Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Statue of Liberty’s scaffolding groaned as the battle ended, the multiverse still trembling from the strain. Doctor Strange’s cloak fluttered in the wind as the sorcerer stood at the center of the collapsing spell, sweat running down his temple.

Peter Parker’s mask was shredded, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion.
“Tell me what I have to do,” he said, his voice trembling and raw.

Strange’s gaze was heavy. “If you stay here, the fabric of the multiverse will tear apart. Every universe will bleed into the next until nothing is left.”

Peter swallowed hard, his throat tight. “So what’s the option?”

Strange hesitated, then answered with finality. “I can’t make people forget. That won’t be enough anymore. The rift is following you. The only way to save our world… is to send you to another one.”

The words hit harder than any villain’s punch. Leaving wasn’t just a goodbye, it was everything. Aunt May was gone. Ned. MJ. Everyone he had left… he’d never see them again.

Peter clutched MJ’s hand, memorizing the way her fingers curled into his, the way her eyes held tears she refused to shed. He whispered promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. Then he let go.

He looked over to Ned, his best friend, his guy in the chair. They managed to do their handshake before giving each other a hug. Peter noticed tears staining his cheeks as well as a damp spot on his shoulder and had to be careful not to hurt Ned in his embrace by squeezing him too tight.

The spell washed over the city like a storm, wiping him clean from the lives he loved most.

Peter didn't want to let go, didn't want to leave behind the only good things he had left. Peter didn't want to leave his friends embrace to go into the unknown.

But Peter was Peter. So he stepped back to look at Doctor Strange. He nodded, eyes glassy but resolute. “Then do it. Save them.”

Strange lifted his hands, ancient words spilling into the night air. The spell wrapped around Peter like chains made of light, pulling at his very being. His vision blurred. His heart raced. His body felt like it was dissolving into threads of golden fire.

For one fleeting moment, he wondered if this was death.

Then darkness.

Then… crying.

His own.

Peter’s eyes opened to a blur of light and shadow. His body was small, fragile, alien. A newborn’s. He felt strong arms cradling him, arms that trembled slightly, not from weakness but from awe.

A man’s voice spoke, soft but steady.

“Hey, little guy… it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

At first, everything was noise. Blurred lights, shapes moving like shadows underwater, and voices that rose and fell in strange tones.

And then the panic set in.

Okay. Okay, Parker. Breathe. Or… cry? I guess crying is working. Yeah, that’s definitely me crying. Great. Add “screaming infant” to my resume.

He tried to move, but his arms flailed wildly. Tiny, weak, completely uncoordinated. His legs kicked like rubber bands. No webs. No strength. Just the helplessness of a newborn.

Right. So I’m… alive? Reborn? Not dead. That’s a plus. Downsides include: I’m two feet tall, can’t walk, can’t talk, and my only superpower seems to be drooling.

The man holding him, rocked him gently. His voice was calm, soothing, carrying words Peter couldn’t entirely process yet. Still, something about the tone struck Peter. Safety. Warmth. Trust. Things he hadn’t let himself feel since May.

Peter blinked, focusing harder. The man’s face came into view, clearer now. Strong jaw, dark hair, eyes that seemed… familiar. There was something about the way he smiled down at Peter, his expression playful and kind, but hiding a weight in his gaze.

“Hey there, little one…”

The crying slowed, just a little, soothed by the calm in that tone. Strong arms held him steady, rocking with a careful rhythm. The warmth of another heartbeat pressed close.

“You don’t have to be scared,” the man murmured, his voice softer than any lullaby Peter could remember. “I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

Peter blinked, vision blurry but slowly sharpening. Dark hair. Blue eyes. A smile that trembled as if it carried both joy and disbelief.

The man leaned closer, forehead almost touching Peter’s. “I’m your dad,” he whispered, like it was the most sacred truth in the world. “My name’s Dick. And I promise… I’ll take care of you. No matter what.”

Something in Peter’s chest ached; a memory of Aunt May, of every loss that had left him hollow. And yet here, wrapped in those words, he felt a strange calm he hadn’t known in years.

So this is it… a new world. A new life. A new family. Strange wasn’t kidding when he said goodbye.

His tiny body yawned, exhaustion pulling him under. But as his eyelids closed, his last thought carried with it something he hadn’t dared to believe in for a long time.

Maybe, just maybe, a new beginning wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

Dick Grayson had faced fear before. He’d fought psychopaths in alleys, assassins in the shadows, gods on battlefields. But none of it compared to the way his hands shook when Bruce slid the file across the table.

“There’s been a match,” Bruce said, voice steady in that way only Batman could manage. “A baby was left at Gotham General. His DNA… it’s yours.”

Dick had laughed at first. A short, sharp, disbelieving thing. “That’s impossible.”

But the evidence was right there. Genetic markers. Medical reports. And one line that froze the blood in his veins: organ failure imminent. The chair screeched against the floor as Dick shot up. “Where is he?”

“Still at the hospital,” Bruce answered. “No name on the records. They don’t think he’ll make it through the night.”

That was all it took. Dick grabbed his jacket, his keys, and ran.

The drive blurred. Red lights became suggestions. Horns blared as he wove between cars, every second pounding louder in his chest. His mind raced faster than the engine. A son. My son. Alone. Dying.

By the time he screeched into Gotham General’s parking lot, his knuckles were white on the wheel. He didn’t even remember shutting the car door before he was sprinting through the sliding glass entrance, his name spilling out in a frantic rush. “I’m Dick Grayson- I’m here for the baby- he’s my-” His throat tightened. “He’s mine.”

The nurse led him down sterile halls that smelled of bleach and fear. His boots echoed against the tile, each step heavier than the last.

And then he saw him.

So small. So fragile. Tubes and wires tangled around tiny limbs. The monitor beeped faintly, each sound like a plea for help. The baby’s chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, and his skin was pale, almost translucent.

Dick’s heart shattered. He’d seen death. He’d held friends as they bled out. But this? This was different. This was his child, fighting for every breath.

He stepped forward, reaching down with hands that trembled. The baby stirred at his touch, a weak cry slipping out.

Something inside Dick broke all at once. He bent low, whispering words only the child could hear. He looked at the nurse with pleading eyes. With a gentle smile and a nod Dick -slowly, carefully- picked up his son and held him to his chest. Trying to shush him and wipe away his tears, to comfort him as this tiny innocent soul deserves at least this much in case he- if he passes soon.

What happened next would later be described as a miracle, as something incredibly rare to happen and wholly unexpected.

Dick could feel the babies head twitch, eyelids shuttering slightly as the newborn whined. He couldn't help his own words as he talked to his son.

“Hey, little guy… it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Those eyes opened up slightly, big and brown and wholly perfect.

Dick knew his heart was no longer his.

His baby continued crying, arms and legs wailing weakly as Dick continued to speak softly to him, rocking him as gently as he could.

Unable to tear his gaze away he noticed when those doe-like eyes seemed to focus a bit more and Dick had to squish down the precious feeling of hope. He couldn't get his hopes up. This would probably be the first and last time he would get to hold the boy however.

He would make sure that even for a short while, his son would feel treasured.

“Hey there, little one…”

It was fascinating, how such a small human could captivate his entire being, Dick couldn't help but think as he continued to look down at his son. He couldn't help it either when he slowly and gently pressed his sons chest against his own, nor the deep breath of relief he lets out.

“You don’t have to be scared,” He said. Logically he knew that this was a newborn, that there was probably no way that he could understand what it was that Dick was saying. He still said it, just in case that there was a way that he could understand. He didn't want the boy to think even for a second that he was alone. “I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

He craned his head down, looking at the baby once more and couldn't help but notice the awareness in his gaze. Dick made sure to remain calm, remain gentle and soft.

“I’m your dad,” He felt the need to say, to make clear that Dick was his father, that this baby was so loved already.

“My name’s Dick. And I promise… I’ll take care of you. No matter what.”

His son's face screwed up in an adorable manner as he yawned before he closed his eyes. Dick slowed his breathing along with him, happy to have this moment.

After a second he looked back up at the nurse who was looking back at him.

Dick started noticing the sounds of the machines again and couldn't help but note that they sounded better than before. Not great, but better.

Slowly, the nurse got closer to inspect the baby only to look back up at Dick with sharp eyes.

"Take off your shirt."

WHAT?

Clearly his surprise must have been shown in his gaze as the nurse quickly reassured him. "It's called the kangaroo hold, sometimes it helps in cases like these and I think that that is also happening right now." At Dick's incredulous stare he continued. "The kangaroo hold works best with skin to skin contact. So if you want to save this child, take off your shirt." The nurse pronounced the last four words each with equal importance.

Quickly, without thinking beyond saving his son, he handed him over to the nurse before taking off his jacket and shirt. He opened his arms once more to hold the boy again and couldn't help but smile at the small sigh of comfort he let out at being so close to the warmth.

They were going to be just fine.

Dick rocked him a little longer anyway, unwilling to let go, even as his own body begged for rest. You’re safe now, he thought, brushing his thumb across the soft curve of the baby’s cheek. I’m not letting you go.

The sound of footsteps drew him out of the moment. Heavy, deliberate, Bruce. A lighter tread, careful but quick, Tim. And finally, the quiet shuffle of Alfred, who carried warmth even in the coldest of nights.

They entered without words at first, their eyes falling to the sight of Dick holding the tiny bundle against his chest. The hospital lights softened the shadows on Bruce’s face, and for once, there was no cowl, no armor. Just something that looked achingly like pride.

“He looks… peaceful,” Alfred said softly, looking with slightly wet eyes at the boy. At the man who was once the little kid running around the manor, hanging in the chandeliers while laughing brightly. He couldn't believe he was here to witness that same boy turn into a man who now held his own child. For him, it was the most absolute honor to achieve.

Tim stepped closer, peering down with wide eyes. “Wow,” he whispered. “That’s… he’s yours, Dick?”

Dick swallowed hard, looking down at the baby again. His son. His responsibility. His second chance.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough but full of quiet awe. “He’s mine.”

Bruce’s hand came to rest on Dick’s shoulder. It felt steady, grounding. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. The silence between them said everything. Dick had learned years ago what every subtle shift of his face, every movement of his body meant, as if it was it's own language.

Dick looked down again, at the tiny face that had already stolen every corner of his heart. “He needs a name,” he murmured.

His chest tightened. A name carried weight. Legacy. Memory. Promise. And in that moment, he knew exactly who his son should carry with him.

“Peter,” Dick whispered. “Peter Grayson.”

Tim blinked, head tilting. “Peter?”

Dick’s throat thickened, but he managed a smile. “Jason Peter Todd,” he explained quietly. “He never got the chance to be who he was meant to be." Grief shadowed his face but it fell away when he looked back down at the baby, at Peter. "But maybe… maybe this little guy can carry a piece of him forward. A chance for something better.”

Alfred’s eyes shone with something bright and sad all at once. Bruce’s grip on his shoulder tightened, the unspoken approval clear.

Tim smiled softly. “Peter Grayson. I like it.”

The baby stirred in his arms, letting out the faintest sigh before settling again, as though he somehow understood. Dick pressed a kiss to the top of his son’s head.

Bruce’s hand lingered on his shoulder. For once, the man who had always seemed unshakable looked… human. His voice was low, steady, but warm in a way Dick hadn’t heard since he was a child.

“He'd be honored.”

Alfred, stepped forward with a small, fond smile. His eyes softened as he gazed at the baby, and for just a moment, he seemed years younger. “A fine name,” he murmured, his voice thick with quiet emotion. “And an even finer father to guide him.”

Dick blinked hard, fighting the sting in his eyes. He didn’t feel like a father yet. He felt terrified. But the weight of Peter against his chest reminded him that there was no turning back and no part of him wanted to.

Tim leaned closer, careful not to disturb the baby. “He’s… kind of amazing,” he said softly, his tone full of wonder. “It’s hard to believe someone so small can already feel this important.”

Dick managed a tired laugh, adjusting the blanket around Peter. “Yeah. Amazing is one word for it.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, meant only for his son. “Life’s not going to be easy, buddy. But me and your whole family will be right here.”

Peter’s tiny fingers twitched, brushing against the fabric of Dick’s shirt, as if holding on.

The room fell into a rare stillness. No missions. No shadows of Gotham pressing at the windows. Just four people and one tiny heartbeat, wrapped in warmth that felt foreign and fragile but so desperately needed.

For the first time in a long time, Dick didn’t think about the city outside, the villains lurking in the dark, or the weight of legacy on his shoulders.

He only thought about Peter. His son. His second chance.

And as he held the boy close, Dick made a silent vow that echoed louder than any oath he had ever spoken beneath the shadow of the Bat:

You will grow up knowing love. You will never doubt that you are wanted. Not while I breathe.

Chapter Text

The first sound of the day wasn’t the alarm clock. It was the soft, insistent babble coming from the crib across the room.

Dick cracked one eye open and groaned into his pillow. “Five more minutes, buddy…” Dick rolled over in bed, groaning softly, but the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

The babbling only grew louder. It had that insistent edge that meant Peter wasn’t just awake, he was ready. With a resigned sigh, Dick rolled out of bed, raking a hand through his messy hair, and shuffled toward the crib.

And there he was.

Peter was standing -standing- by holding onto the bars of the crib, bouncing on sturdy little legs that looked far too strong for someone who wasn’t even a year old yet. His soft brown hair stuck up in wild tufts, and his big brown eyes lit up the moment he saw Dick.

“Da-da!” Peter squealed, slapping one tiny hand against the crib rail.

Dick froze, then grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. “Okay, you know what? That’s the best alarm clock I’ve ever had.”

He scooped Peter up, tossing him gently into the air before catching him again. The baby shrieked with laughter, his little fingers grasping at Dick’s shirt collar. Dick pressed a kiss to his son’s temple, heart swelling in ways he still didn’t know how to put into words.

“You’re supposed to still be my little guy,” Dick murmured, rocking him. “But you’re growing too fast. You’ve got those big brown eyes, and when you look at me like that, I know I’m in trouble.”

A knock at the door pulled him out of the moment.

“Breakfast delivery,” Tim’s voice came through, casual as ever. He pushed the door open with his hip, balancing two cups of coffee and a bag of take-out. His hoodie hung loose, and his hair looked like he hadn’t slept in two days, all in all classic Tim.

Peter perked up instantly, twisting in Dick’s arms toward the new arrival. He reached out with a loud, happy babble.

“Yeah, yeah, I see you,” Tim said, setting the coffee down so he could take Peter from Dick. He bounced the baby carefully, grinning despite the exhaustion in his face. “How is it fair that you’re already the cutest kid in Gotham? I’m calling foul.”

“Genetics,” Dick said smugly, though his grin gave him away.

“Uh-huh. Sure. We’ll pretend that’s how it works.”

"It kind of does though?"

"Nuh-uh." "Tim you can't just Nuh-uh your way out of a factually false statement!"

"Yuh-uh." Dick let out a great, heavy sigh as Peter laughed and clapped his hands.

"Peter agrees with me, don't you buddy?"

Alfred stepped inside during the ruckus, a small container balanced carefully in his hands. Behind him came Bruce, tall and steady as ever, his presence filling the apartment before he even spoke.

“Good morning,” Alfred greeted warmly. His gaze immediately softened when it fell on Peter. “And how is young Master Peter today?”

Peter squirmed in Tim's arms, reaching eagerly toward Alfred with grabby hands and a string of cheerful babbles.

“Ah,” Alfred said with a quiet smile, “quite well, it seems.” He set the food on the counter before holding his arms out. Tim passed Peter over, and the baby immediately settled against Alfred’s shoulder as if it were his rightful place.

Bruce lingered by the doorway, watching. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but his eyes followed every little movement Peter made, from the way he tugged curiously at Alfred’s sleeve to the way his small head rested against Alfred’s chest.

“He’s strong,” Bruce said at last, his voice low.

Dick chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Tell me about it. He’s been trying to climb out of the crib on his own. Give it a week, and I’ll probably catch him scaling the dresser.”

Alfred gave him a look, one that was equal parts patient and exasperated as he coaxed Peter into trying a spoonful of fruit puree. Peter made a face, sputtered dramatically, then let out a giggle that had Alfred’s carefully neutral façade slipping into a fond smile.

For a moment, the apartment filled with nothing but soft sounds. Peter’s delighted babbling, Alfred’s calm voice as he tried to keep the fruit from ending up on his sleeve, and Dick’s quiet laughter. Bruce stood just behind them, silent but present, the way he always was when words weren’t enough.

Bruce stood silently as Alfred fed the baby, watching the little boy’s eager attempts at swallowing fruit between fits of laughter. His eyes should have been on Peter but more often than not, they drifted to Dick.

Dick sat slouched on the couch, hair a mess, exhaustion written all over him. But despite that, there was a softness in his expression as he glanced at his son. They showcased a warmth Bruce remembered from another lifetime.

Bruce his own eyes, looking at a small and tiny Robin as he carried him from the batmobile to sleep. He had known that Dick was pretending to be asleep, he had shifted just slightly and his eyelids fluttered in the way that spoke volumes before he forced his muscles to relax again.

Bruce didn't care, simply glad he could hold his son

Now here his son was, grown, cradling his own son every day with that same fierce devotion Bruce had seen flicker in him all those years ago.

“You’re doing well,” Bruce said finally, his voice quiet but steady.

Dick let out a startled laugh. “I don’t feel like it most days. I’m just making it up as I go along.”

Bruce’s gaze softened, though he doubted Dick noticed. “That’s all any father ever does.”

The words surprised even him, but they were true. He had spent so many years convinced he had failed Dick, Jason, Tim… all of them. Yet here was proof that something had endured. Dick hadn’t just survived his mistakes; he had grown into the kind of man who could love without hesitation.

Bruce leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice lowered, almost a confession. “When I first brought you home, I didn’t know what I was doing either. I thought training, discipline, rules… that was what would protect you. What would keep you alive.” He paused, exhaling slowly. “But you needed more than that. You needed a father. I didn’t always see it.”

Dick’s eyes widened slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting Bruce speak.

Bruce looked at Peter now, tiny fingers curled around Alfred’s sleeve, giggling as though the world was nothing but light. “You’re giving him what I didn’t always know how to give you,” Bruce said. “That’s what makes you a good father.”

The weight of his own words settled in his chest, heavy but true. He hadn’t said it often enough, hadn’t said it at all, really. Yet watching Dick now, he couldn’t hold it back. He didn't know why he ever had.

“I’m proud of you, Dick.”

Dick blinked rapidly, his throat working before he managed a shaky laugh. “You don’t… you don’t say that very often, you know.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.” Bruce replied, voice softer than usual.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t the cold and heavy silence of old arguments. It was warmer. Familiar. A bridge between the man who had once carried a broken boy home from tragedy, and the man who now carried his own son with love in his arms.

Alfred cleared his throat gently, his lips twitching with something that might have been a smile. “Master Bruce, Master Dick, if I may interrupt this rare but very welcome display of sentiment. Young Master Peter has just declared his distaste for applesauce.”

Peter had indeed pushed the spoon away with a dramatic squeal, tiny brows furrowed in determination.

Dick laughed, rubbing at his eyes quickly before taking his son back into his arms. “Stubborn,” he muttered affectionately. “Just like me.”

Bruce allowed the corner of his mouth to lift, almost a smile. “Just like his father,” he said quietly.

And as Dick pressed a kiss to his son’s dark hair, Bruce thought, though not for the first time, that maybe this was what all the fighting, all the sacrifice, had been for: to give the next generation a chance to grow up loved.

The living room was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon, save for the soft rattle of plastic blocks clattering against the floor. Peter sat on the rug, happily occupied with stacking colorful toys into lopsided towers only to knock them over with a delighted squeal.

“Da!” he chirped, glancing up at Dick with a toothy grin.

Dick forced a smile back, but his hands tightened on his knees. He sat on the couch, shoulders rigid, eyes flicking between Bruce, Alfred, and Tim.

Bruce stood at the window, his back to the light, posture taut as ever. “He calls himself Red Hood,” he said, voice low. “He’s brutal. Efficient. And he knows us. Too well.”

Tim shifted in his chair, brows furrowed. “He’s not like the others. He anticipates our moves- almost like he’s been trained the way we have. He’s not afraid of you B.”

Alfred, standing behind the couch, folded his hands neatly but his voice betrayed a rare edge of unease. “Whoever he is, he carries a bitterness. He strikes with precision, yes, but also anger. I fear what he represents.”

Dick swallowed hard, his gaze darting back to Peter, who was now clapping his hands at his newly toppled block tower. His laugh rang out, oblivious to the weight in the room. Dick’s chest tightened.

Bruce turned finally, shadows cutting sharp lines across his face. “Whoever Red Hood is, he’s dangerous. We deal with him quickly, before more blood is on his hands.”

Something in his tone, that rare flicker of hesitation, made Dick glance up sharply. “You think he’s connected to us.” It wasn’t a question.

Bruce didn’t answer, but the silence said enough.

Tim leaned forward, lowering his voice as if Peter could somehow understand the storm hanging in the room. “Connected… how?”

Bruce’s eyes hardened. “I don’t know yet. But I intend to find out.”

On the rug, Peter babbled happily to himself, waving a block in the air before tossing it aside. He crawled closer to Dick, tugging at his pant leg for attention.

Dick scooped him up automatically, holding him close against his chest. Peter giggled, tugging at his father’s hair, his small fingers insistent.

The apartment was quiet again. Bruce, Tim, and Alfred had gone, leaving only the soft hum of the old pipes and the faint shuffle of Dick moving about the hall.

Peter lay in his crib, staring up at the spinning mobile above him. Stars, moons, tiny painted planets drifting lazily in circles. His baby fingers reached for them, though his mind was far away.

Red Hood. Vigilantes. Gotham.

He didn’t know all the details yet, couldn’t piece together the full picture of who Red Hood was, or what kind of city he had landed in. But what he did know made his chest buzz with something dangerously close to giddiness.

They were vigilantes.

All of them.

Batman. Robin. Nightwing. Whoever else made up this strange, shadow-filled family. They weren’t civilians he had to lie to. They weren’t fragile lives he had to protect by burying the truth. They were like him. People who carried masks, who lived in the night, who understood the weight of responsibility that came with power.

Peter kicked his legs beneath the blanket, a tiny laugh bubbling up in his baby throat. To anyone listening, it was just a baby’s babble. But inside, he was grinning ear to ear.

Back home, he had always been split in two; Peter Parker and Spider-Man. Always hiding, always balancing lies with half-truths, always worrying about who would get hurt if the mask slipped. But here? Here he had a family of heroes. A family who would understand what it meant to fight.

No secrets. No pretending.

For the first time since waking up in this tiny body, Peter felt free.

Dick’s shadow passed by the door, pausing for a moment before moving on. Peter followed it with his eyes, warmth blooming in his chest. His dad. His dad who was a hero.

The mobile turned slowly, stars and planets circling endlessly above. Peter let his baby eyes flutter shut, excitement humming in his bones. He was small now, weak, unable to even speak properly. But someday, someday he would stand beside them. Not hidden, not split in two, but whole.

This world had given him a second chance.

And this time, he wouldn’t have to hide who he was.

It made him giddy to think about. He'd have allies, family, the same way that the avengers were, the way that May, Ned and MJ were, the way the other vigilantes in New York were. He wouldn't be alone.

Apparently his dad had heard his giggles and came into the room to investigate. Dick couldn't help but lean against the doorframe, a fond and happy smile on his face as he looked at his baby laughing and kicking his feet.

Peter turned to look at him and smiled even brighter. "Dada! He-roo!"

Dick's eyes widen before relaxing. Swiftly, he walked over to the crib and couldn't help himself when he lifted his son up to hold him up to eye-level, his own eyes playful. "Dada's your hero huh? That's not right!" Dick could have sworn his son looked confused for a moment before he continued. "How can that be when Petey is my own little hero?" He threw him up slightly before steadily catching him again, letting the sound of Peter's laughter fill the air as he drunk it in.

He slowly twirled around with the boy, glee-filled giggles the only sound as he looked at his son with a bright smile on his face.

Once more, he held Peter close. Softly pressing a kiss to his son's forehead.

"My little hero, oh I love you so much Peter."

Peter nuzzled closer, knowing the truth in those words with his whole heart.

The warehouse was quiet except for the soft click of a pistol being checked, reloaded, holstered. Jason Todd sat on a crate, helmet discarded at his feet, black leather jacket creaking as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Gotham stank of rot. The alleys, the crime bosses, the twisted hierarchy Bruce still insisted on controlling instead of ending. And Jason… Jason had carved his own way through it, through his own bloody rules.

He wasn’t Robin anymore. The Robin inside of him was dead.

Red Hood lived.

That truth had carried him this far, a mask of fury that kept the ache buried deep. But tonight, that mask cracked.

He’d gone digging, always digging -digging through the dirt, out the grave- For intel, for leverage, for ways to stay three steps ahead of Bruce and the others. And that’s when he’d found it.

An infant. Papers. Records that didn’t make sense at first. Until they did.

Richard John Grayson. Listed as the father. No mother on file. The child’s name Peter Grayson.

Peter.

Jason’s hand tightened around the helmet. His jaw locked, eyes narrowing. It could’ve been a coincidence. A common name. Gotham was big enough for that.

Jason’s throat worked as he breathed out slowly, every word scraping in his chest. Nothing about the vigilantes of Gotham was made out of coincidence.

“You named him… after me.”

His big brother. His golden brother. The one who had believed Jason could be saved, even when Bruce had failed him. The one who had cried over his grave, whispered broken promises he hadn’t meant for anyone to hear.

Dick thought he was dead.

And instead of moving on, he’d carried Jason’s name forward in the only way he could. In his son.

