his arms, still standing near the door. “You’re just gonna act normal again, huh?”

Bruce’s brow arched slightly. “It’s worked so far.”

“Yeah, well, cut it out.” Billy took a shaky breath. “I—need to know what you want from me.”

Bruce leaned back slightly, expression unreadable. “What makes you think I want something?”

“Because you’re Batman!” Billy snapped, his voice cracking halfway through. “You know who I am—and you haven’t told the rest of the League. You—you always tell them everything, you make files on everyone, every detail. That’s like- like your whole thing!”

His breathing hitched, words tumbling faster now. “If you want to kick me out of the League, just say it. I might be fifteen, but you’ve depended on me before, and I’m not some weak-ass kid who needs protecting—”

“Billy.”

Bruce’s voice cut through the air like a calm wave through static.

Billy froze mid-sentence.

“I know you’re not weak,” Bruce said evenly. “Your age doesn’t change what you’ve done, or what you’re capable of. It doesn’t change that the League needs you.”

Billy frowned, confused. “Then—why?”

“Because it will change how they see you,” Bruce continued. “You know that as well as I do. They’ll start treating you like a child. Questioning your judgment. Hovering. And that’s not what you need.”

Billy looked down, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“So you’re just… not telling them?”

“Not until you want to,” Bruce said. His tone softened. “On one condition.”

Billy’s head snapped up with a glare. “There it is. Knew there was a fucking catch.”

Bruce gave the faintest hint of a smirk. “It’s not a trap. I just want you to let me help.”

All of Billy’s anger died at that, he blinked. “Help… how?”

“I know you can take care of yourself,” Bruce said, standing now, voice low but sure. “I don’t doubt that for a second. But I’d sleep better knowing you’re taken care of properly. That you have food. A bed. Somewhere safe.”

Billy scoffed, but it came out weak. “You’re not my dad.”

“No,” Bruce agreed quietly. “I’m not. But I’ve seen enough kids like you to know when someone needs a hand. I mean you’ve seen all my kids. You don’t have to take my offer, but it’s there.”

Billy stared at him for a long time, mouth tight, eyes shining with something between disbelief and hesitant trust.

Finally, he muttered, “You’re… weird.”

Bruce’s lips twitched. “I get that a lot.”

Billy huffed out a small laugh before he could stop himself. Then, shaking his head, he looked away. “You really mean it? You won’t tell them?”

“Not unless you want me to,” Bruce said.

Billy was quiet for a long while. Then, slowly, he nodded. “…Okay.”

Bruce gave a small nod in return. “Good. Now go get some sleep. Same room you woke up in. You’ve had enough excitement for one week.”

Billy hesitated at the door, turning back once. “You, uh… you’re not gonna write a report about this, right?”

Bruce’s smirk deepened just slightly. “Consider this… off the record.”

Billy rolled his eyes, but there was a tiny, tired smile tugging at his mouth as he slipped out of the office.

Billy padded down the hallway, bare feet sinking into carpet so soft it didn’t even make a sound.

He wasn’t used to that.

He was used to creaky floors, hollow pipes, thin walls that didn’t stop anything—not the cold, not the noise, not the people yelling.

When he reached the room that Alfred had put him in, he hesitated before touching the door handle.

It didn’t even creak. Of course it didn’t.

He stepped inside.

For the first time, he actually looked around.

The first time he’d seen it, he’d been too dizzy, too exhausted, too gone to care. Just walls, warmth, a bed. It hadn’t mattered where he was.

But now—

Now he saw everything.

The walls were a soft color, empty enough to not feel overwhelming, but decorated enough to feel lived in. There was a small desk tucked under the windows, the curtains drawn halfway open so moonlight could spill across it.

The closet door was slightly ajar.

Billy opened it.

Inside, he found a neat row of clothes hanging—jeans, hoodies, t-shirts, all in his size. Nothing fancy, but new. Clean. Soft. There was his own hoodie, too—the red one. The one he’d worn through rain and dirt, fights and alleys.

It looked… fixed.

The rips were gone. The color bright again. The cuffs re-stitched with thread that matched.

Even his shoes were there, cleaned, the holes patched so carefully you’d have to squint to see them.

On the floor of the closet sat a new backpack, black with a not broken zippers. When he unzipped it, there were a few books inside—some worn novels, a few comics, and two sketchbooks with colored pencils bundled up in a little box.

He froze, fingers brushing the pencil box.

The label on the side of the box said Property of Billy Batson.

Next to the desk was a small box labeled supplies. Inside were snack bars, bottles of water, jerky, crackers, dried fruits, cans of vegetables, things that didn’t expire easily. The kind of food you could survive on if you were still afraid you’d need to run.

The windows weren’t locked. He checked.

They opened smoothly, no alarms, no hidden locks.

If he wanted to leave—if this was all too much—he could just go.

And that was what confused him the most.

Because… he didn’t want to.

He leaned against the window frame, staring out at the manor’s garden, out into Gotham, his reflection faint in the glass.

Why didn’t he want to leave?

He didn’t do staying. He didn’t do comfort. Every time he got used to something, it got ripped away—by strangers, by foster homes, by life itself. Staying meant trusting that it wouldn’t fall apart.

And he didn’t trust anything.

Except… maybe the fact that Bruce Wayne hadn’t lied.

Billy sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, then looked at the bed.

He hadn’t really noticed it before.

Big, soft, layered with blankets and pillows. It looked like something out of a hotel commercial.

On top of the bed sat a blanket.

Red, gold, and white—his colors.

It took him a second to realize what the emblem on it was.

A big lightning bolt.

It was a Captain Marvel blanket.

He didn’t even know those existed.

For a long moment, he just stared at it, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or throw it out the window.

Someone—probably Alfred, maybe Cass—had folded it neatly, like a quiet offering.

He stood there for another full minute, heartbeat loud in his ears.

Then he shut the door.

Not slammed—just quietly closed it until the click echoed softly.

Then, hesitating, he reached out and turned the lock.

Just in case.

He sat on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, so soft he almost lost his balance. His fingers brushed over the blanket.

He told himself it was stupid, that it was childish.

And then, very slowly, he curled up with it.

The fabric was warm. It smelled faintly of laundry soap and something else—something was safe.

His eyes burned, but he blamed it on being tired.

He hadn’t slept properly in… he couldn’t even remember.

He sank into the pillows, the blanket wrapped tightly around him, eyes heavy, body finally giving up the fight.

And before he even realized it—

Before he could think about how strange this was, or how he didn’t deserve any of it, or how he still could leave if he wanted—

He was asleep.

Out cold.

No nightmares.

No hunger.

No cold concrete or city noise.

Just silence.

And safety.

For the first time in a long, long time, Billy Batson slept without fear.