Jason shoved both hands through his hair, the fury in him clawing at the edges of something softer, something far more dangerous.

A nephew.

Dick had a son.

Jason’s chest ached with something that wasn’t anger. Not really. It was longing, raw and unfamiliar after years of burying it under blood and revenge. A family he could’ve had. A name that lived on, even when he hadn’t.

But he couldn’t show himself. Not yet. Not when Dick still looked at Batman like the sun rose and set on his approval. Not when Red Hood’s name was painted in blood across Gotham’s alleys.

Jason stared at the helmet in his hands, the reflection of his tired eyes staring back.

“I’m still here, big wing,” he whispered to the empty warehouse. “And one day… I’ll meet him.” If Dick would even let him, Jason couldn't bring himself to say out loud.

The helmet slipped back into place with a hiss of air. Red Hood stood.

But Jason Todd, for the first time in years, walked with a weight he couldn’t name and a hope he couldn’t kill.

"Fu-fricking damn it!"

The shout could be heard through the appartment as Dick, after having searched for 10 whole minutes in a frantic panic, found Peter hanging onto the side of the cabinet. Sticking by his bare hands.

He totally jinxed himself

Chapter Text

“Peter? Oh god- Peter!”

Dick’s voice cracked as he skidded into the kitchen, nearly tripping over his own feet. His heart slammed so hard against his ribs it felt like it might break free. He’d been searching everywhere: under the bed, behind the couch, every corner of the apartment, and now he’d found him.

And wished, for one terrifying second, that he hadn’t.

Because his baby boy wasn’t on the floor. He wasn’t in his crib. He wasn’t even in his playpen where Dick had left him with a soft blanket and stuffed giraffe.

He was stuck. Upside down. On the kitchen cabinet.

Peter blinked down at him, chubby fists planted flat against the wood like suction cups, legs kicking happily in the air. He let out a squeal of delight, a nonsense babble that could’ve been laughter or victory.

Dick’s mouth went dry. His knees nearly buckled.

“Okay,” he breathed, hands going up as though he could steady the air itself. “Okay, buddy. Daddy’s here. We’re- we’re gonna fix this, alright?” His voice cracked again, but he forced a smile up at Peter, because the last thing he wanted was his son sensing his panic.

Peter only giggled, bouncing a little against the cabinet. The wood groaned under the pressure. Dick’s stomach lurched.

“Don’t- don’t do that, kiddo. No bouncing. We- uh we don’t bounce when we’re- uh" Dick tried desperately to search for the right words. "Sticking to the cabinet.” His voice pitched higher than he wanted, but Peter’s delighted squeal nearly broke him into hysterical laughter. Or tears. Maybe both.

Every parental instinct in him screamed to grab him, to snatch him off the cabinet before he slipped and hit the ground. But Dick knew enough about acrobatics, enough about balance, to understand that one wrong move could send Peter tumbling.

“Alright,” Dick muttered, shifting his weight slowly, carefully, as though approaching a frightened bird. “Easy. We’re gonna… we’re gonna get you down. Nice and safe.” His hands shook as he reached up, but he forced his voice soft, sweet, almost whispering. “Hey, Petey-bird. You wanna come to Daddy now? Hm? Come on, champ. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

Peter tilted his head, big brown eyes locking onto his father. His baby mouth opened in another happy babble and then, with sudden trust, he released one tiny fist.

Dick’s heart stopped.

“Nono- wait-”

But before Peter could slip, Dick surged up, catching him against his chest with both arms. The impact was soft but fierce, and Dick let out a shuddering breath as he clutched his son close, legs trembling.

Peter only laughed, burying his face in his father’s shirt, little fingers clutching fabric.

“Oh god,” Dick whispered into his son’s hair, tears pricking at his eyes. “You’re gonna kill me before I turn thirty.”

But even through the panic, even through the wild pounding of his heart, he couldn’t help pressing a trembling kiss to the top of Peter’s head, whispering again and again like a prayer:

“I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

Slowly, he went to sit down on the floor of the kitchen, his back resting against the wall as he lets out a breath of relief. Peter, somehow noticing his distress, pats him on top of his head. Or at least, he tries to. he could only reach to Dick's forehead and patted that instead.

Dick lets out a huff of a laugh, patting Peter his own head in return. "Thank you baby. You're okay." He pressed Peter close to himself again, breathing in his wild curls as he whispered once more. "You're okay."

Peter, of course, was thrilled. He babbled happily into Dick’s shirt, utterly unaware that he’d just shaved ten years off his father’s life.

“Okay. Okay, it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re okay. I’m not okay, but you’re okay.” Dick kissed the crown of his son’s head again, forcing his breath to steady. Then, fumbling with one hand, he pulled out his phone and dialed the only number his rattled brain could think of.

Bruce picked up on the second ring.

“Dick?” The gravel in his tone was sharper than usual. “What’s wrong?”

“Bruce.” Dick’s voice cracked so badly he barely recognized it as his own. “I- I don’t even know how to explain this. You need to come. Now.”

“What happened?”

“I found Peter- He was—he was stuck to the cabinet like a little bat, and I don’t- I don’t-” His words tumbled over each other, frantic and breathless. “He could’ve fallen, I barely got to him in time- he- what the hell is happening to him?!”

There was a long pause on the other end. A pause that made Dick’s stomach twist into knots.

“I’ll be there in ten,” Bruce said. No hesitation. No questions. Just fact.

The line went dead.

Dick pressed his forehead to Peter’s soft hair, squeezing his eyes shut. His son giggled, patting his cheek with chubby fingers, as if this were all just a game.

“Glad you’re having fun,” Dick muttered, hugging him tighter.

Peter squirmed happily against his chest, little legs kicking like he’d just won a gold medal in ceiling acrobatics. His tiny fingers grabbed a lock of Dick’s hair and tugged, babbling in his baby language with a laugh that made it sound like none of this was terrifying, that nearly giving his dad a heart attack was just the greatest game in the world.

Dick exhaled shakily, pressing his cheek to Peter’s soft hair. His son smelled faintly of baby lotion and the faint powdery sweetness that clung to him after naps. It was grounding, like the smell alone was dragging Dick back from the cliff of full-on panic.

“You… you can’t just do that,” Dick whispered, voice cracking as he rocked back and forth where he sat on the kitchen floor. “You can’t give Daddy a heart attack like that, Pete. You’re- god, you’re too little.”

Peter responded by shoving his fist in his mouth and making a pleased hum, utterly unfazed. His big brown eyes blinked up at Dick, innocent, curious, and shining like he hadn’t just decided gravity didn’t apply to him.

“Not fair,” Dick mumbled, brushing a thumb over Peter’s soft cheek. “You smile at me like that and I forget I’m supposed to be mad.”

His hands were still trembling, though, every time he thought about what could’ve happened if he hadn’t walked in when he did. If Peter had slipped. If he hadn’t caught him in time.

The thought alone made his throat close. He hugged Peter tighter, almost desperately, rocking him a little more firmly. “No more climbing, okay? No more, whatever that was. Daddy can’t lose you. I just got you, Petey-bird. Just got you.”

Peter babbled again, softer this time, and rested his tiny head against his father’s chest. Dick swallowed hard, kissing the top of his son’s hair, and let his body slowly, reluctantly, relax.

Even if he had no idea what was happening to his little boy, even if he didn’t understand how a baby could stick to ceilings… Dick knew one thing with absolute certainty:

He would make sure Peter would never fall.

Bruce arrived in less than eight minutes. Alfred was with him, of course, looking as calm as ever even as his eyes swept the apartment with a quiet urgency.

Bruce’s eyes immediately locked onto the boy. “He’s not hurt?”

“No, he’s not hurt,” Dick said, running a frantic hand through his hair. “But, Bruce, he was sticking to things. Like- like some kind of-” He broke off, breath hitching, then gestured wildly at the baby. “What does this mean?!”

Bruce’s mouth tightened. He stepped closer, studying Peter with the same keen gaze he used on crime scenes. The baby stared back, utterly unbothered, then reached out to grab Bruce’s nose.

Dick almost collapsed. “This isn’t funny,” he said, voice wavering.

“I’m not laughing,” Bruce replied evenly, though his lips twitched. He gently removed Peter’s hand, then glanced at Alfred.

Dick could swear he heard something about "sweet sweet karma" coming from his mouth.

Jason Todd sat in the dim warehouse, surrounded by the cold gleam of weapons spread out across the table. Knives, pistols, ammo lined up with obsessive precision. He moved through the motions quietly, every click and scrape a way to ground himself before the storm he was about to unleash.

This wasn’t prep for a raid on Black Mask. Or a strike against Gotham’s endless supply of scum.

This was for Bruce.

The thought made his jaw tighten, old anger twisting sharp in his chest. He could still feel the Joker’s crowbar, the explosion, the betrayal of silence afterward. Bruce hadn’t saved him. Bruce hadn’t avenged him. And Jason was done being a ghost lurking in the edges of the Bat’s perfect little crusade.

It was time to step out of the shadows. To force his father to look him in the eye.

Jason reached for the helmet, then stopped, his gaze catching on the folder off to the side. Thin. Too thin. Inside were reports, hospital notes, and photographs of a baby with dark hair and wide eyes.

Peter Grayson.

His nephew.

Jason let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The kid’s name still hit him sideways every time. He hadn’t asked for it. Hell, Dick probably hadn’t even thought about what it would mean to him. But it was there all the same, carved into the world like a reminder that he hadn’t been completely erased.

He didn’t know what to do with that. Part of him wanted to be angry, to write it off as pity. But somewhere deeper, quieter, there was a flicker of something else. Something dangerously close to gratitude.

A piece of him lived on in that kid, whether he deserved it or not.

Jason shoved the thought aside before it could soften him too much. He wasn’t ready to face that. Not now. This wasn’t about Dick. And it wasn’t about the baby.

This was about Bruce.

Jason picked up the helmet, holding it tight until the edges dug into his gloves. The red sheen stared back at him, faceless and merciless.

He was done waiting. Done haunting.

It was time to come home.

And Bruce Wayne was finally going to face the son he’d failed.

Bruce Wayne was pulling at his hair in the batcave, none of the monks that he has trained with having prepared him for this.

A giggling baby trying to crawl on everything. including the jagged ceiling.

“Peter- no,” Bruce barked, his voice carrying the same tone he used to stop thugs mid-swing. It didn’t work.

Peter laughed louder, tiny fingers sticking to the rough stone as though gravity was more of a suggestion than a law. His little legs kicked with glee as he scuttled upward like a spider, his diaper sagging slightly, his curls bouncing with every motion.

Dick came jogging in, panic in his eyes until he saw Bruce craning his neck back at the ceiling. His heart leapt straight into his throat.

“Pete!” he yelped, darting under his son, arms half outstretched as though he could catch him if he slipped. “Oh my god- B, what do we do?”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, the other hovering at the ready like he could somehow reach a baby clinging fifteen feet above them. His voice was calm, but the vein at his temple told a different story.

“I’ve neutralized assassins, Dick. I’ve dismantled bombs with less stress than this.”

“That’s not helping!” Dick shot back, jittering on his toes, eyes glued to the little boy happily smacking his palm against a stalactite. “Pete, buddy, come to Daddy, huh? No more climbing. That’s dangerous!”

Peter, oblivious to the concern below, shrieked in delight and babbled nonsense syllables, clearly convinced this was the best game ever. He dangled upside down for a terrifying second, legs wrapped around the stone. Dick made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Alfred!” Bruce finally barked.

The butler appeared at the bottom of the staircase with his usual grace, tray in hand. He took in the scene. The infant clinging to the ceiling, Dick’s barely contained panic, Bruce’s uncharacteristic loss of composure and only raised one eyebrow.

“Am I to assume,” Alfred said dryly, “that Master Peter has inherited certain… talents?”

“Alfred!” Dick cried.

Unflappable as ever, Alfred set the tray aside and stepped calmly to the workbench. He picked up a flashlight and clicked it on, wiggling the beam across the wall. “Come now, young sir,” he coaxed gently, his voice all patience and warmth. “Let’s follow the little light, shall we?”

To everyone’s shock, Peter froze, then squealed, crawling after the bobbing light as though it were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. Slowly, carefully, Alfred guided him down the wall, closer and closer until Dick could scoop him up into his arms.

The moment Peter was secure against his chest, Dick buried his face in his son’s curls, heart pounding. “Don’t you ever do that again,” he whispered, trembling. “Not ever.”

Peter patted his father’s cheek and gave him a toothy grin.

Bruce exhaled heavily, dropping into the nearest chair like he’d just gone twelve rounds with Bane. “You’re going to give us all heart attacks before you turn two.”

Alfred adjusted his gloves primly. “On the bright side, Master Wayne, you’ve always wanted the next generation to… rise above.”

Dick groaned.

Peter giggled.

Bruce sighed.

Tim sat cross-legged on the railing of the mezzanine, a coffee balanced in one hand, laptop open on his knees. He hadn’t moved once during the entire ordeal of Bruce and Dick running around like their heads were on fire while Alfred calmly lured Peter down from the ceiling with a flashlight beam.

The baby’s delighted squeals echoed off the stone walls. Bruce looked one tantrum away from a migraine. Dick looked like he might cry or faint. Possibly both. Alfred looked like Alfred.

Tim sipped his coffee and scrolled through the latest intel on Gotham’s newest problem: the Red Hood.

“Drug shipments intercepted,” Tim muttered under his breath, fingers flying across the keys. “Arms dealers reporting losses. Underground moving like they’re terrified. But no casualties outside of known operators. Interesting…”

Another squeal came from below as Dick snatched Peter into his arms, holding him tight against his chest like he’d just saved him from plummeting off a skyscraper. Tim didn’t look up.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Dick was whispering fiercely.

“Mmhm,” Tim hummed absently, adjusting his search parameters. Red Hood isn’t sloppy. He’s organized. Strategic. Military training? Or… personal knowledge of how the Bat operates?

Bruce collapsed into a chair with a long, ragged sigh. Alfred made some pun that only Peter seemed to appreciate. Tim’s fingers stilled for just a moment, eyes narrowing at a report that caught his attention.

“...Huh.”

He leaned back, tapping his mug thoughtfully against his knee. “He knows the Batmobile’s routes. He’s laying ambushes exactly where we’d be. That’s not random. That’s-”

“Tim.” Bruce’s voice cut sharp from below, even as his hand rubbed over his face. “Not now.”

Tim glanced down at the scene: Dick burying his face in Peter’s curls, Alfred looking smug about his own genius, Bruce visibly aging five years in ten minutes. Peter waved his little hand up at Tim, like he somehow knew he had an audience.

Tim gave a small two-finger salute back, then returned his eyes to the laptop.

Not now, he thought, echoing Bruce. But soon.

Because if his suspicions were right, Red Hood wasn’t just some rogue with a grudge.

He was a direct threat.

Chapter Text

The clock tower glowed with the soft hum of technology. Screens flickered and shifted under Oracle’s hands, streams of code and camera feeds moving in patterns only she seemed to understand.

Tim sat beside her, laptop balanced on his knees, a coffee cup dangerously close to the edge of her desk. His eyes were locked onto spreadsheets of intercepted mob chatter, comparing them to his own patrol notes.

“Everywhere he goes, he’s three steps ahead,” Tim muttered, scrolling quickly. “Shipments get hit before we even clock them. Dealers spooked before patrol hits their blocks. It’s too coordinated.”

Barbara leaned back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, her gaze sharp. “He’s not just some thug in a mask. He’s organized. Disciplined. Whoever this Red Hood is, he’s making a statement.”

Tim nodded. “And he’s not sloppy about it. No civilian casualties. No unnecessary violence. He’s targeting criminals, just like us.”

Barbara’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Not like us. Batman doesn’t put bullets in people’s heads. Red Hood does. That’s not justice, it’s punishment.”

For a moment, the only sound was the steady clack of Barbara’s keyboard as she pulled up satellite overlays of the docks. Tim traced the routes with his finger, mapping them against the incidents he’d catalogued.

“It almost feels personal,” he said finally. “Like he’s not just fighting crime- he’s fighting us.”

Barbara’s head tilted slightly. “Or testing us.”

Tim froze at that. The idea gnawed at him. Someone who knew their rhythms, their blind spots. Not random. Deliberate.

But who?

“Whoever he is, he’s dangerous,” Barbara said, her tone firm now. “And if he keeps escalating, Gotham’s going to turn into a war-zone.”

Tim shut his laptop, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Then we need to find him. Fast. Before Bruce takes this into his own hands.”

Barbara smirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. “Oh, Tim. You know Bruce already has. The question is: can we figure out who Red Hood is before he does?”

The weight of the challenge hung between them, as the screens filled with the red silhouette of their target.

A ghost in Gotham.

A mask with no name.

Tim leaned back in his chair, staring at the mosaic of crime scene photos and surveillance captures pinned across Barbara’s monitors. None of them showed Red Hood clearly; just a blur of crimson, a glint of a weapon, shadows slipping between streetlights.

“Babs,” he said finally, voice low, thoughtful. “Do you think we should loop in Steph?”

Barbara’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. Her eyes flicked toward him, sharp behind the glow of her lenses. “Stephanie? Spoiler?”

“She’s in the Narrows,” Tim said, pressing on. “That’s practically Red Hood’s playground. If anyone’s going to stumble into him without realizing what he is, it’s her.” He hesitated, then added, “And she’s stubborn. She won’t back down, not if she sees something wrong happening.”

Barbara exhaled slowly, wheeling her chair away from the desk and crossing her arms. “You’re not wrong.”

“But,” Tim finished for her, “you don’t want to bring her into this yet.”

Barbara gave him a look that was equal parts mentor and older sister. “You’ve both been at this long enough to know: the more people we involve, the harder it gets to control the fallout. If this Red Hood really is making it personal, he’ll know how to exploit every weakness we have.”

Tim drummed his fingers on the edge of his laptop. “Steph’s not a weakness.”

“No,” Barbara agreed softly, “but she is a target. Especially if she doesn’t know what she’s walking into.”

The thought sat like a stone in Tim’s stomach. He thought about Stephanie’s laugh, the way she made jokes to cut through the darkness, how she always pushed to prove she belonged in this world of masks and monsters. The idea of her crossing paths with the Red Hood. Someone with training, resources, and a willingness to kill, made his chest tighten.

“Then maybe,” Tim said carefully, “we should tell her just enough. Not everything. Just… to keep her eyes open. So she doesn’t walk blind into a bullet.”

Barbara studied him for a long moment. Then she turned back to the screens, typing something new into her search field.

“Maybe,” she allowed. “But not until we’re certain what we’re dealing with. The Narrows has chewed up and spit out enough people. I won’t let her be one of them because we jumped too early.”

Tim nodded, but the tension in his jaw didn’t ease. His gaze lingered on the grainy still of Red Hood, just a flash of crimson, blurred at the edges.

Somewhere out there, a ghost walked the same streets as Stephanie Brown.

And Tim wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep her in the dark.

It took two days.

The call connected on the third ring.

“Timothy Drake,” Stephanie Brown’s voice crackled through, dry as ever, “if you’re calling to ask me to pick up any more takeout for you, I swear to the Gods below-”

“It’s not that,” Tim cut in quickly. He was sitting in the Clock tower, Oracle’s glow of monitors behind him, the city skyline stretching out past the tall windows. His voice was quieter than usual, urgent. “This is serious, Steph.”

That got her attention. The teasing edge in her tone softened. “Okay. Serious face on. What’s going on?”

Tim leaned back, running a hand over his face. He hated how paranoid he sounded, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. “Have you seen anything weird in the Narrows lately? More than usual, I mean.”

Stephanie gave a sharp laugh. “Weird in the Narrows is just… the Narrows. But if you mean gunmen with better aim than your average thug, yeah. I’ve noticed.”

Tim froze. “You’ve seen him?”

“I didn’t say that.” Her voice dropped, more careful now. “But word on the street is, there’s a new player shaking things up. Big, scary, red helmet. Calls himself the Red Hood. The usual bottom-feeders are scared stiff.”

Tim swallowed. Even hearing the name from someone else made the air feel heavier. “Steph… listen to me. He’s not like the others. He’s not random, he’s not sloppy. He’s dangerous.”

Stephanie snorted. “Dangerous is literally Gotham’s middle name. If you’re calling just to tell me to sit this one out-”

“I’m calling,” Tim interrupted, sharper than he meant to, “because I don’t want you to get blindsided. This guy’s operating right in your backyard. If you run into him, you cannot treat him like any other mask. Promise me that.”

There was a pause. Then Stephanie, softer now: “You sound scared.”

Tim closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m… concerned. That’s all.”

“That’s a Drake word for ‘scared,’” she teased, but it was gentle this time. She sighed. “Okay. I promise. I’ll keep my distance if I run into him. But you know me, Tim- if he’s hurting people, I can’t just ignore it.”

“I know,” Tim admitted. “And that’s why I called.”

For a second, neither of them said anything. The city buzzed faintly through the line: car horns, a dog barking, Gotham being Gotham.

Then Stephanie broke the silence. “So. You still owe me dinner. You’re lucky I don’t make you pay up before giving me cryptic warnings about homicidal helmets.”

Tim almost smiled. Almost. “I’ll make it up to you. Just… be careful, Steph. Please.”

Her voice was warm, but firm. “Always am. Talk soon, Boy Wonder.”

The call ended, and Tim was left staring at the red blur frozen on Oracle’s monitors.

If Red Hood crossed paths with Stephanie Brown, no promise in the world would keep her out of it.

Peter had been giggling on the rug, stacking them carefully with his chubby little hands. Then, just like that they weren’t on the rug anymore. The blocks clung to the wall, impossibly, like they belonged there. Some sort of fluid surrounding them to make them stay in place it seemed.

Dick froze. His heart dropped into his stomach.

Peter looked so pleased with himself, squealing and clapping as one more block stuck itself sideways. But all Dick could feel was the sudden rush of panic.

“Bruce,” he said, his voice tighter than he meant it to be.

Bruce crouched down, tugging one of the blocks off the wall. It came free with a faint popping sound. He examined it, but his brow furrowed, unreadable.

“This isn’t normal,” Dick whispered, pulling Peter gently into his arms. He hugged him too tightly at first, then forced himself to loosen his grip, afraid of scaring the boy. His hand brushed over Peter’s small back, steadying him, grounding himself.

Stupidly, he thought of the parenting books he'd read. None of them mentioned this. Dick wanted a refund.

Peter just laughed, burying his face against his father’s chest, little fingers digging in and sticking.

Dick stiffened, unable to move his shirt away from those impossibly strong tiny hands. His pulse thundered in his ears. “He’s… he’s stuck to me. He can’t let go.”

Bruce looked up sharply. Alfred entered then, tray in hand, taking in the scene with a calm that Dick envied.

“Master Richard,” Alfred said softly, “breathe.”

“I am breathing,” Dick snapped before instantly regretting it. He glanced down at Peter, who looked up at him with bright, happy eyes, completely unaware of the panic unraveling his father. Dick smoothed a hand over his son’s dark hair and whispered, “It’s okay, buddy. You’re okay.”

But his own hands were shaking.

Bruce stood, setting the block aside. His voice was calm, controlled, the voice of Batman, not Bruce Wayne. “We’ll run tests. I need to know if this is biological. A mutation. Something triggered by the environment. It could be-”

“He’s a baby,” Dick cut him off, voice breaking. “He’s just a baby, Bruce.”

Peter wriggled suddenly, flipping almost upside down in Dick’s arms as his hand latched onto the edge of the coffee table. For a split second, Dick thought he was going to fall. His heart stopped, he could already see the tiny body tumbling, already felt the ache of loss.

But Peter didn’t fall. He held himself there, dangling, laughing, proud of himself.

Dick scooped him back up instantly, clutching him so tightly Peter squealed in protest. “No. No, Peter, you can’t-” His throat closed around the words. "you can't do that."

He can't fall too.

“Master Dick,” Alfred said firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “He is safe. Look at him. He is smiling.”

Dick swallowed hard, forcing his eyes open, forcing himself to look at the joy on Peter’s face. His son wasn’t afraid. Not of his powers, not of the world. He was happy.

Bruce exhaled slowly, watching them both. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

Dick nodded, but he couldn’t let go of Peter. Not yet. Not with the fear clawing at his chest that one wrong second, one wrong move, would take him away.

Peter, content in his father’s arms, patted his cheek with a sticky little hand and laughed again, utterly oblivious to the storm raging in Dick’s heart.

Dick swallowed hard, pressing his lips against the crown of his son’s head. He could feel the warmth of Peter’s tiny body, the steady rhythm of his breathing. It should have calmed him. It didn’t.

Bruce’s voice broke the silence, calm and even, but edged with that steel focus he always carried. “We need to run some tests.”

Dick’s head shot up. “Tests? Bruce, he’s a baby. He doesn’t even understand what’s happening to him.”

“Exactly,” Bruce replied, eyes flicking to the wall where Peter’s blocks still clung unnaturally. “He won’t be able to tell us what he feels. Which means it’s up to us to figure it out. This is for for his safety.”

Peter gurgled, tugging on Dick’s shirt, his little fingers sticking briefly before peeling away. Dick’s chest clenched.

“He’s not a science experiment,” Dick said, his voice tight. He kissed Peter’s temple again, whispering so softly only his son could hear. “You’re not an experiment. You’re mine.”

Alfred stepped closer then, his voice gentle but firm. “And that, Master Dick, is precisely why Master Bruce suggests it. Not to treat the boy as a specimen, but to protect him. The unknown is always more frightening than the truth.”

Dick let out a shaky breath. He knew Alfred was right. He knew Bruce was right too, in his own way. But knowing didn’t ease the ache of fear in his chest.

Peter squirmed, reaching toward Bruce, little fingers flexing in that strange, unnatural way. Bruce extended a hand, and Peter grabbed hold without hesitation. Sticky and strong.

For just a moment, Bruce allowed his expression to soften. “He’s stronger than he looks,” he said quietly.

Dick gave a breathless laugh. “Yeah. Guess it runs in the family.”

Peter yawned, tucking himself against Dick’s chest again, small and impossibly fragile despite everything.

“Alright,” Dick whispered, rocking him gently. “We’ll do the tests. But I stay with him the whole time. No labs, no machines without me.”

Bruce inclined his head in agreement. Alfred’s hand lingered on Dick’s shoulder, grounding him.

And in that fragile quiet, surrounded by fear and uncertainty, Peter drifted off to sleep. He was safe in his father’s arms, blissfully unaware of the battle raging around him, and the bigger one yet to come.

The elevator groaned as it descended into the cavern, the familiar shadows and machinery of the Batcave swallowing them whole. Normally, the sight steadied Dick. Home, safety, family. Tonight it felt cold and looming.

Peter, however, was delighted. His big brown eyes went wide as he spotted the giant penny, and he let out a squeal, patting his father’s chest in excitement.

“Yeah,” Dick whispered hoarsely, pressing his lips to Peter’s hair. “Penny’s pretty cool.”

Bruce was already waiting at the medical station, gloves laid out, instruments organized with meticulous care. But there was no cold edge to him tonight. His expression was softer, the kind Bruce rarely allowed to surface.

“We’ll start small,” Bruce said, his voice measured, calm. “Just to see how his body reacts. Reflexes, motor response. Nothing invasive yet.”

Dick sat heavily in the chair by the table, clutching Peter close. “He’s… he’s just a baby, Bruce. I don’t want him to be afraid.”

Bruce stepped closer, and for a moment the mask slipped entirely. He rested a large, steadying hand on Dick’s shoulder. “He won’t be. Not with you here. Children feel what their parents feel.” His gaze softened as it flicked to Peter, babbling quietly against Dick’s shirt. “If you stay calm, so will he.”

Dick tried to steady his breathing. Tried to believe it.

Bruce picked up a penlight. “Let’s start with this.”

He crouched so he was level with Peter, his voice lowering to that rare, gravelly gentleness he once used with his own sons. “Alright, little one. Let’s see those eyes.”

Peter blinked, fascinated by the light. His tiny hand shot forward and stuck to the lens. For the briefest moment Bruce froze, not at the adhesion, he'd half suspected that part, but at the strength.

“Stronger than he should be,” Bruce murmured.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Dick said, voice tight. He pulled Peter closer, whispering against his hair. “You’re doing great, Petey. Daddy’s right here.”

Next came the reflex hammer. Bruce tapped Peter’s knee, and the boy’s whole leg shot up with startling force. The tool nearly flew from Bruce’s hand.

Dick flinched. “God.” His arms closed protectively around Peter. “He’s… Bruce, what if he’s not-”

“Dickie.” Bruce’s tone sharpened just enough to cut through his panic. Then it softened again, steady and sure. “He’s your son. That’s what he is. That hasn’t changed.”

The words hit harder than any lecture could have. Dick closed his eyes, breathing through the storm in his chest.

Finally, Bruce reached for the syringe, the smallest one they had. He didn’t speak at first, just waited until Dick met his gaze. “You’ll hold him. I’ll be quick. He won’t even realize.”

Dick nodded, though his arms were iron around Peter. “If he cries…”

“Then you’ll be the one to comfort him,” Bruce finished gently.

Alfred, standing close by, added in his calm, grounding way: “You’ve both done far scarier things, Master Richard. This will be over before he knows it.”

Dick bent close, whispering into his son’s ear as Bruce worked. “It’s okay, Petey. Daddy’s here. You’re safe.”

The prick came. Peter startled, his little hand clamping around Dick’s finger with a strength that made him hiss, but Peter didn’t cry. Just stared up at his father, confused.

“That’s it,” Dick whispered, rocking him gently. His throat was tight, but he managed a smile. “Bravest boy in the world.”

Bruce sealed the vial carefully and set it aside. For once, he didn’t speak immediately. He just looked at his grandson, his expression unreadable to anyone but Dick, who caught the faintest glimmer of warmth there.

When he finally spoke, it was quiet. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

Dick pressed his face to Peter’s soft hair, breathing him in. For the first time since the chaos began, the knot in his chest loosened. Just a little. Just enough

Peter yawned, nuzzling into his father’s chest, content.

Chapter Text

Stephanie Brown, or rather Spoiler moved through the Narrows with deliberate care, the rough edges of the neighborhood pressing in on all sides. Even in her suit, she felt exposed. Gotham’s worst had always crawled out of these streets, and tonight she was poking at the newest monster of the lot.

The Red Hood.

Barbara had told her to stay out of it. Tim had practically begged. But Stephanie had always been too stubborn for her own good. Someone had to see him up close. Someone had to know if he was just another freak with a gun or something more.

The sound of gunfire snapped through the air, sharp and fast. Stephanie ducked low, pressing herself against the wall of a crumbling tenement. Voices shouted. Boots thundered past.

She edged forward, keeping to the dark.

And then she saw him.

The Red Hood stood in the middle of the alley, a stark silhouette under broken streetlights. His red helmet gleamed, faceless, reflecting the muzzle flash as he disarmed a thug and dropped him in one brutal move. He fought with terrifying precision; no wasted motion, no hesitation. Batman was theatrical; Red Hood was surgical.

Stephanie’s heart hammered. She couldn’t look away.

When the last man hit the ground, Hood straightened slowly. His hand flicked his gun back into its holster with practiced ease. For a beat, silence hung over the alley.

Then his helmet turned.

Directly toward her.

Stephanie froze. She was tucked in the shadows, mask covering her face, body still. She hadn’t made a sound. But he knew.

Red Hood tilted his head, like a predator catching sight of prey. He didn’t speak, didn’t move closer. He just watched.

Stephanie’s pulse roared in her ears. For a long, breathless moment, the two of them stayed locked—Spoiler in the shadows, Hood in the open, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her through the mirrored mask.

Finally, he raised one hand and pointed, two fingers right at her.

Then he turned and walked away, vanishing into the dark as quickly as he’d appeared.

Stephanie didn’t breathe until he was gone.

Her knees trembled, her throat tight. She should’ve felt relief. Instead, all she felt was a chill running down her spine.

He knew she was there.

And worse…

He let her live.

The thought rattled around Stephanie’s head like a loose bullet casing. Her palms were slick inside her gloves, her lungs burning from holding her breath too long. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to disappear back into the safety of rooftops and alleys, to call Babs and Tim and admit she’d bitten off more than she could chew.

But another part of her, one that was louder, sharper, refused.

If Red Hood was dangerous, she needed to know how dangerous. If he was some kind of vigilante, she needed to know if he was working with them or against them. And if he was worse; if he was just another killer with a mask then someone had to keep eyes on him.

Spoiler pulled her hood tighter, forcing her pulse to steady. “Okay, Steph,” she whispered under her breath, her voice muffled in the mask. “Dumb idea number five hundred tonight. Let’s make it count.”

She vaulted up onto the fire escape, boots making the faintest scrape of metal. Up high, she could track him better. Red Hood’s broad silhouette cut through the shadows below, moving with purpose. He wasn’t just walking aimlessly; he was hunting.

Spoiler trailed him, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, her muscles screaming with each landing. Hood moved fast, cutting across streets, slipping between abandoned buildings like he’d memorized the Narrows block by block.

Twice she almost lost him. Twice he paused mid-step, helmet tilting just slightly as if he felt her presence. Each time, she pressed herself flat against the rooftop, holding still, praying the shadows would swallow her whole.

The second time, his helmet angled upward. Toward her.

Her heart nearly stopped.

But then he just… kept walking.

“Okay,” she whispered, crawling to the ledge to keep him in sight. “He knows. He definitely knows.”

Still, she followed.

The trail ended at an old warehouse near the edge of Crime Alley, one of those Gotham relics that had been condemned decades ago but never torn down. Spoiler crouched low as Hood slipped inside through a side door.

Her pulse thundered. This was it.

The safe move was to leave. Report back to Oracle, to Tim, to Batman. But safe had never been Stephanie’s style.

She slipped down from the fire escape, landing lightly in the dirt, and crept toward the same door.

As her hand brushed the rusted handle, she froze.

"I won't spare you again, little bird. The bat's aren't welcome in my territory." The voice sounded calm, collected but brittle. Almost as if he wasn't entirely sure of the steps he has to take.

But here's the thing about Stephanie Brown.

She does not give a flying fuck.

So, in her Spoiler gear, wearing her mask she makes sure that the Red Hood can see her rolling her eyes. Leaning sideways with her shoulder to the wall, she crosses one leg over the other, the picture of nonchalance.

"First," Stephanie makes sure to point one finger up, as if to count grave offenses. "I ain't a bird or a bat." She can tell that the man is about to tell her otherwise and she continues. "Nuh uh, I chat with them sometimes and occasionally, I team up with them if they require my work. Nothing more."

Red Hood looked dumbfounded, even with his helmet on. Stephanie reveled in it.

She supposes she picked the name Spoiler for a reason.

"Second, I'm by a technicality called the law still considered a kid." Ugh, she hated using that. "You don't hurt kids. In fact I've spoken to some in the alley, some of them can read now and two of them are quoting Jane Austen."

This is what convinced her to look into the guy beyond regular detective work that she's certain Tim and Babs are doing. Stephanie knew these kids, she sometimes worked in the charity kitchens to give the kids food. She steals Bruce his blankets around the manor and gives them to the kids on the streets who refuse to go to foster care. Who've been hurt too many times to try.

She cares about these kids, and Red Hood does too.

Stephanie can build on that. Use it. Maybe even manage to start a tentative alliance for those kids, work together to form a better future for them.

Red Hood shrugs. "I assume that there's a third?"

Cheeky, Stephanie likes cheeky.

"I'd like to hear you out." His shoulder tighten in their stance. "I ain't a bat and I'm damn sure you ain't one either. Your alley accent is noticeable to those who know it, I'm sure my narrows accent is too." She made sure to keep her eyes relaxed but on him at all times. As much as she enjoyed playing with fire, she couldn't allow it to burn herself.

"I think that you've been hurt, that you're using whatever arsenal you've got to protect the people that were once like yourself. I think, that if we work together, we can really bring a change to this city." She held up her hand. "I won't kill, because of personal reasons not because of the bat don't you even start. However, I won't stop you from killing until innocents are being hurt."

It was clear that Red Hood was mulling it over, thinking about it.

He was smart, whether that was a good or bad thing is to be determined.

After a moment, he answered. "I'll look into your work then, Spoiler. Don't except much."

After taking a couple of steps back into the shadows, he vanished.

The hum of the Bat computer filled the cavernous space, its glow casting long shadows across the rock walls. Rows of data scrolled across the massive monitors, a progress bar inching forward at an agonizing crawl.

Dick hated that sound, the sterile whirring, the soft beeps as if the machine was in no hurry to tell him if his son was normal or in far more danger.

He bounced Peter gently on his lap, forcing a grin he didn’t feel. “Okay, champ, let’s play a game,” he whispered, holding up a small Batarang he’d swiped off the nearest workbench. “You see this? Not a toy. Definitely not a toy. But—” he wiggled it side to side, “—if you laugh at it, I’ll take that as a win.”

Peter’s little eyes widened, then he broke into a fit of giggles, reaching for the shiny object with sticky fingers.

“Nope.” Dick quickly pulled it back, kissing the boy’s forehead. “You are not getting your hands on sharp objects. Not until you’re at least—what, Bruce? Twenty-five?”

Bruce, standing behind him with arms crossed, only gave a faint grunt in response. His eyes never left the monitors, his jaw tight. Alfred hovered nearby, trying for his usual composure, but his hands betrayed him. He was wringing the edge of a handkerchief, folding it, unfolding it.

Dick glanced up, catching Bruce’s profile bathed in blue light. The lines in his father’s face were deeper tonight, shadows carved by worry he wasn’t voicing.

“Hey,” Dick said softly, jiggling Peter when the boy began fussing. “You’re supposed to be the calm one. You think I don’t notice you pulling your best gargoyle impression?”

Bruce finally blinked and looked at them. His eyes softened just a fraction at the sight of Peter smacking Dick’s chin with a gummy hand. “You’re doing fine,” Bruce murmured, the voice of a man trying to convince himself. “He’s safe with you.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Dick admitted, pressing Peter close, like his heartbeat alone could protect the baby the way it has before. “I mean, what if we find out he’s… different? What if I can’t keep him safe from this?”

Bruce stepped closer, one heavy hand resting on Dick’s shoulder. His grip was steady, grounding. “Then we’ll figure it out together. Like we always do.”

Peter squealed then, reaching both arms up toward Bruce as if sensing the shift.

For a long moment, the weight of the world broke just slightly as Bruce actually smiled, rare and unguarded, before carefully taking the baby into his arms. Peter smacked his chest twice, delighted with himself.

Bruce looked down at him like he was fragile and indestructible all at once. “No matter what the results say,” he said quietly, “he’s family.”

And just as he said it, the computer chimed. The results were in.

The sound seemed to echo across the cavern. For a moment, no one moved. Dick’s stomach twisted so hard he thought he might be sick.

“Bruce…” His voice was barely a whisper, tight and raw.

Bruce adjusted Peter in one arm, then reached for the keyboard with his free hand. The screen shifted, lines of data breaking apart into neat, clinical categories. His face was unreadable as his eyes tracked the information.

Dick stood. His legs felt like they were made of lead, but he forced himself to step closer. “Don’t do the stoic thing,” he said quickly, almost pleading. “Don’t stand there and filter it for me. Just, tell me.”

Alfred moved closer too, silently bracing for whatever they were about to hear.

Bruce’s eyes flicked once more to the screen before he finally spoke. “His DNA is… altered.”

Dick’s heart stopped. “Altered how?”

Bruce turned toward him, the baby still in his arms. He wasn’t masking his concern anymore. “Peter’s genetic structure isn’t entirely human.”

Dick’s throat went dry. “Wha- what do you mean not human? He’s my son. You said the tests-”

“The tests confirm he’s yours,” Bruce interrupted gently. “Your DNA is there. But… something else is, too. Something that shouldn’t exist here.”

Dick blinked, the words crashing into him like waves. He felt like the ground was sliding out from under his feet. His son, his little boy laughing in Bruce’s arms, was-

“Stop,” Dick rasped, running a hand through his hair. “Stop, just- English, Bruce. He’s not sick? He’s not ?”

Bruce shook his head. “No. His physiology is stable. Strong, even. But his biology isn’t like ours. That’s why you’ve been seeing… anomalies.” His gaze flicked to Peter, who was happily tugging at the edge of Bruce’s cape like it was the most entertaining toy in the world. “Clinging to walls. Strength disproportionate to his size. It isn’t illness. It’s… ability.”

Dick let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, knees nearly buckling. Alfred caught his elbow before he could stumble.

“Abilities,” Dick repeated weakly, trying to make sense of it. “Like… like meta powers?”

“Something close,” Bruce said, grim. “But not quite. It’s… foreign.”

Dick stared at Peter, who chose that exact moment to giggle at nothing at all. His son’s laughter filled the cave, too bright, too innocent to belong in such a heavy space.

“Oh, buddy,” Dick whispered, voice cracking as he stepped forward and scooped Peter back into his arms. He held him tight, pressing his face into the boy’s soft hair. “What are we gonna do with you?”

"Might I suggest," Alfred started as he stepped forth. "That you both go outside for some fresh air Master Dick. You as well as Master Peter have been cooped inside for far too long, a change of surroundings will do you well I believe."

Dick nodded with a grateful smile, glad for the suggestion. He'd been inside the cave for far too long.

By the time they stepped back into the manor proper, Dick’s nerves were raw. He kissed Peter’s forehead, murmured something soft and useless, then set him down in the crib Alfred had set up in the living room for quick naps.

The baby stirred, blinking open bright eyes. His little fist curled in the blanket, then shot upward like he was reaching for something only he could see.

Dick’s throat tightened. He crouched beside the crib, brushing Peter’s curls back. “You don’t even know what’s happening, do you? You’re just… happy.”

And maybe that was what broke him.

He stood abruptly, pacing the length of the room until his nerves couldn’t handle it anymore. “We need out of here,” he muttered. “We need air.”

Within minutes, he had Peter bundled into a small jacket, his own coat half-zipped, a diaper bag slung over his shoulder like it was an emergency pack for patrol. His movements were jerky, too fast, like if he slowed down the weight of the tests would crush him.

When they finally stepped outside, Gotham’s winter air bit at his skin, sharp and grounding. The gardens behind Wayne Manor stretched out in muted colors, bare branches, stone pathways, the fountain still trickling faintly despite the cold.

Dick held Peter close, his son’s cheek pressed against his chest. The baby cooed happily, eyes darting from the sky to the skeletal trees above them.

Peter laughed then, a bubbling, unrestrained sound that filled the empty space like sunlight.

And for the first time that day, Dick let himself breathe.

The cold air seemed to smooth the edges of his panic. His pulse slowed as Peter babbled happily against his chest, tugging at the zipper of his jacket.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dick chuckled softly, catching his son’s wandering little hand and kissing his tiny fingers. “You’re not cold, don’t give me that face. I’ve got you wrapped up like a burrito.”

Peter giggled, the sound echoing over the stone path as Dick adjusted the strap of the diaper bag and started down toward the city. He’d left the car at the manor deliberately, walking felt better. It was slower, steadier. Human.

The world outside seemed calmer too, in a way he hadn’t noticed before. Gotham wasn’t screaming tonight. No sirens yet, no smoke in the sky. Just the crunch of gravel under his boots, the warmth of Peter’s weight in his arms, and the faint breath of winter clinging to the streets.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the city, Peter had grown more restless, twisting to look at everything; the cars, the passersby, the faint glimmer of shop windows. His eyes were so bright, too alive, that it almost hurt Dick to look at them.

“Curious little guy, huh?” he murmured, bouncing him gently. “Figures. You’ve got my blood in you. And maybe something else too. Doesn’t matter.” He kissed the top of Peter’s head again, lingering there for a moment. “You’re mine. That’s enough.”

Chapter Text

Jason walked with no destination in mind. The Narrows bled into downtown, the streets buzzing with life that felt foreign to him. He kept his head down, hood pulled low, every movement deliberate. Incognito. Just another face in the crowd.

It wasn’t a Red Hood day. It was a Jason Todd day.

And those were the worst kind.

His boots scuffed against the pavement as his thoughts circled the boy. Peter. His nephew. His namesake. Jason still wasn’t sure how to process that. A part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Another part wanted to cry. And beneath it all was something he hated admitting even to himself: a sliver of pride.

Named after him.

Like he mattered.

Jason pulled out a cigarette, but paused before lighting it. A little kid didn’t need secondhand smoke hanging in the air. Not that the kid was anywhere near him. Not that Jason would let himself get close. Still, the thought was there.

He slipped the cigarette back into the pack and kept walking.

At that same moment, just a few blocks away, Dick Grayson adjusted Peter higher on his hip as they climbed the steps of Gotham’s library. The baby squealed, reaching for the glowing lights through the glass doors.

“Yeah, I see them too, buddy,” Dick said softly, his voice all warmth. He kissed the top of Peter’s head, breathing him in, grounding himself. For the first time that day, his heart felt steady.

Peter giggled, tugging on his jacket zipper, completely absorbed in the simple wonder of the city.

Dick smiled. “Whole world waiting for you in there. Stories, lessons, maybe even some peace. Who knows?”

Neither of them knew how close they were.

Two brothers, bound by blood and grief, separated by lies and shadows.

One carrying a child with hope in his heart.

The other carrying a city with anger in his fists.

Their paths didn’t cross. Not yet. But Gotham had a way of tightening its web, drawing every thread back together. And whether they were ready or not, Dick and Jason were walking closer to each other with every step.

Jason rounded the corner, hood low, head down, still lost in thought. He wasn’t paying attention to where he was going, a rare thing for him, but the weight of memories had him drifting.

At the same time, Dick stepped out of the library doors, adjusting the diaper bag strap with one hand and balancing Peter with the other. He was smiling softly, still caught up in the quiet peace of the outing.

And then-

They collided.

“Oh- Sorry,” Jason muttered immediately, steadying Dick with a hand before shoving his hood back up. Old habits. Don’t linger. Don’t be noticed. Just keep moving.

But Peter had already seen him.

The baby froze for a heartbeat in Dick’s arms, eyes wide, unblinking. And then, without warning, Peter lurched forward with all his tiny strength, practically throwing himself out of Dick’s hold toward Jason.

“Hey! Whoa, Peter-” Dick caught him, stumbling back in alarm. But Peter was insistent, squirming, reaching out with both arms, babbling desperately as if he knew the man in front of them. His small hands stretched toward Jason’s jacket, clinging when they brushed fabric.

Jason’s entire body went rigid. His chest seized. Those bright, impossibly familiar eyes were staring right into him, through him- like the kid had peeled away every mask he’d ever worn.

For the first time in years, Jason couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Dick, flustered, tried to tug Peter back, but his son clung stubbornly to the stranger’s coat, tiny fingers fisting into the fabric. “Hey, hey, buddy- it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Dick soothed, voice rushed, though his eyes flicked sharply to Jason. Protective. Suspicious. “Sorry about that. He doesn’t usually, uh, do this.”

Jason swallowed hard, fighting the tremor that threatened his voice. “It’s… fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. It was everything.

The kid, Peter, was smiling at him. A pure, open smile, like Jason was the safest person in the world. Like he belonged.

And then Peter surged forward again.

With surprising strength for a baby, his tiny palms smacked flat against Jason’s chest, sticking like glue. Jason blinked in shock, trying to peel him off, but the kid’s hands wouldn’t budge, skin clinging to fabric, the faintest static crackle of something unnatural holding him there.

“Peter!” Dick gasped, tightening his hold around his son’s waist. He tugged, but Peter’s hands didn’t move. His son’s whole body leaned toward Jason like gravity itself had shifted. “Hey- let go, buddy, you’re gonna hurt yourself-”

But Peter wasn’t listening.

His baby babble grew louder, more urgent, directed at Dick even as he clung harder to Jason’s shirt. “Dada! U-cle!” His mouth couldn’t form the words, but his tone carried them, desperate and insistent. Uncle.

Jason froze. Every muscle locked.

He’d been called many things in Gotham. Hood. Ghost. Monster. Mistake.

But hearing that? Even broken up through a baby’s half-formed syllables- it hit him like a punch to the gut.

Uncle.

Jason’s throat burned. His hands, which had been hovering awkwardly at his sides, finally rose, trembling, to hover just short of Peter’s back. He couldn’t make himself touch him, not yet. Couldn’t cross that line.

Dick’s heart pounded as he stared between his son and the stranger. Protective instinct screamed at him to pry Peter away, but confusion held him frozen. Peter never behaved like this. He never clung to strangers. And what was he even trying to say?

“Uncle?” Dick repeated softly, half to himself, half to his son. His blue eyes snapped up to the hooded man, sharp now, guarded. “Why would he…?”

Dick turned to inspect the strangers face, seeing a familiar jawline, eyebrows…

He looked down at Peter, still sticking to the man. "You're doing amazing Petey, you keep sticking alright?" Dick could've sworn that the baby gave him a determined nod.

"Keep sticking? Why is your son sticky-?" The mans voice was dumbfounded, utterly confused as he tried to make sense of what was happening. He wasn't supposed to meet them this way- it was all going wrong!

Using the confusion, Dick pulled back the hood on top of his head, his eyes blowing wide.

"Little wing?"

Jason's- Jason's, because that was Jason looking back at him. His eyes -now green, why weren't they blue- widened almost comically. If it weren't for the situation Dick was sure he would've started laughing at the face his brother was making. However, as it was Dick couldn't believe that he could even see Jason's face in something beyond photo or video, let alone right in front of him.

Jason looked away, swallowing. "No idea who that is."

Dick looked at him with an unimpressed look, one that only the oldest brother could master. Absentmindedly, he brought up his hand to comb his fingers through Peter's hair, a silent but reverent thank you to his son.

"I do, he's standing right in front of me, with my son latched onto him."

There were beads of sweat on his temple now.

"Wonderful son, real sweetheart." Jason -Jason- tried to pry him off, to no avail of course. Thank you whatever it was that made his son have powers. "Why are you so sticky-"

Jason looked back at Dick when the man cupped his face with both hands. "It's you." Jason looked away.

It was the tone, it was too much. Filled with so much emotion; grief, pain, love, relief. All of it wrapped in one neat little package, bleeding from his heart.

Still, he tried to deflect. "Listen man, I just have one of those faces-" Dick shook his head. Jason shut up.

Peter smiled up at him once more. "U-cle!"

Dick smiled at Peter, at his miracle of a son who somehow, someway knew who his uncle was when even his dad didn't recognize his own brother. He could swallow about that failure later. "That's right Peter, that's your uncle, uncle Jason." Dick watched as Jason swallowed, his resolve crumbling. That's right, he had always had a soft spot for kids.

Jason looked down at Peter, eyes immediately catching onto the babies doe brown ones. He smiled gently, with a touch of sadness at the child.

"Hey there Peter. It's real nice to meet you."

The little bell above the door chimed as Dick pushed it open with his shoulder, holding the door for Jason. Who still, somehow, had Peter clinging stubbornly to his chest. The baby was snuggled against Jason’s jacket, tiny fingers fisted into the fabric like letting go simply wasn’t an option.

Jason looked out of place immediately, standing stiffly in the cozy, warmly lit cafe, his hood still half-shadowing his face. He glanced at the handful of people inside, then at Dick, as if silently asking if this was a trap.

“It’s quiet here,” Dick murmured, motioning toward a corner booth. “We can talk.”

Jason didn’t move at first. Then Peter shifted, patting at Jason’s collarbone with a soft giggle, and that broke something in him. With a low grunt, Jason followed Dick to the booth.

Dick slid into one side, watching carefully as Jason sat across from him, Peter on his lap now, content and fascinated with the zipper of Jason’s jacket. Jason’s hands hovered awkwardly, unsure if he was allowed to steady the child, until Peter solved the issue himself by curling up against him with complete trust.

Jason let out a shaky exhale. His walls, those unbreakable, bulletproof walls, had hairline cracks spreading fast.

For a long moment, neither brother spoke. The only sounds were the soft hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of mugs, Peter’s baby babble as he tugged at Jason’s jacket.

Finally, Dick leaned forward, voice low, steady, but carrying years of unspoken weight.

“It’s you.”

Jason’s jaw clenched. He didn’t confirm it. Didn’t deny it either.

Dick’s eyes softened, just slightly. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Yeah,” Jason muttered, staring at the tabletop. “Guess I missed the memo.”

Silence stretched between them again. Peter broke it by grabbing Jason’s thumb in both tiny hands, chewing on it like a teething ring. Jason blinked down at him, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before he forced it flat again.

Dick’s chest ached at the sight. He wanted to reach across the table, to touch his brother’s hand, but he didn’t push it. Not yet. “He knew you,” Dick said quietly. “Right away. He’s never done that with anyone.”

Jason swallowed hard, his eyes flicking up to meet Dick’s, just for a second. Haunted, conflicted. “Yeah. I… don’t know why.”

But the truth was written all over him.

Peter’s head rested against Jason’s chest like it belonged there. Jason’s hand, tentative but steady now, rubbed soft circles on the baby’s back.

Dick couldn’t look away. It was like watching a dream he had no right to dream, something fragile and impossible.His brother, alive, breathing, touching his son. His throat tightened, grief and relief warring inside him until it hurt just to sit still.

“I thought I lost you, for forever,” Dick whispered. The words came out raw, unfiltered, his fingers gripping the edge of the table as though holding himself together. “I, I buried you in my heart, Jason. Every day since.”

Jason stiffened, his hand faltering on Peter’s back. His jaw tightened, his gaze sliding away to the cafe window.

“Maybe you should’ve kept me buried,” he muttered, low and bitter. “The guy you remember isn’t here anymore.”

“Bullshit.” The word cracked out sharper than Dick meant, but the fire in his voice was threaded with pain. He ignored the twin looks of shock from both his brother and his son. “I don’t care what you’ve done, or who you think you are now- you’re still my little brother. You’re Jason. And you’re sitting right in front of me, alive. You don’t know how-” His voice broke. He swallowed hard, blinked back the sting in his eyes. “You don’t know how much that means. To me. ”

Jason’s shoulders hunched, every muscle locked in a silent war. Being seen was unbearable. Being wanted was worse. His chest burned like it couldn’t hold the mix of anger, shame, and a terrifying spark of longing.

“You don’t get it,” Jason rasped, eyes fixed on the baby in his arms because he couldn’t stand to meet Dick’s. “I’m not the kid you used to know. I’ve killed people, Dick. I’ve done things Batman would never forgive. Things you wouldn’t forgive if you really knew.”

Dick’s breath hitched, but his eyes never wavered. “Then tell me,” he said, softer now. “Tell me, and let me decide if I can forgive it. Don’t just throw yourself away like you don’t matter. You matter to me. You always have.”

Jason’s chest ached at that, a deep old wound tearing open. The instinct to shove it down, to sneer, to walk out. It was strong. But then Peter stirred against him, tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket, a soft coo breaking the silence.

Jason looked down, and the baby looked back at him with absolute trust, a mirror of the bond he used to have with Dick. Something in Jason cracked, a quiet sound almost like a sob catching in his throat.

“You named him after me,” he said finally, voice hoarse, unsteady. “Why the hell would you do that?”

Dick’s face softened with a grief-lined smile. “Because I couldn’t stand a world without your name in it. I didn’t want my son to grow up never knowing who you were to me.”

For a long, trembling moment, Jason couldn’t breathe. The mask he’d built for years, layer by layer of anger and denial, felt thinner than paper under his brother’s gaze.

Jason wanted to run. He wanted to believe this was a trick, that Dick would hate him once he knew everything.

But Peter’s small weight against his chest anchored him. And Dick’s eyes; wet and unwavering, told him he wasn’t forgotten. Not yet.

Jason exhaled slowly, his hands trembling as he shifted Peter carefully in his arms. For the first time, he really looked at the kid, looked past the smile and the easy way Peter had clung to him.

Big brown eyes blinked up at him, wide and curious. There was no fear there. No hesitation. Just unshakable, childlike trust. Jason had spent so long surrounded by masks and lies and blood; the purity of it almost hurt.

“Hey, kiddo,” Jason muttered under his breath, awkward but soft, like words he hadn’t spoken in years. His thumb brushed gently over Peter’s tiny hand where it clung to his jacket. “Guess I’m your uncle, huh?”

Peter squealed at the sound of his voice, giggling as he grabbed for Jason’s hand. His tiny fingers wrapped tight around Jason’s thumb, as if to prove the point.

Jason swallowed hard. His throat burned. “Damn, you’ve got a grip.”

Dick smiled, small and fragile but real, watching them. “Yeah, he doesn’t let go once he decides you’re his. Stubborn like his dad.”

Jason shot him a look, but the edge was dulled by the way Peter babbled at him, tugging at his thumb like it was the most important thing in the world.

For a long moment, the air between the brothers eased. Not healed. Not fixed. But softened.

Jason shifted Peter again, holding him more securely, like it was second nature.

Dick knew that the path ahead was long and probably very painful. This moment however? With his first little brother and his son, thanking the waitress for bringing them their drinks, made it more than worth it.

Chapter Text

Jason let the smile linger, faint and unsure, but real. Peter’s giggles echoed like something bright in a world Jason had convinced himself was only shadows.

“He’s… uh,” Jason cleared his throat, rocking Peter slightly without thinking about it, “he’s a happy little guy, huh?”

Dick chuckled softly, watching the sight like it was a miracle. Perhaps it was. For him it definitely was at least. “Yeah. Always has been. He’s curious about everything- he grabs at the world like it’s something worth exploring.” His gaze softened as it landed on Peter. “Reminds me of someone I used to know.”

Jason didn’t ask who. He didn’t have to.

Peter babbled something unintelligible and patted Jason’s face with a sticky hand. Jason blinked, caught off guard, then gently caught the baby’s wrist. “What, no boundaries?” he muttered, but the corners of his mouth twitched up despite himself.

“He likes you,” Dick said, voice almost a whisper. “He’s usually shy with strangers, but… he knows.”

Jason frowned faintly, brushing Peter’s hand aside only for it to come right back. “Knows what?”

“That you’re family,” Dick said simply.

Jason’s chest tightened. He looked down at the baby; at Peter’s bright eyes, the little half-smile that seemed carved out of sunlight. His grip on the child steadied, becoming less awkward, more natural, as though the truth of Dick’s words settled into him despite all his resistance.

“What’s he into?” Jason asked after a moment, his voice low, almost careful. “Toys, food… whatever babies like?”

Dick’s smile widened with quiet gratitude. The fact that Jason wanted to know was enough to splinter the grief still heavy in his chest. “Blocks. He’ll build towers and then knock them over like it’s the funniest thing in the world. And books. He doesn’t understand them yet, obviously," Peter gave him an affronted look. "but he likes looking at the pictures. Loves it when I read to him.”

Jason’s brows furrowed slightly, watching Peter tug at the zipper of his jacket with fierce determination. “Smart kid.”

“Too smart sometimes,” Dick said with a soft laugh. “Keeps me on my toes.” His expression grew wistful, his voice gentling. “I… I want him to grow up surrounded by love. By family. I don’t want him to ever feel alone.”

Jason’s throat went dry. His first instinct was to argue, to remind Dick he didn’t belong in that picture anymore. But Peter gurgled happily against his chest, as if rejecting the thought outright.

Jason just held him a little closer, letting the silence speak where words couldn’t.

Dick sat across from him, hands wrapped around a mug he hadn’t touched, eyes flicking between Peter’s tiny hand clutching Jason’s thumb and the brother he thought he’d buried years ago. Every second felt surreal. It felt fragile, like if he looked away too long Jason might vanish back into the shadows.

The questions burned in his chest. Where had Jason been? Why hadn’t he come home? Why now?

But staring at him now -older, sharper around the edges, with shadows in his eyes that never used to be there- Dick’s throat tightened. He didn’t want to shatter the fragile peace of this moment.

“Jay…” His voice came out rough, almost pleading. “Where… where have you been all this time?”

Jason’s jaw flexed, his gaze fixed on Peter as though the baby’s steady breathing might anchor him. “Around,” he muttered. “Different places. Gotham. Not Gotham.” He rocked Peter slightly, eyes never rising to meet Dick’s. “Doesn’t really matter.”

“It matters to me,” Dick said softly, leaning forward. “You matter to me.”

The words landed like a punch Jason hadn’t braced for. He flinched, just barely, and kept his eyes locked on Peter. The baby babbled happily, grabbing at the zipper of Jason’s jacket like he had no clue of the storm brewing around him.

Dick exhaled, trying to keep his own voice calm, gentle. “You don’t have to tell me everything now. Just… I need to know you’re safe. That you’re not-” His breath caught. “that I’m not going to lose you again. Hell, I can't even believe that I can see you right now.”

Jason finally looked up, green eyes meeting blue ones. For a heartbeat, Dick could almost see the boy he used to know. The stubborn grin, the laugh that came too easily, the little brother who’d made every day brighter.

But it vanished just as quickly, replaced by that same guarded steel.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Jason said quietly. Not angry. Not warm. Just a truth he was willing to offer, no more, no less.

Dick swallowed, nodding, his chest heavy with both relief and ache. It wasn’t enough. But it was something.

Peter, sensing the weight in the air, leaned back in Jason’s arms and patted his face with a gummy smile. Jason huffed out the barest laugh, and Dick, who was listening to the sound, watching the expression, the undeniable proof that his brother was real and alive, felt tears sting his eyes.

Dick froze at the sound. It was like hearing a ghost laugh, one he thought he’d never hear again. His chest ached, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. For a moment, the world shrank down to the three of them. Peter’s bubbling joy, Jason’s quiet smile, and Dick’s heart breaking open with relief.

He wanted to ask everything. To demand explanations. But instead, he swallowed all of it down and leaned forward slightly, his voice soft as if he were afraid the moment might shatter.

“How are you, Jay?”

Jason blinked, like no one had asked him that in a long, long time. Dick had to hold onto everything he had not to break down at that realization. Jason shifted Peter closer, gaze dropping to the baby’s tiny fist still clutching his jacket. His throat bobbed before he answered.

“…I’m… managing,” he said finally. Not much, but more than Dick expected.

Dick nodded, forcing himself to breathe evenly. “That’s enough. That’s all I need.”

Jason’s eyes flicked up at him then, just for a second. They weren’t hard or guarded this time, instead they were just tired. Real. And Dick saw his little brother again, under all the sharp edges and silence.

Peter babbled happily, tugging at Jason’s sleeve as though demanding attention. Jason huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Pushy, isn’t he?”

Dick chuckled, wiping at his eyes before Jason could see too much. “Yeah. Guess it runs in the family.”

That made Jason laugh again, quiet but real. And in that sound -soft, unguarded- Dick felt something inside him ease. For the first time in years, he wasn’t reaching for a memory. His brother was right here.

They didn’t need all the answers yet. Not tonight. Tonight, it was enough to sit across from each other, a baby between them, and remember what it felt like to be brothers.

Jason shifted Peter a little higher in his arms, the kid’s tiny hand still tangled in his shirt. Warmth radiated off him, a steady, innocent weight against Jason’s chest. It felt… grounding.

Too grounding.

He shouldn’t have let this happen. He shouldn’t have let Dick see him. He sure as hell shouldn’t be sitting in a café with a baby, his nephew, like this was normal, like they were just family meeting up after a long time apart.

But then Peter giggled again, drooling on his jacket, and Jason felt something in his chest crack open. Damn it.

He glanced at Dick. His big brother, who looked like he was barely holding himself together, like he might fall apart if Jason so much as blinked wrong. And it hit him harder than any bullet ever had. Dick hadn’t moved on as Jason thought he would. He’d mourned. He’d carried that grief. And he was still carrying it.

Part of Jason wanted to blurt it all out. To tell Dick everything: the pit, the anger, the mask, the blood on his hands. To confess how he had come back to life and chosen to stay away, festering in Gotham’s shadows while his family thought him gone.

But if he did, the look in Dick’s eyes would change. The fragile hope there would crumble. And Jason didn’t know if he could take that.

Jason’s jaw worked, eyes fixed on the half-empty mug in front of him, anything to avoid the steady weight of Dick’s gaze. His thumb rubbed absent circles against Peter’s back without even thinking, a rhythm that kept his hands from shaking.

“Jay.”

Jason stiffened. He hadn’t realized how quiet the table had gotten until he heard the softness in Dick’s voice. He glanced up reluctantly, and there it was, that look. Open. Searching. A little raw around the edges, but steady.

“You’re holding back,” Dick said gently. No accusation. No edge. Just certainty. “I don’t know what it is, and I won’t push. But…” He paused, glancing down at Peter’s tiny fingers curling against Jason’s jacket. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right? Nothing you say will make me stop being your brother.”

Jason swallowed hard, his throat suddenly too tight.

Dick leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes unwavering. “I don’t care what you’ve done. Or where you’ve been. You’re here. That’s all that matters. And I will never- never judge you for surviving.”

Dick looked at his brother, at his changed eyes, his lack of old scars and addition of new ones. at the white streak in his hair.

"No matter the means, I am grateful that you are here."

Jason froze. The words sank in slow, cutting past every wall he’d built around himself. For a second, it was almost too much. He wanted to laugh it off, to sneer, to push Dick away before the weight of those words crushed him.

But Peter gurgled then, patting Jason’s chest like he was agreeing with Dick. And the lump in Jason’s throat doubled in size.

Dick’s voice softened even further, a whisper meant only for him. “You’re my brother, Jason. Always. Whatever it is… I can take it. We can take it. Together.”

Jason shut his eyes. The instinct to tell him everything clawed its way up, sharp and desperate. But the fear was louder. Fear of shattering this fragile, impossible moment of peace.

So all he managed was a hoarse: “You don’t know what you’re saying, Dickie.”

Dick only smiled sadly, eyes wet but sure. “Then tell me. Show me. Whatever it is, you’re not alone anymore.”

And Jason, caught between the comfort of his brother’s words and the crushing weight of his secrets, held on tighter to Peter. Because right now, the baby’s warmth was the only thing keeping him from breaking.

It started quiet. A ragged inhale, a tremor in his shoulders he couldn’t quite disguise. Jason ducked his head, but it didn’t matter. Dick saw. The tears slipped anyway, hot and unwanted, dripping down onto Peter’s little shirt.

Jason hadn’t cried in years. Not like this. Not where it hurt.

Peter shifted in his arms, making a soft, questioning noise. Then those tiny hands patted at his wet cheeks with the clumsy certainty of a baby trying to fix something far too big. He gurgled, wide eyes fixed on Jason’s face, and -God help him- the kid smiled, like he could see right through the cracks and wasn’t scared of them at all.

Jason choked on a laugh-sob, pressing his face into Peter’s hair for just a second, as if hiding there could hold him together.

“Jay…”

Dick’s voice was thick, and when Jason dared look up, his brother’s own eyes were wet. Dick reached across the table, resting a steady hand over Jason’s trembling arm. “You don’t have to carry it all alone. Not anymore.”

Jason shook his head, a thousand protests caught in his throat. But Dick’s hand squeezed, firm and grounding.

“You’re my brother,” Dick whispered, voice breaking with the weight of it. “Nothing will ever change that. Not death, not distance, not anything you think you’ve done. I love you, Jason. I always will.”

Jason’s chest caved under the words. He couldn’t speak, his voice wouldn’t work but his grip on Peter never faltered. The baby leaned against him with absolute trust, babbling nonsense syllables as if he was trying to reassure him, too.

And for the first time since clawing his way out of the grave, Jason let himself believe it. That maybe he wasn’t lost. That maybe, just maybe, he was still someone’s brother.

Jason drew in a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to swipe roughly at his face with the back of his sleeve. He hated how unsteady his voice sounded when he finally spoke.

“It wasn’t… easy. These last years.” His gaze drifted to the window, away from Dick’s eyes. “A lot of fighting. A lot of nights I didn’t think I’d see the next morning. I… did what I had to.”

His words trailed off into silence, heavy with all the things he didn’t say but knew that Dick could still hear. About blood on his hands, about the mask, about Gotham whispering his name in fear. He watched Dick carefully, half-expecting the disgust, the recoil.

But it never came.

Dick’s expression softened instead, though his mouth trembled like he was biting back more questions than he should ask. His hand squeezed Jason’s arm again, grounding him. “I don’t care what you had to do,” he said, voice low but certain. “I care that you’re here now. That you made it through. I'll tell you as many times as i need to in order for you to believe it.”

Jason blinked, throat tight. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Maybe anger, judgment, disappointment. But not this. Never this.

“I… I wasn’t the same person anymore,” Jason admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Still not. And I don’t know if I can be.” His fingers flexed against Peter’s back, as if the baby was the only tether he had left.

Dick leaned forward, not letting go of his arm. “Then don’t try to be. Just be you. My brother. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Jason stared at him, heart hammering, searching for the lie- because there had to be one. There always was. But all he found was Dick, eyes wet and unwavering, and the sound of Peter’s soft little laugh breaking the heaviness between them. Jason couldn't stop another small sob from escaping, clenching his jaw as he remained careful not to hurt Peter in any way, shape or form.

It left Jason raw. Exposed.

Jason had always been certain. Certainty was survival. Certainty was knowing which streets to stalk, which men to put down, where the line was drawn in blood and fire. Certainty was the mask, the Red Hood, and the clarity it gave him.

But now…

Now there was this tiny weight against his chest. Small fingers gripping at his shirt like they belonged there, like Jason was solid and safe and not the mess of contradictions he really was. Peter’s steady little breaths warmed the hollow spaces Jason had carved out of himself.

And suddenly certainty didn’t feel so solid anymore.

What was he supposed to do with this? He had sworn himself to a mission, to a way of life that didn’t allow for family or softness or -God- forgiveness. He was the ghost in Gotham, the cautionary tale whispered in alleys, the monster kids like Peter were supposed to be kept safe from.

But here was his nephew. Named after him, no less. Smiling at him like Jason was the best thing in the world. Like Jason deserved him.

For years, Jason had survived on rage. Rage at Bruce, rage at the Joker, rage at himself. Rage gave him focus. Rage kept him moving when the nightmares clawed him awake. But now… holding Peter, listening to Dick call him “brother” like nothing had ever broken between them… the rage felt thin. Shaky. Like a shield full of cracks he couldn’t patch anymore.

He wasn’t sure of anything. Not who he was, not what he wanted, not what came next.

All he knew was that letting go of Peter felt impossible.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Chapter Text

Peter was busy in Jason’s lap, babbling happily and tugging on the zipper of his jacket like it was the greatest toy in Gotham. Jason didn’t move him off. Couldn’t. The tiny hands anchored him to the chair in a way he hadn’t felt anchored in years.

Dick watched, his eyes soft but lined with worry. He hadn’t stopped studying Jason since the moment they sat down. Every glance cataloged the sharpness in his brother’s face, the shadows under his eyes, the weight he carried in his shoulders.

“Jason,” Dick finally said, his voice quieter than the hum of the café around them.

Jason looked up reluctantly, still letting Peter clutch at his shirt. “What?”

“You don’t look… safe,” Dick admitted. His throat tightened, but he pressed on. “I don’t know where you’ve been, or what you’ve been through, but I know you. I can see it. You’re carrying something heavy. And you don’t have to do that alone.”

Jason stiffened, jaw clenching. “I’m fine.”

“Jay.” Dick leaned forward, the nickname tumbling out before he could stop it. “You don’t have to brush me off. Not anymore. Let me help.”

Jason shook his head sharply, his eyes flicking away. “I don’t need saving, Dick. That’s not me anymore. You wouldn’t understand.”

The words stung, but Dick refused to back down. He glanced at Peter, still clinging tightly to Jason, then back at his brother. “Maybe I don’t understand everything yet. But I don’t need to. I just need to know you’re safe. That you’re here. That I’m not going to lose you again.”

Jason’s throat worked, but he stayed silent.

So Dick leaned further, reaching across the table until his hand brushed Jason’s sleeve. His voice was steady but fierce, every ounce of older-brother instinct shining through. “Give me your number. You don’t have to call me. I won’t bother you if you don’t want me to. But I need to know I can reach you if something happens. I can’t-” his voice broke, just slightly, “I can’t handle having to visit your grave again, Jason.”

For a long moment, the only sound was Peter’s giggle as he tried to shove a toy into Jason’s free hand.

Jason looked down at his nephew, then at his brother, who hadn’t blinked once. His first instinct was to say no, to stay untouchable, unreachable. But the plea in Dick’s eyes rooted him to the spot.

Finally, with a frustrated huff, Jason muttered, “Fine. Don’t make me regret it.”

Dick’s hand tightened on his sleeve, relief flooding his face. “You won’t.”

Jason wasn’t so sure. But when Peter leaned against him again, warm and trusting, he thought… maybe. Just maybe.

This could work out

Tim groaned.

"This won't work out the way you want it to Steph and you know it."

Stephanie rolled her eyes, slumping back in her chair with her arms crossed. “What way do I want it to work out, Tim? Hm?" He raised one eyebrow at her, she stuck out her tongue in return. "’Cause last I checked, all I did was not die when Red Hood cornered me and form a tentative alliance. Forgive me for wanting to understand why.”

Barbara’s fingers paused over her keyboard. “He let you live,” she said, her voice level but pointed. “That matters.”

Steph blinked, sitting up straighter. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him! Criminals in Gotham don’t just let Spoiler walk out of their territory when they know Spoiler is there!" She could see Tim rubbing at his temples silently begging for her to stop speaking in third person. "They don’t just… look at you and decide you get a free pass.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose, his coffee long forgotten on the table beside him. “Or it’s a trap. He’s playing with you, Steph. You’ve been in this long enough to know what that means.”

Barbara tapped a key, and the monitors around them flickered with images; grainy surveillance shots of a figure in a crimson helmet, snapshots of crime scenes marked with brutal efficiency. “The Red Hood is precise,” she said. “He’s tactical. He’s not just a thug with a flashy gimmick. He has training.” She paused. "A lot of training, As far as I can tell he has the fighting skills of many of the deadliest assassins."

Steph leaned forward, her stubborn edge softened by curiosity. “So… what’s his endgame?”

“That,” Barbara admitted, eyes narrowing as she scanned the data, “is what worries me. He’s not killing indiscriminately. His targets are specific: dealers, traffickers, runners tied to Black Mask’s network. He’s dismantling them piece by piece.”

Steph glanced between the glowing monitors and her teammates. “So… he’s cleaning house?”

“Maybe,” Tim said grimly. “Or maybe he’s clearing the field to build his own empire.”

Barbara’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Either way, he’s methodical. Dangerous. And the fact that he let you go?” She shook her head. “That suggests intent. He wanted you to live, Steph. The question is… why.”

The room went quiet, the weight of the question hanging over them.

Steph shifted uncomfortably, but her jaw tightened in determination. “Then we figure it out. Together. If he wants me alive, fine. But I’m not going to just sit around and wait for him to come out with a gun to my head.”

Tim looked like he wanted to argue, but Barbara’s voice cut in, calm and firm. “Then we start here. We dig deeper. Patterns, connections, whatever he’s building, we find it. But we don’t underestimate him. Not for a second.”

Steph swallowed, nodding slowly. “Got it.”

Still, she couldn’t shake the memory of that moment in the alley.

The weight of his gaze through the helmet.

The way he hadn’t pulled the trigger.

Why me?

Though, as she gave it a moment of thought, she realized something.

She cared about something the others ignored.

The souls too young to be anything but innocent. Perhaps the same way Red Hood once was, if her intuition was right.

Let's be honest, it usually was.

Dick shifted Peter higher on his hip as he leaned against the doorway. The baby was giggling at the tie he had stolen from Bruce’s desk drawer, waving it around like a flag.

“Dad,” Dick started, his tone hesitant but firm, “I’ve been thinking. The apartment I have… it’s not exactly, big. Or safe. And with Peter…” He glanced down at the baby gnawing on the expensive silk tie, looking up at him with his best I'm innocent look. Dick can't help but fold every time he sees it. “…I think it’s time I found something better. A place with space for him. For us.”

Bruce looked up from the papers on his desk, eyebrow raised. “So, you want a house.”

Dick chuckled, shaking his head. “Not a house, Bruce. Just, an apartment. Bigger than the shoebox I’ve got. Something with, you know, walls that don’t leak in the rain.”

Bruce set his pen down slowly, the faintest flicker of pride crossing his face. His son -his first son- was settling into this new chapter with Peter in his arms. But instead of giving some lecture about finances or planning, Bruce reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a sleek platinum credit card, and flicked it across the desk.

It landed perfectly in front of Dick with a soft tap.

Dick blinked at it. “…Really?”

Bruce’s expression didn’t shift. “Get something with good insulation. Peter deserves warmth.”

Dick barked out a laugh, bouncing Peter slightly. “This is so you, B. No strings attached, huh?”

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Just don’t make me visit another apartment with squeaky floorboards. Alfred still complains about the last one.”

As if summoned, Alfred passed by the doorway with a tray of tea. “I don’t complain, Master Bruce,” he said dryly. “I simply state the facts. That last place had character, but also an infestation problem.”

Dick rolled his eyes, scooping up the card. “Fine, fine. I’ll find something nice. But just so we’re clear, this isn’t you buying us off. Peter and I are doing this together.”

Bruce’s gaze softened ever so slightly as he looked at the baby now trying to wrap himself in the tie. “Of course. But don’t refuse help when it’s freely given. He’s not just your responsibility, Dick. He’s ours.”

Dick swallowed, the weight of those words sinking in. He glanced down at Peter, who was happily drooling on silk worth more than Dick’s monthly rent, and smiled.

“…Thanks, Dad.”

Bruce only gave the faintest nod, but his eyes which were steady and warm said more than enough.

Dick shifted the last box into place, brushing the dust off his hands with a satisfied huff. The apartment was finally together. Bigger than his old one, brighter too. Bruce had insisted on the security features, Alfred had sent over furniture that made the place feel lived-in, and Dick had taken care of the rest.

Peter’s toys were scattered over the floor already, like he was claiming every inch of it. His laughter echoed against the walls as he crawled after a stuffed giraffe, tiny hands smacking against the hardwood.

“Yeah, buddy,” Dick chuckled, scooping him up, “I think you approve.”

He bounced Peter on his hip, moving toward the window where the Gotham skyline stretched out in shadow and light. His free hand held his phone, thumb hovering over Jason’s number.

This wasn’t just about him or Peter, it was about family. And Dick wasn’t going to lose Jason again.

He pressed the call button.

The line rang once, twice. Then came Jason’s gruff voice, wary as always: “Big wing?”

“Hey,” Dick said softly. “Don’t hang up. I want to show you something.”

There was silence. Then the faint sound of Jason scoffing. “…This better not be a trick.”

“It’s not,” Dick promised, voice steady. He looked down at Peter, who was gnawing on his fist, staring at the phone like he understood. “It’s a surprise. For you. For Peter.”

Jason exhaled like he didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. “You’re too much, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Dick admitted, smiling. “But I mean it. I want you to see this place. Just come by, okay? I’ll text you the address.”

Another pause, then: “…Fine. Don’t make me regret it.”

When the line went dead, Dick pressed a kiss to Peter’s hair, his chest tight with hope.

When the knock finally came, Dick’s heart leapt. He jogged to the door, Peter perched on his hip, and opened it to find Jason standing there in civilian clothes, hood tugged low, shoulders tight like he was ready for a fight.

Jason’s eyes flicked past him into the apartment, narrowing. “Dickie… what is this?”

Dick smiled, nervous but determined. “Come in. You’ll see.”

Jason stepped inside cautiously, like the walls might cave in on him. His gaze darted over the place; the couch, the framed photos Alfred had insisted on putting up, Peter’s toys already scattered across the floor. It looked lived-in, safe. A home.

And Jason couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen something like that.

Peter wriggled in Dick’s arms, reaching out toward Jason with a happy squeal. Jason let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair before muttering, “Kid’s got instance.” He reached out to take him, settling Peter against his chest almost instinctively.

Dick swallowed hard, the sight cutting right through him. This was what he wanted, what he needed. His brother here, holding his son, both of them safe.

“We’re gonna be living here,” Dick said quietly, gesturing around the apartment. “Me and Peter. But…” He hesitated, watching Jason’s expression tighten, bracing for push-back. “There’s a room for you, too. If you want it.”

Jason blinked, taken off guard. “…You’re serious?”

“I'm serious.” Dick reached into his pocket and pulled out a small set of keys, pressing them into Jason’s free hand before he could argue. “You get a key. No one else has one. No one else has access to the security, either. This is just us.”

Jason stared down at the key in his palm, like it weighed more than a gun. His throat worked, but no words came out.

Peter babbled against his chest, tiny fist smacking Jason’s jacket like he was sealing the deal himself. Jason let out a shaky laugh he couldn’t hold back.

Dick’s voice softened. “I’m not asking for much. I just… I don’t want you to be alone anymore.”

Jason closed his hand around the key, his jaw tight, eyes burning with emotions he couldn’t let out, couldn't allow himself to.

But he didn’t give it back.

Jason’s fist clenched tighter around the key, the jagged edges digging into his palm. His throat burned, words scraping their way out like broken glass.

“Why?” he asked, rough, almost desperate. He lifted his gaze to Dick, eyes storming with hurt and disbelief. “Why the hell would you do this for me? After everything- I’m not-" Jason shook his head, clenching his jaw. But, Dick notices how his hold on Peter never faltered. "I'm not the brother you think I am. You don’t even know what I’ve…” He trailed off, jaw snapping shut like he was holding back poison.

Dick didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, his expression soft but steady, like he’d prepared himself for this. “Because you’re my brother,” he said simply. “That doesn’t go away. Not for me.”

Jason shook his head, laughing bitterly, though his grip on Peter never loosened. The baby reached up, tugging lightly at his jaw, making his voice crack. “You don’t know what I’ve done, Dick. You wouldn’t be standing here if you did.”

“You’re here now,” Dick countered, voice low, firm with conviction. “That’s what matters. You’re alive, Jason. And I don’t want to waste another second pretending you’re not. I want you safe. I want you around Peter.”

At his name, Peter squealed, smacking Jason’s chest again with a sticky hand. Jason looked down, blinking rapidly as the baby laughed like the world was perfect. The weight in his chest crushed him and lifted him all at once.

“You named him after me,” Jason muttered, almost to himself. His voice was thin, choked. “And now you want me around him. Why?”

Dick’s face softened further, grief, care and so much flickering in his eyes. “Because he deserves to know you. Because I want my son to grow up with his uncle- the way it should’ve been from the start. And because, Jay…” He reached out, resting a hand on Jason’s shoulder, grounding him. “I can’t lose you again. Not when I just got you back.”

Jason’s chest hitched. He ducked his head, biting hard on his lip to stop the tears threatening to spill. He hadn’t cried like this since he was a kid, since before it all went wrong. And now, holding a baby who carried his name, and looking at a brother who refused to give up on him.

Jason didn’t know how to hold it all in.

Peter’s little hand cupped his cheek clumsily, like he understood. Jason closed his eyes, a broken laugh slipping out as the first tear escaped.

Dick squeezed his shoulder gently, whispering, “You don’t have to do anything, Jason. You don’t have to prove anything. Just… be here. With us. That’s all I want.”

Peter had finally started to yawn against Jason’s shoulder, his little fists rubbing at his eyes. Dick stepped forward, brushing a hand through his son’s hair before easing him from Jason’s arms.

“Nap time,” Dick said softly, smiling as Peter fussed half-heartedly before settling against him. “He gets cranky if I push it.”

Jason just nodded, watching as Dick carried the baby down the short hall to the nursery. The sound of a lullaby machine clicked on, low and gentle, and for a moment Jason stood rooted in the living room, staring at the apartment he didn’t think he’d ever set foot in. Warm colors, pictures already hung on the wall. This was a life that was being built here, with Peter at the center. It was everything he’d forgotten he once wanted.

When Dick came back out, shutting the nursery door carefully behind him, his whole demeanor shifted. His shoulders straightened, his eyes sharper. It was the same look Jason remembered from the old days. Dick's big brother mode, only stronger now that he had Peter.

“Alright,” Dick said, crossing the room and leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded but gaze locked on Jason. “Where have you been staying?”

Jason stiffened. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Dick pressed, his voice calm but firm. “You show up out of nowhere after years, alive, and you’re not walking in here like someone who’s been comfortable. Where?”

Jason swallowed, his jaw tightening. “A safe house. Not far from Crime Alley.”

Dick’s hands curled into fists against his arms. “Crime Alley.”

Jason shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “It’s fine. Got four walls, a roof. Doesn’t have running water, but I manage.” It probably wasn't smart to mention the spots Jason was pretty sure was mold on the walls in the living area. Dick would definetly freak out when he heard that.

“Running-” Dick stopped, inhaled sharply, and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Okay, never mind. Dick was freaking out either way.

“Jason. You’re living without running water? In Crime Alley?” His voice rose despite himself, raw and protective. “That’s not living, that’s- god, you’re my brother. You don’t get to disappear for years and then tell me you’re squatting in some shithole like that’s acceptable.”

Jason scowled, defensive, though his chest twisted at the way Dick’s eyes shone with real worry. “It’s enough. I don’t need more.”

“No,” Dick snapped back, taking a step closer, voice tight with emotion. “It’s not enough. Not for you. I don’t care if you think you can scrape by, I don’t care if you think you don’t deserve better- you’re my family, Jason. You’re my brother. And I will not let you rot away in some broken safe house like you don’t matter.”

Jason’s throat went dry, his anger faltering at the sheer conviction in Dick’s words. He looked away, jaw clenched, because if he met Dick’s eyes right now, he knew the walls would crack further.

Dick softened, his voice dropping. “You deserve more than just surviving, Jay. You deserve a life. A home. You deserve this. Even when you don't think you do.” Dick knew what it was like for Jason growing up. He didn't want him to think he deserved that for the rest of his life.

For a long moment, Jason didn’t answer. He just stood there, shoulders tight, fighting the flood of emotions surging through him. No one had said those words to him since before the grave.

He swallowed the brick in his throat.

"Thank you."

Chapter Text

They settled into a rhythm. Every weekend Dick and Peter went back to the manor to see the family there. Through Monday to Friday, they'd be in the new apartment. Bonding with Jason and relishing in the uncertain feeling of family, even though the unknowns of Jason's past still lingered in Dick's mind.

He tried to let it go, to go at Jason's own pace. He could imagine how hard it's been for his brother. He had been tortured gruesomely, he died, then he somehow got out of the grave, grew twice his sight with triple the muscle combined with plenty of new scars while having gotten rid of the old ones.

Dick knew little of how the supernatural worked. He's seen it at work, has witnessed it, yet he can't understand it like maybe Zatanna or Constantine would. He doesn't have magic beyond what Robin gave him.

Dick did know however, that that would not stop him.

He started looking into ways to revive the dead, necromancy and the like. While looking through files in the Batcave he found a file on the league of Shadows, Ra's Lazarus pit. His stomach clenched as he read about it.

His brother most definitely went into that thing, the green eyes and white streak all but confirmed it.

Dick wasn't sure what to do with that information.

On one side, his brother was back, currently playing with Peter in their living room as Dick was getting a moment of relaxation. His brother, who he missed the funeral of, was alive and by his side. It was something that a month ago he could only dream of.

On the other side; his brother was at some point in the league of Shadows. Dick didn't know much besides how Thalia at some point had something with Bruce, he had caught her once while getting out of Bruce's bedroom. He shivered at the thought.

The league was powerful, but deadly. They didn't do anything without a price. Dick couldn't even imagine the price Jason would have had to pay, especially considering his short responses whenever dick asked about what has happened to him.

“I’m not the kid you used to know. I’ve killed people, Dick. I’ve done things Batman would never forgive. Things you wouldn’t forgive if you really knew.”

Except Dick would, every time, if it meant that this hole created by loss in his heart could finally be filled. If it meant he got his brother back, the only thing he could think about was how having done those things may have impacted Jason.

Because they had, no matter how much Jason tried to hide it.

His steps wore a stillness to them, despite his considerable frame. The way his reflexes had improved to an almost impossible amount.

The way he screamed sometimes in the night.

Whatever was plaguing his brothers mind, Dick would find it.

And then, he would get rid of it.

The apartment was quiet except for the low murmur of the TV, some late-night sitcom rerun that neither of them was really paying attention to. Peter was asleep down the hall, the soft hum of the baby monitor faint but steady, and for once, the weight of Gotham didn’t feel like it was pressing down on their shoulders.

Dick leaned back into the couch cushions, mug of hot chocolate steaming in his hands. He’d insisted on making it with real milk, a sprinkle of cinnamon, marshmallows melting on top and had practically shoved the second mug into Jason’s hands before he could argue.

Now Jason sat beside him, posture stiff at first, but gradually relaxing into the cushions as the warmth seeped through the mug. He sipped, quietly surprised that it actually tasted good, comforting even.

“You’re staring,” Jason muttered, not looking away from the TV.

Dick smirked faintly. “I’m watching you enjoy something I made. That’s rare enough to count as a historic event.”

Jason rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward despite himself. He sank further into the couch, his free hand rubbing absently at his jaw.

They sat like that for a while, the easy silence stretching between them. And then, softly, Jason broke it.

“It wasn’t just the grave,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant.

Dick turned his head, careful not to move too fast, like he was afraid of spooking him. “…What do you mean?”

Jason’s thumb tapped against the mug. His eyes stayed on the flickering screen, though he wasn’t seeing it. “When I came back… I didn’t know who I was. Just anger, pain. The League found me. Or maybe I found them. Doesn’t matter.” He let out a humorless laugh. “They built me back up. Or tore me down. Hard to tell which.”

Dick’s grip on his mug tightened, all his suspicions being confirmed but he forced himself to stay calm, to keep his voice steady. “Jay…”

Jason finally glanced at him, eyes shadowed but vulnerable in a way Dick hadn’t seen since they were kids. “They taught me how to fight. How to kill. That was my life. For years. Until I didn’t want it anymore.”

Dick exhaled slowly, setting his mug down on the coffee table so he could rest a steadying hand on Jason’s shoulder. “You got out. That’s what matters.”

Jason shook his head, staring down at the hot chocolate like the steam held answers. “You don’t get out of the League. You run. And you keep running. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

Dick’s heart ached, but he tightened his hand just enough to make Jason look at him again. His voice was soft but certain. “Then you don’t have to run anymore. Not here. Not with me. Not with Peter.”

Jason’s throat worked, the words sticking in his chest. He looked away, blinking hard, and after a long pause, he muttered, “You’re too good for this city.”

“No,” Dick said firmly, without hesitation. “I just know when family needs me.”

Jason let out a sharp breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. He tilted his head back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling like maybe the plaster had answers.

“Family,” he repeated, the word rolling bitter and soft all at once. “You know what they called me in the League?”

Dick’s hand slipped from his shoulder to his arm, grounding, gentle. “What?”

Jason’s jaw flexed, the muscles tight. He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to give it power. But the hot chocolate was warm in his hands, Peter was asleep down the hall, and Dick was looking at him like the world wouldn’t end if he did.

“Ghost,” Jason muttered finally. “They called me Ghost. Said I wasn’t alive, wasn’t dead. Just something in between. A thing to use until I burned out.”

Dick froze, his heart clenching so hard it hurt.

Jason huffed, trying to cover the slip with bravado, but his voice cracked anyway. “And maybe they were right. Sometimes… sometimes I don’t feel real. Just anger wrapped in skin.”

“Jay…” Dick’s voice was quiet, shaking, like he was holding back the urge to break apart. He set his mug aside and turned fully toward his brother. “You’re not a ghost. You’re not some… weapon. You’re my brother. You’re Peter’s uncle." He said, trying to give him purpose beyond what the league so clearly tried to force on him. "You’re here. You’re real.”

Jason swallowed hard, his vision blurring despite himself. He scrubbed at his eyes roughly with the heel of his hand, hating how raw it felt to admit it, hating how much he wanted to believe Dick’s words.

But Dick didn’t pull away. He shifted closer, laying a hand against the back of Jason’s neck in that old, familiar way that used to calm him down when nightmares woke him up as a kid.

“You’re home, Jason,” Dick said softly. “Whether you believe it yet or not. You’re home.”

Jason’s chest shook with a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and he let his head tip forward until it rested briefly against Dick’s shoulder. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel the truth of it, the warmth he thought he’d never have again.

And for the first time in years, “Ghost” didn’t feel like his name anymore.

Jason stared into the steaming mug in his hands, the rich scent of chocolate almost foreign after years of bitter coffee and harsher nights. The couch dipped slightly as Dick leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Jason’s, casual, grounding.

“You know,” Dick said softly, eyes still on the muted TV flickering across the room, “you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Just… being here with you again, it’s enough for me.”

Jason’s throat went tight. Nobody had said that to him. Not since before everything, before the pit, before the grave. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be enough.

His fingers tightened around the mug. “…How can you not hate me?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and unguarded. Jason almost winced at the sound of his own voice, small in a way he hadn’t let himself be since he was a kid.

Dick turned then, fully facing him, blue eyes fierce with sincerity. “Hate you? Jason, no. God, no. I missed you every single day. I thought I’d never get to see you again. And now you’re here. You’re my little brother. Nothing changes that. Nothing.”

Jason blinked rapidly, but one hot tear still slipped down before he could catch it. He muttered a curse and rubbed at his face, but Dick only reached out and pulled him into a sideways hug, strong and steady, the kind that told him it was okay to break apart because someone would always hold the pieces.

“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore,” Dick whispered into his hair. “Whatever it is—whatever you’ve been through—you’ve got me. And Peter. We’re family. That’s not going away.”

Jason swallowed hard, chest aching with a mix of grief and relief he didn’t know how to contain. He let himself lean into the hug, just for a moment, just long enough to remember what it felt like to be wanted.

And when he finally spoke again, voice hoarse, it was only one word:

“…Thanks.”

Dick’s arm tightened around him, no hesitation, no doubt. “Always, little wing.”

The moment was warm, still. Until a faint thwip broke the silence.

Jason’s brows knitted. “…The hell was-”

thwip. thwip.

Both of them looked up just in time to see Peter, grinning ear-to-ear, crawling along the ceiling like a spider, small hands and feet sticking effortlessly to the plaster.

Jason shot to his feet, hot chocolate nearly spilling. “WHAT- what the hell is that?!” His eyes darted from the ceiling to Dick, wild. “Why is your baby- why is he up there?!”

Dick, by contrast, just pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, weary sigh. “Peter,” he muttered like a man who’d said it a hundred times already, “we talked about this.”

Jason gawked at him. “Talked about this?! He’s- he’s crawling on the ceiling like some horror movie reject and you’re acting like this is- what the actual hell, Dick?!”

“Jason,” Dick said firmly, standing but nowhere near panicked, “relax. He’s fine. He does this.”

As if to punctuate it, Peter squealed in delight and launched himself down. Landing squarely in Jason’s lap with a babies complete trust. Jason yelped, catching him on instinct, staring down at the giggling baby clinging to his shirt like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Jason’s heart was racing. “Does this?! This- this isn’t normal! Babies don’t just- just stick to walls, Dick!”

Dick crouched next to them, calm in a way only a very tired parent could be. He brushed a hand over Peter’s messy hair and gave Jason a look that was both apologetic and resigned. “Yeah, well… mine does.”

Jason blinked at him, completely lost. “You can’t just say that like it explains anything!”

Dick smirked faintly, though his eyes were tired. “Welcome to my life, little wing.”

Peter, meanwhile, patted Jason’s cheek with a sticky hand, babbling happily, utterly oblivious to the existential crisis he’d just caused.

Dick sighed once more. "It took over an hour to get him down." He groaned.

A couple of nights later, Jason pulled the helmet over his head and felt the familiar weight of it settle against his skull. The leather of the jacket creaked softly as he zipped it up, the smell of gun oil and steel sharp in the air of the safehouse he still hadn’t abandoned, despite the new apartment key burning a hole in his pocket.

Red Hood. The ghost in Gotham. The name whispered in the alleys of Crime Alley, where fear was as thick as the shadows.

He’d meant to be sharper about it, his return, his reveal. A statement so loud Batman couldn’t ignore it. His plan had been simple: hit hard, hit fast, and drag Bruce into the open with the sheer brutality of his presence. He wanted Bruce to see him -his failure- standing there in blood and fire.

But now…

Now, he couldn’t get the memory out of his head.

Peter’s tiny hand fisting in his shirt, refusing to let go.

Dick’s raw, broken voice when he said, “You’re my brother.”

The quiet warmth of the apartment, of hot chocolate and silence shared without judgment.

Jason flexed his hands, leather creaking under the tension.

He was supposed to be certain. He’d been certain for years- about his anger, his justice, his war. He was supposed to rip Gotham open until Bruce had no choice but to face him. But how was he supposed to do that when Dick was looking at him like he’d been given back the sun and stars? When there was a baby who smiled at him like he was safe, like he belonged?

Jason swore under his breath, shoving the thoughts down as he checked his guns. He still needed to move pieces on the board. Batman would notice the escalating patterns soon enough. And when he did, Jason would be waiting.

But… for the first time, Jason wasn’t sure he wanted the reveal to come the way he had planned. Not with the gun smoke. Not with the fire.

Because what if, when the truth finally hit, it wasn’t just Bruce who turned away? What if he lost Dick? Lost Peter?

He pulled his helmet on, voice muffled inside the red shell. “Get it together, Todd. Stick to the plan.”

And so he went into Gotham, looking for the bat.

Chapter Text

The Batcave was unusually tense when they gathered. The glow of the Batcomputer cast long shadows, the screens filled with grainy images of a crimson helmet. Bruce stood with his arms folded, the cowl pushed back, his expression carved from stone.

“Red Hood,” he said, his voice clipped. “He’s not just another rogue. He’s organized. Strategic. He’s dismantling Black Mask’s empire piece by piece and setting himself up in its place.”

The footage cycled: trucks hijacked, weapons caches burned, thugs scattered across alleys. The red helmet gleamed under Gotham’s weak streetlights.

Tim leaned forward, brow furrowed. “He’s anticipating us. He knows our patrol routes, knows where we’ll be before we’re there. That’s not guesswork; that’s someone who understands our methods.”

Barbara’s voice cut in over the comms from the Clocktower. “And he’s not hiding from us completely. He’s leaving just enough of a trail. Like he wants us to notice. That’s not a mistake. It’s intentional.”

From her chair, Stephanie shifted, pulling her knees up as if for protection. “I… I ran into him,” she admitted. Every head turned toward her, two waiting for her to tell what happened, the other two surprised at the news. “He could’ve taken me out in seconds. He saw me before I even knew he was there. But he didn’t do anything. He just- looked. We talked shortly, I tried to keep neutral and then he walked away.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, a sharp blade of suspicion. “He spared you?”

Steph nodded, uneasy. “It didn’t feel like pity. It felt… deliberate. Like I wasn’t his target.”

Dick finally spoke up, his voice rougher than he expected. “That means he makes choices. That he’s not some random lunatic with a gun.” He glanced at the frozen image of the red helmet. “He’s calculated. Which makes him worse. Because he’s in control.”

Tim added, “He’s not eliminating crime. He’s reorganizing it. Building something of his own.” His fingers flew over his keyboard, pulling up charts of crime drops in certain territories. “He’s cutting out Black Mask’s hold, but leaving structure in its place. Almost… like a shadow network.”

Barbara’s tone was sharp through the comms. “And with no oversight. No rules. Gotham doesn’t survive another warlord.”

Dick crossed his arms, staring hard at the screen. Something about the way Red Hood carried himself in the footage stirred an ache in his chest. The movements were sharp, familiar somehow, but he shoved the thought away. Everyone in Gotham looked familiar in a fight eventually.

Bruce’s jaw tightened as he spoke, the words final and heavy. “Whoever Red Hood is, he knows us. Too well. That makes him dangerous. That makes this personal.”

The silence after stretched taut. Stephanie bit her lip, Barbara’s voice had gone quiet, Tim kept typing though his hands moved slower now.

Dick’s eyes lingered on the image of the helmet. His voice was quieter than the others, but no less firm: “Then we find him. And we stop him before this city tears itself apart.”

The warehouse was quiet except for the click of a pistol being reassembled. Jason sat cross-legged on a crate, helmet at his side, cleaning each piece with slow, deliberate movements. The routine had always been grounding, but tonight it felt like a countdown.

A reveal. A confrontation. A reckoning.

He’d been planning this for years, preparing for months, every thread in Gotham’s underworld pulled tight into his fist. Black Mask’s empire was crumbling, his own control strengthening. But none of that mattered. Not really. Not compared to what was coming.

He flicked the safety back into place and set the weapon aside, staring at the red helmet. His reflection warped across its surface. Time to stop being a ghost.

Reaching over, Jason grabbed the burner phone and began typing coordinates into an encrypted channel he knew the Bat would find. A warehouse. His warehouse. Bait on a silver platter. He wasn’t careless -never careless, he couldn't afford carelessness again- he knew how Oracle’s systems scanned, how Tim cross-referenced leads, how Bruce triangulated. They’d find it. He’d made sure they would.

And when they did, there would be no turning back.

Still, his chest tightened. Not at the thought of Batman but at Dick. At Peter. His nephew’s laugh still clung to him, soft and sticky like little fingers grabbing onto his shirt. His brother’s eyes -wet, hopeful, forgiving- haunted him more than any nightmare in the Pit.

Jason rubbed a hand over his face. What are you doing, Todd? You can’t play both sides forever. One day, they’ll know. One day, they’ll see the truth. And when they do…

He shoved the thought away and hit send. The coordinates were live. The message was simple, short.

Come find me.

Helmet in hand, Jason rose to his feet. He slid it on, the world narrowing into crimson.

“Let’s see if you’re ready to face your ghost, old man,” he muttered into the silence.

Joker, tied up in a chair in the middle of the room was laughing behind his gag. The sound causing shivers to go down his spine on instinct.

It didn't matter, the maniac would be dead soon enough.

He could hear footsteps on the concrete, as silent as they were. Jason was trained beyond comprehension, he knew all the tells. The bat and his birds had arrived.

Batman entered first, stone faced and already calculating. Jason recognized that face, has seen it so many times as robin that he was almost brought back to that time.

Then the Joker laughed again and Jason was brought back to the present.

"Red Hood." Batman- bruce- dad-'s voice sounded cold in a way Jason has only heard directed towards him once, when he- Jason shook his head minutely, He didn't want to think about that.

"Hand over the Joker." The man his father demanded. Jason squared his shoulders.

Now or never.

Jason stepped forward, deliberately slow, letting the red helmet catch the pale light. He didn’t raise his weapons—not yet. He wanted them to see him.

“You’ve been busy,” Batman said, voice cutting. “Crushing Black Mask’s operations. Killing your way across Gotham.”

Jason tilted his head, voice distorted through the helmet. “Not killing. Not anymore. Not unless they deserve it. And he,” Jason jerked a thumb toward the Joker, “definitely deserves it.”

With a hiss of hydraulics, he pulled off the helmet. It clattered to the floor, the sound deafening in the heavy silence.

Time froze.

Dick’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open. “No… this- this isn’t possible. Jason?”

Jason’s hands tightened on the edge of the crate he was leaning against. The helmet off now, his face pale but eyes burning, he took a slow, steadying breath before speaking.

“You want to know why I’m here?” he began, voice low and directed purely to Bruce, tight with years of pain. “Do you want to know why Red Hood exists?”

He paused, letting the words hang in the air. The Joker’s muffled laughter echoed weakly from the chair.

“I survived the Pit. The League. Every hell you never imagined… but it wasn’t enough. Not until I came back. Not until I realized… I’m Jason Todd. Your son. Your son. And he…” Jason’s voice cracked, raw and bitter, “…he killed me.”

The Joker squirmed in his bonds, his gag muffling a shocked cackle, green hair hanging over his bruised face.

Jason’s chest heaved, tears threatening to spill, but he didn’t allow them. He held the rage and grief in his voice, raw and unfiltered. “I survived. I came back. And now, you make the choice. You either end him or admit that there’s no justice for me!”

The Joker’s laugh cracked, high and panicked under the gag, but Jason ignored him, eyes locked on Bruce.

“I’m Jason Todd,” he spat finally, voice low but searing. “And I am not a ghost. I’m here. Alive. And I want you to do what you couldn’t when I was dead.”

"Either kill him, or kill me to stop me from doing it myself. You can decide which one B."

The looks he got at his declaration almost made him stumble. Grief, pain, loss, relief, confusion. Most prominent of all however, was devastation. At how Jason's life had gone, at how much he suffered.

"Is that what you wanted little wing?" Dick said looking down. His shoulders were hitched, jaw clenched. He was looking at the gun on the floor that Jason had slid over at some point.

Jason knew that this was it, no more living at Dick's place, no more comforting evenings with hot chocolate, no more playing with Peter and getting to act like he was a part of a family.

It was nice while it lasted, he supposed.

Dick looked up slightly and even though the mask Jason could tell that his eyes were sharp. "The Joker dead?"

Jason had never heard that tone before, however others seemed to realize what it meant. Both Batman and Robin tensed, clearly not having expected anything like this night and unsure how to proceed. Jason wasn't sure wether to laugh or cry.

He nodded slightly, unsure what to make of this. Dick's eyes mapped the room, taking on a calculated glaze.

The Joker crackled at the situation unfolding before him, Jason couldn't help the minor flinch to the sound if he tried.

That's when Dick struck.

He moved silently yet swiftly. He nicked the gun out of Bruce's hands, swiftly pointing it towards Joker's forehead. Using the training that Deathstroke has given him, he shot.

And hit dead center.

Joker collapsed on the spot, blood leaking from the wound in his forehead.

Silence filled the room, the aftermath of a gunshot.

Before Bruce could say anything -as Dick was sure he would, they have had screaming matches for less- he turned to Jason.

His brother was gaping, shivering slightly. His eyes had taken a vacant look, as if his mind was somewhere else. Dick was sure it was.

"There, dead. Shut up B you don't know anything." His words carried weight as he walked towards Jason, turning the safety back onto the gun before dropping it to the floor.

Dick walked slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal. Jason's eyes shook as he looked at him. "You did it."

His voice was a small whisper, wrapped in disbelief and relief at the same time.

Dick moved forward until he was right infront of Jason, slowly moving to cup his face with one hand, then the other.

"I've done it before, I'll do it another thousand times if it means I get you back fully. You're my brother Jason." He smiled sadly at the stunned look on his face. "I've failed you, before-" Before Jason died, he couldn't make the words leave his throat. "I won't fail you again. Never again."

"Nightwing- you can't just-" Batman's composure was slipping, Dick could tell. Not that it was a surprise. Dick knew how much Jason had meant to him, how broken Bruce was when he died, how Bruce still hadn't fully healed. Coped, yes. Healed? Dick didn't think Bruce ever could. Even with Jason back now, his living status revealed towards his family, some part of that terribly deep wound that only a parent losing their child could cause would always remain.

"I," His tone was sharp, turning his head slightly to answer Bruce though he refused to turn away from Jason fully, not when he was in such a vulnerable state. "am doing what should've been done a long time ago. I am doing what I will continue doing."

One of his hands moved to squeeze Jason's shoulder slightly, gently.

"I am protecting and taking care of my family."

Dick’s voice rang out like steel, unflinching. The warehouse was thick with silence. Bruce’s jaw was tight, words threatening to break free, but Dick’s glare silenced him. The Joker's slumped corpse in the corner, dealt with swiftly -efficiently- by Dick when Jason’s shaking hands faltered. Tim and Stephanie exchanged tense glances, Barbara’s voice crackled through comms but Dick ignored them all.

His hand squeezed Jason’s shoulder again. It was trembling. Jason’s eyes, wide and lost, darted between Bruce, the Joker, and the family. The fire that had driven his words minutes ago was gone, leaving only raw shock and exhaustion in its place.

“Come on,” Dick said quietly, firmly. Not a request. Not a plea. A big brother leading his lost sibling home.

Jason didn’t argue. Couldn’t. His legs felt unsteady, his chest tight, his throat burning. He let Dick guide him out of the warehouse, away from the family’s stares, away from Bruce’s unreadable silence.

The Gotham air outside was biting, but it was cleaner than the suffocating weight inside. Jason stumbled once on the uneven pavement, and Dick’s arm immediately wrapped around his back, steadying him.

“Easy,” Dick murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Jason wanted to shove him off, to snarl, to keep up the mask of Red Hood. Act like he was angry, untouchable, in control. But he couldn’t. Not now. The helmet was gone, the truth was out, and all that was left was Jason Todd. A broken kid dragged back from the grave.

The city blurred around them as Dick allowed him to lead them block after block, until they reached the safehouse. Jason froze at the door, chest heaving, panic crawling under his skin.

“This is-” His voice cracked, and he had to stop, swallow hard. “This is where I’ve been staying.”

Dick glanced at the door. It was rusted, paint peeling, lock barely functional. He tightened his jaw, then met Jason’s eyes. “Not anymore.”

He pushed the door open, and the faint light of Gotham spilled into the tiny, cramped room.

The smell hit him first: damp, stagnant, like the walls themselves were rotting. Patches of mold streaked the peeling wallpaper, creeping up toward the ceiling. The single radiator in the corner was cold, disconnected, useless. A sink sat in the corner, pipes leaking slowly, water barely trickling out. The mattress on the floor was thin, stained, and lumpy.

Dick’s chest tightened, the anger and helplessness twisting in his stomach. This is what he’s been living in? Alone. Surviving. And Dick never knew.

Jason shifted, gaze dropping to the floor. “It’s… fine,” he muttered quietly, but his voice lacked conviction.

Dick’s hand went back to his shoulder, firm but gentle. “No. No, it’s not fine. Not for you. You’ve been out here… on your own. And I didn’t even know.” His voice broke slightly, and for the first time, his composure cracked. “You’re not going to be alone ever again. Not for as long as I can help it. I swear it, Jason.”

Jason looked up, eyes wide, raw, as if the weight of the words and the realization had never reached him before. The Red Hood mask, the bravado, the anger, it all seemed to melt away in the small, decrepit room.

Dick gathered Jason's stuff, Jason standing there as his adrenaline was fading away, leaving his muscles shaking and mind drifting.

Dick turned back to him, gently slinging an arm over his shoulders as he guides him out of the old, dusty safehouse and towards home.

Chapter Text

Jason’s boots felt heavier with every step. The adrenaline that had carried him through the reveal -through the unmasking, the shouting, the Joker- was bleeding out of his veins, leaving behind a hollow ache. His hands shook faintly, though he kept them shoved deep in his jacket pockets so Dick wouldn’t see.

Beside him, Dick walked with quiet purpose, not too close, not too far, like he was giving Jason room to breathe but refusing to let him drift away. The duffel bag swung from Dick’s shoulder, the weight of Jason’s life packed into one worn duffel bag.

The city was quieter here, away from the chaos of Crime Alley. Jason barely noticed the streetlights, the storefronts, the few passing cars. All he could think about was how raw everything felt. His face still burned from the unmasking, his chest ached from words he never thought he’d say aloud, and beneath it all, a gnawing exhaustion threatened to drag him under.

“Jason.” Dick’s voice broke the silence. His voice gentle, not pressing.

Jason turned his head slightly.

“We’re heading back to Peter,” Dick said. His tone was steady, grounding, as if reminding Jason of something solid in the mess of everything else. “He’s napping with Wally watching him right now, but I figured… you’d want to see him.”

Jason’s throat tightened. The image of Peter’s little smile, the way the kid had clung to him like he belonged there, like Jason wasn’t a monster under the mask despite it all, flashed in his mind. He swallowed hard, eyes burning.

“Yeah,” he managed, voice low. “Yeah, I do.”

Dick gave a small nod, as if that was all he needed. They kept walking, side by side.

For the first time since the reveal, Jason let out a long breath, shaky and uneven. He could feel the edges of his control fraying, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving only the raw ache of everything he’d lost and the fragile thread of what he’d found again.

Dick must’ve noticed. His hand brushed Jason’s arm, light but steady. “You don’t have to hold it together right now,” he said softly. “Not with me. Not with Peter.”

Jason didn’t answer. He just kept walking, eyes fixed on the road ahead, clinging to the thought of the little boy waiting for them at the end of it.

By the time they reached the apartment, Jason’s steps were heavy, leaden. Dick unlocked the door with his usual quiet efficiency -he had already texted Wally and he could faintly hear something quickly flashing by- shouldered it open, and motioned Jason inside first. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and something sweet. Something that was warm, lived-in, nothing like the damp rot of Jason’s old safehouse.

Jason sank into the couch without a word, the duffel slipping from Dick’s shoulder to land at his feet with a dull thud. His muscles were screaming, but more than that, his chest felt hollow, scraped raw from too many emotions bleeding out at once. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and pressed his palms together.

Meanwhile, Dick disappeared down the short hallway. Jason could hear him speaking softly, his voice a low, steady murmur. The kind that made babies feel safe even if they didn’t understand the words. A small sound answered him; a fussing whine that grew louder for a moment, then settled when Dick’s tone dipped into that gentle rhythm again.

A minute later, Peter’s cry picked up, louder this time, followed by the sound of a bottle being unscrewed. Jason rubbed his face, dragging his hands down over tired eyes, and glanced toward the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of Dick moving with easy familiarity, bottle in one hand, holding Peter in the crook of his arm.

“Hungry, huh?” Dick murmured, lifting the bottle so Peter could grab for it with his tiny fists. “Yeah, I know. I’ve got you.”

The sight twisted something deep inside Jason. His throat clenched as he watched Dick balance parenthood with a grace Jason couldn’t imagine possessing. For all the chaos, for all the danger, this -this small moment- felt untouchably safe.

Peter latched onto the bottle with a pleased hum, little hands gripping tight. Dick smiled down at him, brushing a thumb over his son’s dark hair before glancing toward the living room. His eyes softened when they landed on Jason.

“You want to hold him?” Dick asked quietly.

Jason froze, caught off guard. His first instinct was to say no, that he wasn’t steady enough, wasn’t clean enough for something this innocent. But Peter must’ve noticed his presence, because the baby craned his head, bottle still in his mouth, and spotted Jason on the couch. His eyes lit up instantly, and he made an eager noise, trying to squirm toward him.

Jason’s chest ached.

Dick didn’t press. He just walked over slowly, lowering himself to the couch beside Jason. He shifted Peter carefully into Jason’s lap, still holding the bottle steady.

Jason’s arms came up automatically, clumsy but protective. And as Peter nestled against him, drinking contentedly, Jason felt the last of the adrenaline drain away, leaving only exhaustion and something warmer, quieter, he didn’t know how to name.

"Can I get you anything?" Dick asked and Jason realized that they were both still in their vigilante gear. His brother having taken off his mask before going to Peter but still in his suit. Jason himself was in his armor, heavy and unrelenting.

Jason nodded, "You make a mean coca." he said, voice more exhausted than he wanted it to sound, more fragile than he wanted to show. Dick smiled at him and nodded, walking towards the kitchen and trusting Jason to take care of his son.

A couple minutes later -Jason hadn't counted- Dick returned with two mugs of hot chocolate. Jason quickly realized his mistake as he remembered that hot chocolate was their "Deep talks" drink. Peter was nodding off in his arms, food finished and tired. Dick smiled softly at the sight before gently taking him from Jason's arms and moving to put him back in his crib. Jason couldn't help but mourn the weight in his arms, even while knowing it would return soon.

When Dick returned, Jason stiffened. This was it, the moment where Dick would rip into him and make him leave- leave this warmth and home.

Dick somehow sensed his troubles and sat down besides him, shoulder to shoulder as he took a sip of his own mug.

"So, you're a crimelord?" Jason didn't know what to make of the tone of his voice. It sounded… amused?

Jason shrugs, clears his throat, takes a long sip to think and then answers. "Define crimelord." He got a nasty side eyed glare from his brother which caused him to smirk slightly.

Dick gave his most unimpressed look he could muster. "Someone in charge of the crime in a designated area." Well, he got Jason there.

"I… huh," He laughed at himself. "I guess I am."

"You didn't realize that you're a crimelord?" "Nope?"

Dick looked absolutely confused. "Why did you answer my question with a question?" "Absolutely no idea." A scoff came from the older.

"So, let me get this right." Here it comes, "You came back to life, was trained brutally as an assasin, then became a deadly crimelord who Batman feared."

Jason looked up at that. "He was scared of me?" He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at that. Dick seemed to see it somehow, prick. "Scared of what you could do." Jason supposed that made more sense.

"So you did all of that… and didn't get yourself a better safe house? Without mold?"

Jason gaped at him, unable to formulate a response as he blinked. After everything he had done, everything that happened, this is what Dick thought of? His fucking shitty safe house?

Dick gave him a "go on" motion.

"I had… other expenses that I prioritized." He said finally. Dick snorted.

Jason still couldn't believe Dicks attitude in all this. Not even an hour ago, he confessed to their whole family that he was a killer and now him and Dick were having hot chocolate on the couch. He looked at Dick, hoping that his eyes weren't betraying the emotions he was feeling.

"Dickie, why?" Dick looked at him, eyes curious. "Why what little wing?"

Jason sighed, preparing himself for this conversation as much as he could.

"Why don't you care about the blood on my hands? About the way I now have an iron grip on the Crime in the alley? About the way that I've handled everything these past years while you thought I was-"

While you thought I was dead.

He still couldn't speak the words out loud.

Because, when it comes down to it, he was.

He wasn't Jason Peter Todd during that time, he was Ghost.

Dick could read his thoughts, the way he always did. He gave Jason a sad smile and set down his mug. Turning towards him slightly, he put a hand on Jason's shoulder.

"I suspected that something was going on." He replied honestly. "This? I had no clue, but something. Jason," Dick sighed, squeezing his shoulder in a way that could be nothing but comforting. "you have been through terrible things. You have had every right to be angry, to do the things you did, to want justice for yourself."

Jason had to hold back tears.

Dick saw, yet didn't stop talking.

"I didn't see it before but I do now. You think I haven't noticed the loaded gun in your sock drawer?" Jason looked away as if he was a child caught with stolen candy.

"Red Hood only kills the worst of the worst. It makes sense that it's you, with how filled with the need of retribution you've always been." Dick gave him a fond look, eyes soft as he looked at Jason.

"What I'm upset about is that you had to go through those horrors in the first place. What I'm upset about is that you felt the need to hide away from us because of that guilt." Jason opened his mouth to interrupt but Dick shook his head. "I understand why you did it, I'm not sure I would've done the same but I understand why. It just- it makes me sad, to think about what you had to go through, what you're still dealing with."

Jason looked down, a horrified expression on his face as he quickly responded with: "It wasn't your fault!"

Somehow Dick's smile turned even sadder, more grief filled.

"And it wasn't yours either." He continued before Jason could protest. "You had to go through all these things, all those horrors. Alone." Dick had to swallow back the tears at the thought. "I don't blame you for one second, and you shouldn't either."

Dick leaned back against the cushions beside him, giving Jason space, but not too much. Just enough to say I’m here.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dick said again, his tone calm but unyielding. “None of it. What happened to you- it wasn’t your choice. You didn’t deserve it.”

Jason laughed bitterly, the sound broken. “Don’t feed me that, Dick. You don’t know what I did after. The things I became. I wasn’t your little brother anymore. I was…” He swallowed hard, unable to finish. His chest heaved with the words unsaid, with the weight he’d carried alone for too long.

“You’re still my brother,” Dick said, sharper now, leaning forward, forcing Jason to hear it. “No matter what. You think anything could change that? After everything?”

Jason’s fingers curled tighter in his hair, nails digging into his scalp as if he could anchor himself that way. “I wanted blood, Dick. I still do. Every night, it burns in me. I shouldn’t even be here. I shouldn’t be-”

“Stop,” Dick cut him off, and there was no anger in his voice, only fierce, aching love. He reached out, placing a steady hand on Jason’s shoulder. “You’re here. That’s enough. You don’t need to earn your place. Not with me. Not with Peter. You’re family. That’s all that matters.”

Jason shook his head, but his vision blurred. He tried to blink the tears away, but they just spilled over, hot and unrelenting. His voice broke into a whisper, raw and small: “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

Dick’s heart clenched, but he didn’t hesitate. He pulled Jason into a hug, one arm wrapping around his shoulders, the other firm at the back of his head. Jason froze, muscles tight, fighting it but then, his resolve shattered, into broken pieces on the floor. His breath hitched, and the sobs broke free, wracking his body in a way he couldn’t stop.

And Dick held him through it. No judgment, no demands. Just warmth, steady and unshakable.

“You deserve everything good,” Dick whispered fiercely into his hair. “And if you can’t believe it yet, that’s okay. I’ll believe it for you. I’ll keep believing it until you do.”

Jason clutched at his shirt like a lifeline, shoulders trembling, years of rage and grief spilling out in a storm he couldn’t hold back anymore.

For the first time since clawing his way back from the grave, Jason let himself unravel.

The cave was suffocatingly silent after the chaos of the night. The screens still glowed faintly with frozen surveillance feeds, the Red Hood’s -Jason’s- face burned into every one of them. Bruce stood before the console, gauntlet worn hands braced against the steel surface, his reflection staring back at him from the darkened monitor.

He hadn’t moved in hours. He couldn’t.

Behind him, footsteps echoed down the stairs. They were too light to be Dick, too sharp to be Alfred, not irregular enough to be Stephanie.

Tim.

The boy’s voice cut into the cave like a blade. “You knew.”

Bruce flinched. He didn’t turn around. “Tim-”

“You knew Jason could’ve been out there you mother fucking prick,” Tim pressed, words shaking with fury. He stormed closer, fists balled tight at his sides. “And you never told me. Never told any of us. Did you even- God- did you even look for him? Or did you just decide he was dead and move on?”

Bruce closed his eyes, every word sinking deep into places he tried to keep armored. “I buried him, Tim. I held his body. There was nothing to look for.”

“That’s not an excuse!” Tim’s voice cracked, raw and desperate. “He’s been out there, alone, broken, hurting. He came back and he- he thought you didn’t care! He thought none of us cared! Do you know what that means?”

The cave seemed to swallow the boy’s anger, but it only made the echoes sharper. Bruce turned then, finally facing him. Tim’s eyes were burning, wet, full of betrayal. For the betrayal of Bruce making Tim's Robin think he didn't care about him.

“I did care,” Bruce said quietly, but his voice was gravel, stripped bare. “Every day. Every night. I failed him.”

Tim shook his head, pacing like a caged animal. “You didn’t just fail him, Bruce—you failed all of us. Do you know what it’s like, finding out he’s alive like that? Seeing him broken in front of everyone, begging you to do the one thing you swore you’d never do? He didn’t just want revenge, he wanted to know he mattered. And you couldn’t even give him that.”

The words landed heavier than any blow Bruce had ever taken. He absorbed them without defense.

Because Tim was right.

Bruce’s silence only seemed to fuel the boy’s anger. His voice dropped, quieter but sharper: “Dick’s the one who saved him. Dick’s the one who chose him. Not you.”

That cut deeper than Tim could have known.

For a moment, Bruce couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. The image of Jason’s tear-streaked face, standing beside Dick with Peter nestled close, seared itself into his mind. His son. His sons. Both slipping further away from him with every choice he’d made.

Tim exhaled shakily, backing up a step. “I can’t-” He dragged a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. “I can’t do this right now. But you’d better figure it out, Bruce. Because if you don’t… you’re going to lose all of us.”

He turned and stalked up the stairs, his footsteps echoing long after he’d disappeared.

Bruce stayed rooted where he was, staring at the empty cave, the emptiness inside himself.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like Batman. He just felt like a man who had lost his son twice.

Chapter Text

Peter had nightmares often.

About being trapped under a building, the war, about dying, about his loved ones dying.

Long story short, he had more than enough reason to have nightmares, to scream and cry even though his infant body couldn't do much. It happened often. He hated it every time.

But then, his dad is there.

His dad, who he didn't get to know in his first life, who was so kind and caring. There wasn't a day where Peter didn't feel loved.

Peter was pretty sure that his dad didn't know what was going on, or most likely that he was just really hungry. And yet…

He held Peter every time, comforted him until he could breathe smoothly again. He was patient and kind.

Peter had really lucked out.

He remembered everything.

Every fight. Every laugh. Every loss.

The dust on Titan still clung to him in the quiet moments, the weight of Tony’s arm around his shoulders, the impossible grief of a universe too heavy for one kid from Queens to carry. It was all still there, lodged deep in his chest where even this tiny new heart ached with the memories.

But then he’d look up, and Dick would be there.

His dad.

Not Tony, not May, not anyone he had before, but somehow exactly who he needed now. Dick’s smile when he scooped Peter up out of the crib, the way he hummed under his breath while fixing a bottle, the way his arms felt like safety itself. Peter clung to all of it. He hadn’t realized how much he needed someone who looked at him like he was worth the world, without expectation, without regret.

And Uncle Jason.

Peter didn’t even understand why, but when his uncle held him, it felt right. Jason was rougher around the edges, unsure of himself, but Peter recognized that same ache in him; the loneliness, the loss. He continuously pressed his sticky palms against Jason’s shirt and refused to let go, because maybe Jason needed him just as much as Peter needed Jason.

The grief never left. It bubbled up sometimes when the world went still, when the crib was too quiet, when he remembered swinging over the city lights and hearing Tony’s voice in his ear. He mourned for that life, for the people who wouldn’t know where he’d gone.

But here, now, there was something new.

He had a dad who whispered “I love you” like it was the most natural thing in the world. He had an uncle who was learning how to be seen again, piece by piece. And Peter, well, he wasn’t Spider-Man here. He wasn’t a soldier in someone else’s war.

He was just a boy, safe in his family’s arms.

He thinks he can live with that.

Their new apartment still smelled faintly of fresh paint and cardboard boxes the first few weeks, but slowly, it began to feel lived in. A mug left on the counter, Jason’s boots by the door, Peter’s toys scattered across the living room rug. The silence that had once filled Jason’s safehouse was replaced by laughter, soft music, and the occasional crying fit at three in the morning.

They fell into a rhythm without meaning to.

Dick handled mornings with his hair sticking up in every direction as he stumbled into the kitchen with Peter balanced on his hip. Jason, for all his grumbling, usually did nights, pacing the apartment with the baby bundled in his arms, humming off-key to lull him back to sleep.

Jason started making grocery runs, muttering about how quickly “The kid eats through fruit like a starved hyena,” but he always came back with an extra pastry or something sweet for Dick. Dick, for his part, started cooking enough food without asking if Jason wanted any, it was just expected now.

Evenings settled into a quiet kind of comfort. The three of them on the couch: Peter sprawled across both their laps, a cartoon buzzing faintly in the background. Jason with a book he never quite read, Dick leaning his head back against the cushions, exhausted but smiling.

They didn’t talk much about the past, or about the big things. Not yet. But the smaller things; they built a home out of those. Jason learned where the creaky floorboards were. Dick stopped fussing over him so openly, showing his care in subtler ways: extra blankets folded at the end of the couch, herbal tea pressed into his hands on bad days.

And though Bruce had called, more than once, neither Dick nor Jason had returned the messages yet. Not because the words weren’t there, but because, for the first time in years, Jason finally had something that felt safe, and neither of them wanted to rush the world in too quickly.

For Jason, the apartment wasn’t just walls and a roof. It wasn’t survival.

It was the closest thing he’d had to living in years.

And for Dick, watching Jason slowly, tentatively let himself belong again was everything.

That’s when Tim called.

It wasn’t the first time he’d reached out. He’d been careful, respectful, giving Dick space since the reveal but his voice over the phone carried that edge of hope Dick knew too well.

“Can I come by?” Tim asked. Just that. No pressure, no strings.

Dick hesitated, glancing at Jason across the room. His brother was sunk into the couch, one arm draped over the back, pretending to read a magazine but not really turning the pages. Peter was asleep in the bedroom, the apartment quiet around them.

Dick told him that he'd have an answer in a couple days at most, thankfully Tim understood and told him to take care of himself.

“Jason,” Dick said softly, setting his phone down on the table.

Jason looked up, immediately wary. “What?”

“Tim wants to visit.”

The magazine stilled in Jason’s hands. His jaw tightened just slightly, though he tried to play it off. “And you said… what?”

“I told him I’d talk to you first.” Dick leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m not gonna blindside you, Jay. Not with this.”

Jason scoffed, flipping the page too hard. “So he can what? Stare at me like some freak experiment? Whisper about me behind my back once he leaves?”

“Tim’s not like that,” Dick said quickly. “You'll know once you meet him. He’ll… he’ll probably bring over a stack of files, start explaining probability graphs about how insane it is that you’re alive. And then he’ll-” Dick smiled faintly. “He’ll just want to sit with you. That’s the kind of person he is. Maybe shoot some playful jabs once you get to know each other better.”

Jason didn’t answer right away. He stared at the magazine in his lap, words blurring. His chest was tight in that way he hated, the way that felt too close to breaking open.

“Jay,” Dick pressed, gentler now. “This doesn’t have to be a big thing. If you don’t want him here, I’ll tell him no. But… Tim cares about you. Always has, hell he calls you "his robin". He deserves to know you’re okay. And” he hesitated, then added softly, “you deserve to know he cares.”

Jason let out a slow, shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. The thought of letting someone else see him -see what he’d become- was terrifying. But Dick’s eyes held no judgment, only quiet belief.

Finally, Jason muttered, “Fine. But if he starts crying, I’m leaving.”

Dick’s grin spread before he could stop it. “Deal.”

The knock at the apartment door was uneven, hesitant, like whoever was outside had considered leaving three different times before committing.

Jason stiffened immediately from his seat on the couch, shoulders drawn like a bowstring. Dick gave him a steadying look before opening the door.

Tim stood there, rocking slightly on his heels, hands jammed in his jacket pockets. His mouth was twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Wow,” he said, deadpan, “cozy place. Didn’t realize Gotham real estate came with the added feature of palpable tension in the air.”

Dick arched a brow. “Hi, Tim.”

Tim sighed. “Hi. Can I come in before I make this more awkward than it already is?”

Jason watched him cross the room, arms folded tight. The kid was younger than he expected. Sharper around the edges, but clearly nervous, hiding it beneath quips. Jason knew the type.

“So,” Tim said, stopping a few feet from the couch. “You’re Jason.” He let out a breathless laugh that sounded more like a hiccup. “That’s… wow. Uh, no offense, but you were supposed to be very dead. I may need to update my files.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Cute.” His voice was flat, but there wasn’t as much bite in it as there could’ve been.

Tim’s mouth kept running. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, this is a huge improvement. Alive is way better. Ten out of ten, highly recommend. Just… you know. Bit of a shock.”

Jason blinked at him, then huffed a laugh through his nose. Not amused but more like disbelieving. “You’re the new Robin, huh?”

Tim’s smirk faltered, but he forced it back. “I prefer ‘third draft.’ Has a nice ring to it.”

For a moment, Jason just stared. The old bitterness clawed at him, but… the kid’s voice shook under all that bravado. He wasn’t mocking. He was trying not to choke on his nerves.

Tim shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “Look, I know I don’t-” He stopped, backpedaled. “I mean, I can’t know what it’s like. I didn’t come here to… uh, compare résumés or anything. I just…” His shoulders hunched. “I just wanted to meet you.”

Jason’s chest tightened. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Maybe smugness, maybe judgment. But not this anxious, rambling kid trying to joke his way through reverence and fear.

Dick, leaning quietly against the wall, hid a small smile. For all his sarcasm, Tim’s heart was plain as day.

Jason finally exhaled, voice low. “…You’re a weird kid.”

Tim shrugged. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” Then, after a beat: “So… are you gonna tell me some embarrassing Robin stories, or do I have to bribe Dick for those?”

For the first time during this whole interaction, Jason’s mouth twitched into something almost like a smile.

e leaned back against the couch, eyes narrowing at Tim. “Alright, third draft. Sit your scrawny ass down before you pass out from all that nervous energy. You wanted embarrassing Robin stories? I’ll do you one better," He paused for dramatic effect. "how about an embarrassing Batman story?”

Tim blinked, halfway to sitting, then dropped onto the edge of the chair like someone had just offered him the Holy Grail. “Wait- you’re telling me those actually exist?”

Jason’s grin sharpened, dangerous and boyish at once. “Oh, they exist. You just have to look past the cape and brood quota.”

Dick groaned from where he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed but clearly amused. “Jason…”

“No, no, let him talk,” Tim cut in quickly, eyes wide and gleaming with mischief. “If Batman is mortal enough to be embarrassed, I need this for my records.”

Jason chuckled low, shaking his head. “Alright. Picture this- first year with the Bat. We’re chasing some C-lister through the Narrows, and B’s doing his whole ‘fear incarnate’ routine. Thunder, shadows, cape like a damn horror movie.” Jason spread his hands for emphasis. “And then…” He slapped the arm of the couch. “He trips. Over a trash can. Face-first into a puddle. Full growl, full menace, and suddenly he’s flailing like a six-foot bat-shaped toddler.”

Tim’s jaw dropped. He stared, then snorted. Hard. “You’re lying.”

Jason smirked. “Swear on my grave.”

Dick covered his face with his hand but couldn’t hide the laughter in his voice. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh, it was worse,” Jason insisted, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t you dare sugarcoat it, Golden Boy. The guy didn’t even get up right away. Just sat there in the puddle like Gotham’s Darkest Cryptid got taken out by city sanitation.”

Tim dissolved into laughter, his earlier tension cracking. He wheezed, doubled over in the chair. “Oh my god. Oh my god. The Bat… felled by garbage day. This is the greatest day of my life.”

Jason leaned back, satisfied, like he’d just won a fight. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, replaced by a glimmer of pride at having coaxed that reaction.

Tim was still laughing, though there was a sharp edge to it. “You know, that’s actually perfect. Big, scary Batman, greatest detective in the world, taken out by garbage water. Figures. Guy might be a genius in a fight, but he’s got the emotional range of a brick wall.”

Jason snorted. “You’re not wrong. Never thought I’d meet someone who complained about him more than me.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve got a list,” Tim said, ticking points off on his fingers. “Zero people skills, bad at feelings, and let’s not forget: ‘Hey, here’s a cape, go fight crime at age twelve.’”

Jason chuckled low in his chest. “You’ve got guts, Third draft.”

Tim smirked. “Somebody’s gotta say it.”

Before Jason could answer, a small scratch-scratch echoed from above. Jason glanced up without alarm just as Peter, chubby little hands and knees gripping the ceiling, crawled happily into the living room like it was the most natural thing in the world. His baby babbles echoed overhead.

“Peter!” Dick’s voice rang out as he skidded into the room, wide-eyed, arms already raised like he expected disaster. “No, no, no- we’ve talked about this! Not on the ceiling!”

Jason didn’t even flinch. Instead, he broke into a laugh. Deep, genuine, and wholly unbothered. “Relax, Goldie. He’s fine. Kid’s got better balance than most adults I know.”

Dick shot him a withering look. “He’s one! He’s not supposed to have ‘better balance than most adults!’”

Jason leaned back, folding his arms behind his head with a smirk. “Hey, if he sticks, he sticks. Can’t argue with physics.” He tilted his head back toward Peter. “Aren’t you right, little man?”

Peter babbled gleefully in response, flipping onto his belly and crawling further along the ceiling like he was showing off. Jason chuckled again, warmth threading through his voice in a way Dick hadn’t heard in years.

Tim, deadpan as ever, muttered, “Yeah, no, this is fine. Ceiling-baby. Totally normal. Can’t wait to see what happens when he hits the terrible twos.”

Dick groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he paced beneath Peter. “He’s going to fall, I’m telling you-”

As if to prove him wrong, Peter let go of the ceiling without hesitation, dropping straight down. Jason didn’t even flinch this time, he was already standing, catching the kid neatly against his chest with a smoothness that made it look practiced.

“See?” Jason said, grinning at the baby now cooing in his arms. “Stuck the landing.”

Dick pressed a hand to his forehead like he was about to pass out. “I swear, one of you is going to send me to an early grave.”

Jason just rocked Peter lightly, the smile still tugging at his lips. “Nah,” he said, voice softer now. “We’re just giving you practice. You’ll thank us later.”

Tim snorted. “Yeah. Sure. That’s definitely how this works.”

Jason ignored him, looking down at Peter’s bright, trusting eyes. The kid giggled up at him, little fingers reaching to tug at the fabric of his shirt. And for Jason, the laughter came easier than it used to.

Chapter Text

The weeks that followed blurred into a strange rhythm Jason still couldn’t quite believe he’d fallen into. Mornings were the sound of Peter’s babbling, which happened sometimes in his crib, sometimes from the ceiling. Afternoons were quiet arguments with Dick about whether Jason really needed a second blanket on the couch -he totally did- and evenings were soft, domestic things he never thought he’d get again; movies, hot chocolate, even the mindless comfort of someone else just being in the room.

But the shadow never left.

No matter how many times Peter’s tiny hands grabbed his shirt like it was the only anchor he needed, no matter how many times Dick looked at him like he was a miracle instead of a mistake, Jason could feel it. The weight of Bruce. The silence that sat between them like a blade waiting to fall.

Jason avoided it at first. He kept snapping at Dick when he brought it up, making excuses, stalking out into the Gotham night under the hood just to clear his head. He told himself he didn’t need it, didn’t need him. Bruce had made his choice years ago, then again those few weeks ago. Why should Jason care what the old man thought now?

But the truth was in the way Dick looked at him when the subject came up. Soft. Steady. Patient. And the truth was in Peter, too. The way he would crawl right into Jason’s lap, no hesitation, no fear, like Jason was home.

It ate at him. Because the longer he stayed, the more he realized he wanted this. And if he really wanted it, he couldn’t run from Bruce forever.

The breaking point came late one night. Jason was sitting on the fire escape outside the apartment, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, the city humming beneath him. Dick came out, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, eyes tired but steady.

“You don’t have to rush it,” Dick said quietly, leaning on the railing beside him. “But you can’t hide forever either. He’ll keep trying, Jason. You know he will.”

Jason stared at the ember of his cigarette, jaw tight. “What if all he sees is the Red Hood?”

“Then I’ll remind him who you are.” Dick’s voice didn’t waver. “You’re Jason. My brother. Peter’s uncle. You're family. That’s what matters.”

The words lodged in Jason’s chest like a splinter. He didn’t answer, not right away. But later that week, he found himself sending a single message to Bruce through a secure line Dick had set up.

Neutral ground. No cave. No manor. No tricks. No persona's. Just you.

The café was small, tucked between two worn-down brick buildings, the kind of place where no one looked twice at a man in a suit or a man in a leather jacket. That was the point. Jason wanted somewhere normal. Somewhere that didn’t stink of bats, blood, or graves.

Bruce was already there when Jason arrived. He looked… older. Not just in the fine lines around his eyes or the gray just starting to thread into his hair, but in the weight he carried, shoulders slumped in a way Jason had never seen before. He sat at a corner table, hands clasped tightly around a coffee mug that had gone cold.

Jason paused at the door, debating leaving. But then he thought of Dick’s eyes, Peter’s laugh, the steady way they made space for him every day and he walked inside.

Bruce looked up immediately. Not Batman. Not the cowl. Just a man who’d lost something precious and was staring at the ghost of it walking through the door. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but no sound came.

Jason slid into the seat across from him, leaning back like the chair might bite him. His jacket smelled faintly of smoke and gunpowder, and he didn’t bother hiding it.

“You wanted this,” Jason said flatly. “So talk.”

Bruce’s hands tightened around the mug. “Jason… I—” He faltered, exhaled, tried again. “I failed you. As a father. As… everything I was supposed to be. I thought I was doing the right thing. Controlling my anger. Honoring the mission. But all I did was let you down.”

Jason laughed, sharp and humorless. “Let me down? You buried me. You put me in the ground and went on with your crusade like I was just another casualty. You let me down to six feet under. Don’t sugarcoat it, Bruce.”

Bruce flinched at the name. The distance in Jason’s voice cut deeper than any blade. “I didn’t go on. I broke. I- I was so angry at myself I couldn’t breathe. But I didn’t know how to fix it. I thought if I kept the mission going, if I-” He stopped himself, hands trembling now. Gone was the terror that criminals feared, the ridiculous businesses man at parties. In it's place was a father who knew he failed.

“None of it mattered. Not without you.”

Jason’s jaw clenched. The café chatter around them went on as if the world hadn’t shifted, as if this wasn’t a reckoning years in the making. He stared at Bruce, searching for some trace of the man who had pulled him out of Crime Alley, the man he had once called dad.

All he saw was regret.

And part of him hated it. Because regret wasn’t enough. But another, quieter part. The growing part of him that had started to thaw when Peter’s tiny hand curled around his finger, when Dick’s stubborn devotion refused to let him drift away again didn’t know what to do with it.

“You don’t get to just… walk back into my life and act like that bond still exists,” Jason said finally, voice rough. “I don’t even know if it ever really did. Was I your son? Or was I just another soldier for your war?”

Bruce’s breath hitched, and for the first time, his composure cracked completely. “You were my son. Always. Not a soldier. Not a replacement. My boy. And I love you, Jaylad. I always have. I just-” His voice broke, quiet but raw. “I didn’t show it the way you needed me to.”

Jason turned away, staring at the street outside the café window. He wanted to scoff, to call Bruce a liar, to walk out before the ache in his chest got any sharper. But his fists stayed tight against the table instead, knuckles white, as if some part of him couldn’t quite let go.

Jason didn’t know if he wanted to run or stay.

His chest was tight, like all the oxygen in the café had been sucked out, leaving him suspended between fury and something he refused to name.

Across from him, Bruce sat frozen, as though one wrong move might shatter the fragile line tethering them together. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached across the table, his hand open, palm upward.

Jason’s entire body reacted before his mind did. He flinched back, back quickly hitting the cushioned wall behind him. His breath came out sharp, defensive. Too close. Too much.

Bruce froze, pain and something like realization flickering across his face along with memories, but he didn’t pull his hand back. He just let it rest there, unmoving, like he was holding something out that Jason could choose to take or not. Like it was his decision and his alone.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said softly, the gravel in his voice stripped down to something raw. Jason couldn't remember him saying those words as much as he had in this meeting alone. “I shouldn’t have assumed… I just-” He swallowed, his jaw working like he was holding himself together by threads. “I missed you. Every day. I woke up thinking I’d hear your footsteps in the hall again. I… I can’t tell you how many times I thought I saw you in the manor, only to realize it was just a shadow.”

Jason stared at him, fury and grief colliding behind his eyes. His mouth wanted to spit venom, to remind Bruce that those shadows had been his grave, his absence. But the words stuck in his throat.

Bruce pressed on, voice barely above a whisper now. “You’re here. And I don’t care what name you go by, or what mask you wear. I’m glad. Glad you’re alive. Glad I get the chance to see you again.”

Jason’s fists clenched in his lap, nails digging crescents into his palms. His chest ached, a brutal mix of longing and suspicion. He wanted to believe it. God, he wanted to believe it. But wanting and trusting were miles apart, and between them was everything he’d lost.

He let out a shaky breath, still not looking at Bruce’s hand. “…You don’t get to be glad, old man. Not when you weren’t there.”

Bruce flinched at the words but nodded slowly, accepting the blow without defense. “You’re right,” he murmured. “But I’m still glad. Even if I don’t deserve to be.”

Jason hated how much that broke something open in him.

Jason’s jaw tightened as the silence stretched, the weight of Bruce’s words pressing down on him like a vice. Every instinct screamed at him to get up, walk out, put distance between himself and this suffocating, dangerous hope. He could already feel the pull of the door behind him, the city waiting outside. Cold, familiar, safer than this.

But then Bruce’s voice cut through the storm. Low, unsteady. Desperate.

“Jason… how have you been?”

It wasn’t the polished calm of Batman, not the clinical efficiency of the man who barked orders from behind a cowl. This was different. Human. Shaken. A father who had run out of strategies, clinging to the only thing that mattered, that his son was still sitting across from him.

Jason froze. His throat went tight.

How have you been?

The answer wanted to rip itself out of him in jagged pieces. dead, broken, angry, alone. Nights in the League’s hellish training pits. Days hiding in filthy safehouses, breathing smoke and blood. Years convinced that every memory of him had been burned out of Gotham’s heart.

Then at the same time there was another answer. One with talks over hot chocolate, playing with Peter, falling asleep watching movies on a couch and waking up with a blanket over him that he was sure wasnt there when he fell asleep. The part that has been softened by warmth, by belonging.

Instead, he forced a laugh. It sounded conflicted, it sounded empty. “How do you think I’ve been?”

Bruce flinched, but didn’t look away. His eyes -tired, bruised by regret, things Jason couldn't help but note- locked onto Jason’s like he was trying to hold him there with nothing but will. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “And that’s what I hate most. That I wasn’t there to know. That I don’t have the right to know. But I want to. I need to.” His voice cracked, raw. “Please. Just… tell me.”

Jason’s breath caught in his chest. His nails dug deeper into his palms, grounding himself in the sting. Part of him wanted to snarl, to spit venom, to scorch the hope right out of Bruce’s eyes. But another part -the traitorous, aching part- wanted to answer. Wanted to be seen, even if it was messy.

His lips parted, then closed again. Words scraped his throat but refused to come.

Bruce’s hand trembled slightly where it still rested on the table, but he didn’t reach again. He didn’t push. He just waited, eyes wide and breaking open in front of Jason, as if every second his son stayed seated was a gift he couldn’t believe he was receiving.

Jason let out another bitter laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to wake up and realize you’re not even human anymore? To be dragged somewhere that makes Gotham look like a playground? To be broken down, rebuilt, trained until you couldn’t remember where you ended and they began?”

His hands shook under the table. He forced them still.

Bruce’s breath caught, and Jason didn’t need to see his face to know he understood. The League. The shadows Jason had lived in, the ghosts he’d become.

Bruce opened his mouth. He was slow, cautious. “Jason… what did they do to you?”

That was it. The dam cracked.

Jason shoved back from the table, the legs screeching across the floor. “Don’t.” His voice was too sharp, too loud, heads turning in the café before he reined it in. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to breathe, trying to keep from spiraling. “Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m some… some victim. Like you pity me.”

“I don’t pity you,” Bruce said quickly, standing now too, but careful not to crowd him. His voice shook, thick with something dangerously close to begging. “I love you. I just, Jason, I need to know. I need to understand what you went through. Please. Don’t shut me out.”

Jason’s chest heaved. His mind was spinning back to cold stone floors, the stench of blood, the endless drills until his body collapsed only to be dragged up again. Nights where he thought dying again would have been a mercy.

His hands trembled violently now. He backed a step away from Bruce, eyes burning, throat tight. “You can’t understand. You’ll never understand. And I can’t-” His voice broke, sharp and ragged. “I can’t say it. If I say it out loud, it’s real all over again.”

Bruce froze, every line of his face carved with grief. He reached out again, slower this time, like Jason was a wild animal poised to bolt. “Then don’t say it. Not yet. Just… let me be here. Let me stand with you in it, even if you can’t tell me everything.”

Jason’s breath hitched, body taut as a bowstring. He wanted to run. God, he wanted to disappear back into the shadows where it was easier not to feel but the desperation in Bruce’s voice kept him rooted, trembling, caught between fight and collapse.

He chose a compromise.

Jason looked back at the man he once called his dad and tried to gather every bit of trust the little boy he once was towards him.

"You're a detective ain't ya?" Bruce looked up at him, Jason hadn't realized he had stood up. "Well I was a Ghost, I managed to slip from their grasp and came back here to make absolutely sure that this Ghost wouldn't be forgotten, wouldn't remain unavenged despite everything. I got my own justice."

And Bruce could see it then and there, that strength that Jason held even now, even despite not knowing it himself. The absolute power he must have, because he was standing, he was giving Bruce something.

And Bruce would do everything in his power to make it count.

Later, at night while Jason and Dick were watching a movie, Bruce started a new case.

During the end of their conversation, one thing stood out to him. Jason had kept calling himself: Ghost.

Not A Ghost, not The Ghost. Ghost. As if it were a name. That could not be a coincidence.

Enter new file name:

Bruce his fingers were more careful than normal while he typed the singular word.

Ghost.

Chapter Text

Bruce was horrified.

Not just because of everything that he could already see, the trauma, the scars, the pain.

If only it were that simple.

It almost seemed as if the further he dug the more the horrifying truth kept unraveling. The more he finds out the more he wants to puke his guts out at the realization that that was his son, his boy who went through all of these events and was somehow still here.

Ghost, a moniker for a soul that's dead.

That's what Jason was called. After he came back to life.

Oh Bruce was going to destroy Thalia.

Not just because she took his son, who had just come back to life, who was catatonic, away from his family only to torture him, make him kill and get used to it and so many other things. She didn't just keep Jason from him.

She had hid his youngest too.

Bruce didn't think he could ever describe the utter heartbreak at finding out he had a little boy, being trained in the League to be an assassin. Through his research he found out his name was Damian.

Dear God, Bruce had another son.

Thalia hid two sons from him.

And she would pay for what she has done to both.

But, for now, Bruce had a couple of calls to make.

The training hall smelled of sweat, dust, and oil from freshly sharpened blades. Damian’s small frame moved with precision far beyond his years, wooden staff whirling as he struck at the practice dummy again and again until splinters littered the floor. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, breaths too even for a child his age.

When the final strike cracked the staff in half, he dropped it at his feet and straightened. “Again,” he demanded, voice sharp.

From the shadows, Thalia's voice carried. “Enough for today.”

Damian turned, sweat sticking dark strands of hair to his forehead. His eyes burned with that stubborn defiance he had been born with. “You said I would surpass them all. That I must be the best. Then why stop?”

“Because even the best must learn restraint.” She glided closer, hands folded neatly behind her back. To any other student, her tone would have been law. But Damian was not like the others. He was hers.

And tonight, he was restless. Even though he obeyed her order with a grace that's been taught, he couldn't help his questions after they entered his private quarters.

“Mother,” he said, lifting his chin. “Who was he?”

Her brow arched. “Who?”

“My father.” His voice didn’t waver, though his fingers clenched at his sides. “You tell me I am destined for greatness, that my bloodline is unmatched. But who was he? What kind of man?”

For the first time, Thalia hesitated. Just long enough for Damian to notice.

“He was a warrior,” she said finally, her voice smooth, evasive. “Strong. Disciplined. A man who carried a mission larger than himself.”

Damian’s frown deepened. “That is not an answer.”

Thalia’s lips curved faintly, though there was no warmth in it. “Curiosity is natural. But your focus must remain here. On your training. One day, you will meet him, when the time is right.”

Damian bristled, frustration sparking in his eyes. “So he is alive.”

Thalia didn’t answer. She reached down, brushing damp hair from his forehead with a tenderness that almost masked the cruelty of her silence. “Enough questions, habibi. The world outside these walls is not ready for you. For now, all you need to know is that he would be proud of your strength.”

Damian looked away, jaw tight. He didn’t believe her. Not fully. But the fire in his chest burned hotter now, fueled by the single truth he had dragged from her silence.

His father was alive.

Jason had never been good at sitting still, but here he was, slouched on the couch in their apartment, boots planted firmly on the ground like he needed the stability. He hadn’t expected Bruce to show up at their door, hadn’t expected to let him in, hadn’t expected this.

But Bruce wasn’t in the cowl tonight. Just Bruce Wayne, looking older, heavier, like the weight of the world had finally broken through his armor.

“I need your help,” Bruce said.

Jason snorted, leaning back. “Thought I was more of a ‘problem to deal with’ than a ‘partner to ask.’”

“Jason.” Bruce’s voice didn’t rise. It was quiet, careful. Almost pleading. “It’s not about me. It’s about your brother.”

Jason froze, his jaw working. “What are you talking about? Last I checked, I only had one brother. And he’s asleep down the hall.” Then he sighed. "If you mean Tim, you need to handle the energy drinks problem on your own, honestly-"

Bruce’s expression flickered. “No. You have another. Damian.” He waited a beat. “My son. With Thalia.”

Jason blinked. A harsh laugh broke out of him before he could stop it. “Of course. Because why wouldn’t you have another kid you didn’t bother mentioning? What, did you lose track of this one too?”

“Jason.” Bruce didn’t rise to the bait, though guilt shone clear in his eyes. “He’s in the League. Being raised by them. Trained by them. And he’s just a child.”

Jason’s sarcasm faltered, his stomach twisting. Memories rose unbidden, those of small hands clumsily holding a brush, scribbling charcoal lines on scrap paper when the instructors weren’t watching. Wide green eyes lighting up when Jason had shown him how to shade in the edges. A boy who had clung to moments of softness like they were contraband.

Jason looked away quickly, staring at the floor like it might steady him. “…Damian.” His throat tightened around the name.

Bruce caught the shift and pressed forward. “You knew him. Don’t you?”

Jason scrubbed a hand down his face, cursing under his breath. “Kid stood out. Wouldn’t shut up half the time. Always wanted to prove himself. Reminded me…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed. “He reminded me what being a kid was supposed to look like. Even in that place.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of what wasn’t said.

“Jason,” Bruce said, softer now. “I can’t do this alone. I need you. He needs you. You’ve been there. You know what it’s like. And you’re the only one he might-” He stopped himself, jaw tight. Jason knew that face, he didn't want to admit to something that hurt him. “Please.”

Jason stared at him, every instinct screaming to refuse. To tell Bruce he didn’t owe him a damn thing. That Damian wasn’t his responsibility. That he was done with all of it.

But the image of Damian looking up at him with paint-stained fingers, whispering, Show me again? His wouldn’t let that go.

Jason let out a shaky breath. “You’re asking me to go back into that hell. To face them again.”

“Yes.”

Jason’s chest rose and fell, his pulse hammering in his ears. He wanted to say no. God, he wanted to say no.

But instead, he whispered, “If we’re doing this… it’s on my terms. And I’m not doing it for you, Bruce. I’m doing it for the kid.”

Jason hadn’t even looked at Bruce when he muttered, “On my terms.” The deal was struck. But the thought of stepping back into that nightmare was unbearable unless Dick was with him.

“Wait here,” Jason said roughly, shooting Bruce a glare before stalking toward the bedrooms.

“Jason-” Bruce started.

“I said wait.”

Dick was already awake when Jason pushed the door open, sitting on the edge of the bed with tired eyes, the baby monitor glowing faintly at his side.

Jason’s voice came out low, tense. “I need you. Now.”

Dick immediately rose, alert. “What’s going on? Peter?”

“He’s fine. Still asleep.” Jason’s throat worked. “This is… about family though.”

That was enough. Dick followed him into the living room, where was Bruce standing.

“What is it?” Dick demanded, looking between them.

Jason shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “…We’ve got another brother.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and unreal.

Dick blinked. “What?”

“His name’s Damian,” Jason said, forcing himself to meet his eyes. “Thalia’s kid. Which makes him…” He gestured faintly toward Bruce. “…ours.”

Bruce’s shoulders sagged, guilt heavy in his frame.

Dick stood frozen for a heartbeat, then the realization hit. “Another-? Another kid? In that place?”

Jason gave the smallest nod.

The anger came suddenly, raw and sharp, but not directed at Bruce. “Those bastards.” Dick’s voice shook, his fists clenching. “They took you. They broke you." Jason gave a small shrug. "I don't know about broken." Dick ignored him, fully ranting now. "And now they’ve got him too? A child? My brother?” His voice cracked. “How many lives are they going to steal before they’re done?”

He turned, pacing, his emotions boiling over. “I don’t care whose blood he carries, I don’t care what Thalia thinks she’s doing. He doesn’t belong there. He’s family. And I’ll be damned if I let them ruin him the way they ruined everything else.”

Jason swallowed hard, because beneath Dick’s fury was something else, something almost unbearable to hear. Love. Protection. For him, and for the boy still trapped.

Quietly, Jason added, “I knew him. Back when I was with the League. He stood out. Stubborn kid. He liked drawing; artwork, sketches. I’d sneak him paper when I could. He didn’t belong there.” His voice roughened. “Neither of us did.”

Bruce had stilled, not having realized that Jason knew him beyond his name. He had quickly assumed that they may have crossed paths at some point but this, this was much more information than he expected.

His son loved art. He would cherish that information as well as buy any and all supplies he may need. Just to be prepared.

Dick stopped pacing, his breath uneven, eyes bright with fury and resolve. “Then we’re getting him out. Whatever it takes.”

Bruce finally spoke, his voice low. “That’s why I came to you both. I can’t do this alone. But together-”

“Together,” Dick cut in, sharp but certain. He turned to Jason, his anger hardening into determination. “He’s our brother. He deserves better than this. And I’m not losing another family member to them. Not ever again.”

Jason looked away, jaw tight, wrestling with himself. But in his chest, something eased at Dick’s words. Because if there was one person in the world who wouldn’t stop until Damian was free, it was Dick Grayson.

Maybe, Jason thought, the kid still had a chance. Maybe, he dared to think, they could still fix this mess.

Dick shifted, settling into the couch, one hand cradling his son while the other carded absently through his hair. Peter giggled softly, then pressed his tiny palms to Dick’s shirt before going back to fiddling with one of his toys.

Jason sat stiff on the arm of the chair opposite, arms folded, jaw set. Bruce stood, pacing near the window, the shadows outside Gotham’s skyline cutting across his face.

“We can’t wait,” Dick said firmly, his voice low but charged. “Every day he’s there, they’re molding him, twisting him. He’s what- ten? Eleven?”

“Ten,” Jason muttered, eyes darting to the floor. “Almost eleven.”

Dick’s heart clenched. “Then we have to move now.”

Jason’s voice came rough, defensive. “It’s not that easy. They don’t just let people walk away. Especially not a child they’ve been grooming since birth.”

“That’s why we plan,” Bruce said, finally stopping his pacing. His voice was clipped, sharp with restrained emotion. “We need intel. Safe routes. Extraction points. We can’t storm the League blindly, it would put Damian in more danger.”

Jason scoffed. “Safe routes? Extraction? This isn’t one of your clean Gotham busts, Bruce. This is the goddamn League of Assassins. They’ll smell us coming from a mile away.”

“Then we make them look the other way,” Dick countered, shifting Peter slightly as the baby reached for his hand. “A diversion. Something that pulls their attention long enough for us to get in, grab Damian, and get out.”

Jason opened his mouth to argue again but Peter suddenly squealed, slapping his sticky little hand against the table. A crumpled scrap of paper, one of Dick’s discarded notepads, caught in the baby’s hand and went tumbling onto the floor.

Bruce bent down automatically, picking it up. His eyes narrowed.

It wasn’t just random scribbles. Peter had been holding one of Jason’s old notes. Jason had barely remembered making them for himself, in order to escape the league. Inside were maps, drawn half from memory of League compounds.

At first Bruce thought it coincidence. Until he noticed Peter’s wide eyes looking right at him, unblinking, as though waiting for him to see.

Jason frowned. “Wait… how the hell did he get that?”

Dick glanced down at his son, brows furrowed. Peter giggled again, like he knew a secret no one else did.

Bruce set the paper down on the table, his tone grim. “This compound, here.” He tapped one of the circled markings Jason had scrawled months earlier, nearly forgotten. “It matches chatter we’ve intercepted recently. Training grounds. One of Thalia’s smaller facilities.”

Jason leaned in, scowling. “That’s… where I last saw the kid. Damian.”

Dick’s hand tightened protectively around Peter, his pulse hammering. “Then that’s it. That’s where we go.”

Jason exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face, torn between disbelief and grim acceptance. “…Kid’s got good timing.”

Dick pressed a kiss to Peter’s hair, whispering softly to him though the words were meant for both his brother and his father. “He wants his family safe. That’s all.”

Bruce’s gaze lingered on Peter, his grandson, and for once, his voice softened. “Then we won’t fail him. Not this time.”

Jason glanced at the tiny boy nestled in Dick’s arms, then at his brother’s resolute face, and finally at Bruce’s rare, naked determination.

"Well, what are we waiting for? I've wanted to kick their asses for ages now."

Chapter Text

Tim stood stiff in the middle of the apartment, arms crossed, his jaw set stubbornly. “You’re kidding. You want me to babysit while you go halfway across the world to fight the League of Assassins?”

Bruce’s look was steady, unreadable as ever. “This isn’t babysitting, Tim. It’s protecting Peter. If something happens to us-”

“Don’t say that,” Dick snapped automatically, his hold on Peter tightening.

Jason leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes sharp on Tim. “He’s not wrong.”

Tim shifted uncomfortably, frustration bubbling. “I can do more than sit here and wait for a call saying you’re all dead. I should be there. I can help.”

Jason pushed off the wall, stepping closer, his voice dropping lower, rough with something more than anger. “No. You don’t get it. I’ve been there, Tim. I know what that place does to people. What it did to me.”

Tim opened his mouth, but Jason cut him off, his tone biting, his words tumbling faster as the wall of memory cracked.

“I was your age when they got their claws in me. They broke me down, built me back up into something they could use. Taught me to kill, to watch blood spill like it was normal. And I thought I’d never crawl out of it. Thought I was gone for good.” His voice caught for a second, but he pressed on. “I’m not letting another Robin -another kid- get that carved into him. Not when we’ve already lost enough.”

Tim’s sarcasm, his bravado, everything he’d been holding up as a shield this whole time, wavered. He glanced at Dick, then Bruce, then back at Jason, who was staring at him with raw intensity.

Jason gestured at Peter, who was gnawing absently on his teether in Dick’s arms, blissfully unaware of the weight in the room. “He needs you here. Needs someone steady while we’re gone. And you” Jason jabbed a finger toward him. “You’re good at that. Better than you think. So don’t tell me you’re just babysitting. You’re the one thing standing between him and losing just about everyone he’s got. Alfred is too busy with coms and driving the batplane, you're the best choice. ”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Tim swallowed, throat tight. “…You really think I’m the best one for him?”

Jason’s voice softened, though it stayed gruff. “Yeah. I do.”

Dick finally spoke, his tone gentler than Jason’s but equally firm. “Tim… you’d be his anchor while we’re gone. And for me, for us, that matters more than you’ll ever know.”

Bruce nodded once, his eyes on Tim. “They’re right. You’re part of this family. This is the role only you can fill.”

Tim exhaled, running a hand down his face, muttering, “This is insane.” But his voice lacked the bite it had before. He looked at Peter who chose exactly that moment to smile, all gums and joy, like he’d picked up on the shift in the room.

Tim sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it. But you all better come back. Because if I’m left explaining to this kid why his dad and grandpa and uncle didn’t make it home…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Just don’t make me do that.”

Jason clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm. “That’s the plan, Timbo. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

Tim rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched up, betraying the tiniest ghost of a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Go save the new kid before I change my mind.”

"That's our plan Tim. Thank you."

The batplane vibrated with the steady hum of its engines, cabin lights dimmed to a cool blue. Jason sat stiffly in his seat, arms crossed, every line of his body screaming discomfort. Not from the mission, though that weighed heavy enough already, but from the suit he now wore.

It was sleek, armored, and efficient. Dark gray plating broken up by lines of matte black, with a utility belt that could have been pulled straight from Bruce’s own workshop. And worst of all; the cowl. It hugged his face, narrowing his jaw, masking his eyes in white slits that glowed faintly when the HUD flickered on.

Jason muttered under his breath, “I look like a knockoff Batman. This is humiliating.”

Dick, sprawled casually in the seat opposite him, tilted his head with a grin he didn’t bother hiding. “Not a knockoff. More like… the bootleg version you buy off Gotham street vendors. ‘Man-Bat’ with two T’s.” He gestured toward the ears of the cowl. “Seriously, Jay, if you stand next to Bruce in the dark, I’m not sure even I’d be able to tell you apart.”

Jason shot him a glare, the effect dampened by the glowing lenses. “Not funny, Dickie.”

“Oh no, i agree, it’s hilarious,” Dick said, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. “You finally accept a new suit, and Bruce goes full Dad Mode and puts you in his image. Tell me you don’t see it- ‘like father, like son.’”

“Stop,” Jason snapped, a touch too sharp. His voice cracked slightly through the modulator, and he quickly looked away. “I’m not his. Not like that.”

The words hung heavy in the air. For a beat, the hum of the batplane filled the silence.

Bruce, seated at the projector table across from them, didn’t turn, but his hands stilled over the maps and schematics. His voice came low, measured. “You’re my son. Always have been. That suit isn’t about making you me. It’s about protecting you. Making sure you come back alive.”

Jason clenched his jaw, heat crawling beneath the armor. “You could’ve just put me in a ski mask and Kevlar. Didn’t need the cosplay. Unlike you I am not interested in dressing up as a furry each night.” That earned him a snort from his brother.

Dick reached out, knocking his knuckles lightly against Jason’s shoulder plate. “Hey. You can hate the look all you want, but… you wear it better than him.” He winked toward Bruce. “Taller too. Fills it out.”

Jason barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. It came out rough, choked off, but real. He shook his head, trying to tamp it down. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Dick said warmly, leaning back again, “but I’m your idiot. And right now, I’m telling you- you don’t look like him. You look like you. A survivor. A brother. Someone who’s about to bring Damian home.”

The words sank deeper than Jason wanted to admit. He shifted, gloved hands fidgeting before curling into fists on his knees. “…If the League recognizes me, it’s over. Doesn’t matter how much armor I’m wearing. I’m still their Ghost.”

“Then we make sure they don’t,” Bruce said firmly, glancing over his shoulder now, his eyes shadowed but steady. “This isn’t about who they think you are, Jason. It’s about who you decide to be.”

Jason swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. He looked at Dick again, who smiled like he always did when Jason was at the edge, like he could carry the weight of the world if it meant keeping his brothers upright.

The plane cut through the clouds, heading straight for the League’s compound. For the first time since donning the cowl, Jason sat a little taller.

Not Batman. Not Red Hood.

Something else.

But as the clouds broke and the world stretched wide beneath the batplane, Jason’s chest tightened. He remembered too well what waited for him down there.

The League wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t madness. It was order, cruel and sharp as a blade’s edge. Every step in line. Every mistake punished. Every success twisted into proof that you were only worth what you killed for them.

Jason hadn’t just survived the League. He’d thrived.

They called him all-Ghul’s revenant, a boy dragged out of death, honed into a weapon sharper than most grown assassins. His body healed faster, his rage burned hotter, and they fed it. Pitted him against mercenaries twice his size, let him bleed in the dirt until he learned to win. He had won. Again and again, until his reputation hung over every training pit like a shadow.

“Ghost,” They whispered when he walked by. Not just because he was silent with every movement, but because he was proof that death didn’t stick.

Jason hated that name more than the lash of any whip. Because it wasn’t about him. It was about what he represented to them: an experiment that worked.

The League was a machine. Discipline, hierarchy, no room for doubt. Children stripped of their names, remade into blades for Talia’s hand, for Ra’s’ vision. And Jason; Jason had been one of their finest blades. He knew that when they saw him, mask or no mask, armor or no armor, some of them would remember.

He’d made sure they would. Carved his "name" into their memories, at the time refusing to be forgotten the way he thought he was in Gotham.

The fights, the blood, the ruthless efficiency he’d carved his way through training with, it had earned him their fear. Fear of the boy who came back from the grave and didn’t die no matter what they threw at him.

Jason shifted in his seat, scowling under the cowl. “They’ll know me. Even if they don’t see my face. The way I move. The way I fight. I’m not just some ghost story to them. I’m their weapon that walked away.”

Dick leaned forward, arms braced on his knees, expression steady. “Then we’ll use that. Fear works both ways, Jay. If they’re scared of you, that’s power you can turn against them. You’re not theirs anymore. You’re ours. You’re family.”

Jason let out a sharp breath, looking away. “Family, huh. Yeah, well, family doesn’t always survive in the League.”

Bruce’s voice cut through, low but resolute. “Then we make sure Damian does.”

Jason froze. The words rang like a hammer against the cracks in his armor. Damian.

He could still see him, his bare feet whispering over stone floors, shoulders squared too tightly for a boy his size, a scowl that looked like it had been etched into his face by someone else’s hands.

But there were other moments, too. Hidden ones. Like when Jason had slipped him paper stolen from the quartermaster’s ledger and watched him sketch wild, jagged castles with charcoal until his fingers smudged black. Or the way Damian’s eyes lit, just once, when Jason showed him a dog-eared book he’d smuggled in past the guards.

Jason remembered the boy’s questions, whispered sharp in the shadows of training halls. What was Gotham like? What was he like? Always meaning his father.

And what would Damian think now? That the “ghost” who had shown him kindness was just another weapon, too broken to be anything else? Or worse: that Jason had abandoned him, left him behind in that pit of stone and blood while he clawed his way free?

Jason’s jaw locked. His chest went tight. He couldn’t look at either of them. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “That kid- he probably hates me. Thinks I’m just another bastard who left him to rot.”

Silence pressed in until Dick shifted, his voice warm and steady. “Jay. No. That’s not how kids remember things. You gave him something no one else did: a choice, even if it was small. That’s what he’ll remember. Not the leaving. The kindness.”

Jason shook his head, bitter. “Kindness doesn’t keep you alive in the League.”

Bruce leaned forward then, the weight of his presence grounding instead of crushing. “But it keeps you human. And that’s what you gave him, Jason. You showed him he didn’t have to be just a weapon. That matters above all else in the end.”

Damian’s steps echoed softly through the League’s corridors, the faint scuff of bare feet against stone swallowed quickly by silence. He walked with his head high, posture sharp, every inch of him molded into precision and discipline. Talia had granted him the privilege of walking the halls alone now, a mark of her approval as well as a reminder that she expected nothing less than excellence.

But even with his chin lifted and eyes steady, Damian’s thoughts were far away.

His father.

He didn’t know the man’s name. Didn’t know his face, his voice, his scent. Only that he existed. His mother had said as much when Damian was younger—spoken of him in fleeting, clipped tones. A warrior. A detective. A shadow in the world beyond the League. A man who had never come for him.

That was what gnawed at Damian the most.

Why had his father not come? If he was alive, if he was real, then why had he left his son behind in these halls of stone and steel? Why had he allowed Talia to shape him into a weapon instead of a boy?

Damian’s small fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to hate him, this phantom of a man, but he couldn’t quite manage it. Hatred required something solid. And his father was smoke, a mystery. A blank space in his life.

And yet, at night, Damian wondered. He couldn't help it.

Was his father tall? Did he fight like the instructors here, or differently, perhaps even better? Did he know his son existed? Did he care?

The thought stung, and Damian’s jaw set tight as he turned a corner, the torchlight casting sharp shadows across his face. He had been told to master his emotions, to carve weakness from his soul. And yet, no matter how many times he reminded himself of that, the questions kept coming back.

Somewhere out there was a man who should have been here. Who should have trained him, guided him, protected him. Instead, all Damian had were fragments, rumors, half-answers.

And the silence of a name he had never been given.

His father was a void in his life, an absence that pressed against him no matter how tightly he buried it. But at the same time there was someone else, someone who wasn’t a ghost in name alone.

Ghost.

The League never spoke of him with warmth. To them, Ghost was another weapon, another blade honed and discarded. But to Damian, he had been… different.

Ghost had never told Damian his real name but he hadn’t treated him like a tool either. He had crouched down during sparring drills, his voice low enough not to draw an instructor’s wrath, and said things like, “Your stance is solid. Keep your weight here… yes, like that.”

And at night, when the compound was quiet and the desert winds rattled against the stone, Ghost had found ways to slip Damian things that weren’t weapons. A stub of charcoal. A scrap of paper. A storybook worn so thin its pages barely held together.

Damian still remembered drawing in the shadows of his chamber, tracing lines until they formed something recognizable. Ghost had leaned against the wall, arms folded as he kept guard, and for the first time in Damian’s life, someone had looked at him like he was more than what the League demanded.

Then one day, Ghost was gone.

No goodbye. No explanation. Just silence, as though he had been swallowed whole by the shadows he carried in his name. The instructors never spoke of him, and Talia’s lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line when Damian had dared to ask.

But Damian hadn’t forgotten. He couldn’t.

Because Ghost had left him with something more dangerous than weapons.

Hope.

Then he felt something else.

Damian’s eyes narrowed as the air shifted. His senses were sharp, sharper than most adults in the compound. And right now, something was… off. The air was too still, the shadows bent in ways they shouldn’t, the soft shuffle of movement brushing against his ears.

This wasn’t the usual rhythm of assassins on patrol.

Moving silently, Damian slipped down a side corridor, his steps precise, controlled. He reached for the small blade hidden in his belt, not because he doubted his skill in hand-to-hand combat, but because instinct told him he might need it.

And then he saw them.

Three masked figures, standing where they had no right to be. They didn’t carry themselves like the League. Their stances were too varied, their presence an intrusion in every sense of the word. One was tall, cloaked in black, every line of his body radiating command. Another was leaner, his movements sharp but careful, like he was balancing authority with restraint. And the last one-

Damian’s chest tightened.

The last one was familiar.

Not his face -his mask covered it completely- but the way he carried himself. The weight in his steps. The tilt of his shoulders. The slight hesitation, as though part of him wanted to retreat even as he stepped forward.

Damian froze, blade half-drawn. The figures froze too, clearly just as startled to find him alone. The tall one shifted subtly, protective, his head turning slightly toward the others. But it was the third, the one in the cowl that reminded Damian of shadows and silence, who moved.

He stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully.

And though half his face was hidden, Damian knew him. The stance. The quiet steadiness that wrapped around the sharpness.

Ghost.

His hand faltered on the blade.

“…You.” The word came out soft, uncertain, like it had been pulled from a part of him he never showed.

For the first time in a long time, Damian didn’t know whether to draw his weapon or to drop it.

Ghost moved slowly, ending up just out of arms length before dropping to one knee in front of him. His lips somehow managing to form something between a smile and a sad frown.

"Hello there, little prince."

Chapter Text

The training hall smelled of sweat and steel. Damian’s hands ached from gripping the short blade for too long, his knuckles raw where the hilt had bitten into his skin. He was only six, but the instructors didn’t care. Perfection or punishment; that was the League’s way.

He had failed the kata again.

The blade slipped, his stance wavered, and the wooden staff of his instructor cracked hard against his shoulder. Damian had bitten down on the cry that threatened to escape, his small frame trembling with the effort of holding himself upright.

“Again,” the instructor barked, before striding away.

Damian raised his blade, but his arms shook. His pride burned hotter than the pain, refusing to let tears fall. If he was weak, he was nothing. If he faltered, he didn’t deserve the name al Ghul.

And then he heard it.

A voice, low and rough, coming from the shadows near the far wall.

“Your stance is solid. You’re just putting your weight in the wrong place.”

Damian whipped around, blade clutched tight. A figure leaned against the stone wall. The figure was tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in dark clothes that blended with the dim light. His face was hidden beneath a simple mask, but his eyes… his eyes were startlingly alive.

It was Ghost.

The others spoke of him in whispers. Some with fear, some with respect. Damian had seen him before, fighting like a storm, his movements brutal but precise. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t gentle. He was efficient, ruthless. A weapon made flesh.

And yet, right now, Ghost crouched down to Damian’s level, his voice softer, pitched so only the boy could hear.

“Shift your foot back. Just an inch. Makes the stance stronger. Try it.”

Damian hesitated. He wasn’t supposed to take instruction from anyone but his teachers. But something about the man’s tone -the absence of judgment, the quiet patience- pulled at him.

He adjusted his foot.

“Good,” Ghost said simply. “Now keep your shoulders loose. You’re not trying to crush the sword, you’re guiding it.”

Damian tried again. The blade moved smoother this time, slicing through the air in a clean arc. His chest filled with something unfamiliar. Something dangerously close to pride that wasn’t demanded of him, but given.

Ghost nodded once. Approval. Not loud, not dramatic. Just enough.

That night, Damian found a scrap of paper tucked beneath his bedding. A stub of charcoal wrapped beside it. No note, no explanation.

But when he drew, tentative lines that were shaky at first but straightened out when he figured out the right grip, he felt that same warmth in his chest.

The first kindness he had ever been shown.

And it had come from Ghost.

"Hello there, little prince."

The words were so gentle, the voice a bit less gruff and withdrawn. Damian looked closely. Ghost's lips were no longer chapped, his eyebrows no longer in their constant furrow of mental exhaustion that he used to wear, instead they were dipped into one of concern. Damian could tell the difference.

The words sank into Damian like water into parched earth. They were gentle, not sharp like commands, not cold like the clipped words of instructors. For the first time in years, his chest loosened with something he thought he’d lost the night Ghost vanished.

Relief.

Ghost was here. Real. Not just a shadow in his memory, not just a whisper he clung to in the quiet hours of the night. The mask was different, the armor unfamiliar, but Damian knew him. The way he held himself, the cadence of his voice, even the way his concern softened the air around them. Damian could tell.

And yet.

The relief curdled, twisted. Because Ghost had been gone. Gone without a word, without warning, without explanation. One day, he was Damian’s secret anchor. The next, nothing but silence and absence.

Damian’s small fingers curled into fists at his side, blade forgotten. His chest burned with betrayal.

“You-” His voice cracked, but he forced it steady, sharp. “You left.”

The words came out like an accusation, harsher than he intended, but the sting in his throat wouldn’t let him hold them back.

Ghost flinched, just barely, but enough for Damian to see it.

“I looked for you,” Damian pressed, anger and grief tangled in his tone. “You were supposed to-” He cut himself off, the rest caught in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to need anyone. He wasn’t supposed to let anyone close enough to hurt him. And yet Ghost had done both.

For a heartbeat, Damian’s mask of discipline cracked, and behind his furrowed brow and steady stance was a boy. One who clearly had been waiting years for this moment, only to find it tasted like ashes.

Relief and betrayal, warring inside him.

And Ghost’s eyes, visible even through the cowl, mirrored both.

Jason could see the shift in Damian's stance, the foot being slightly twisted and pushed to the back for better balance. "You betrayed the league."

Jason's chest cracked.

He could hear the way those words had been carved into Damian's head, the way that his voice sounds reluctant behind the stoicism, the way that his eyes looked sad behind the stone.

Instead of doing anything rash, he lowered his guard. Jason lowered his shoulders and leaned a bit more forward.

"I was never loyal to the league little prince," Damian opened his mouth but Jason continued. "I wasn't and I think you knew that."

Damian frowned, shaking his head as if fighting instructions in his head. "No- you're Ghost, you belong as much to the league as I do. You're as much as a weapon as I am."

Behind him he could hear the intake of breath coming from Dick, he could imagine Bruce clenching his fists in order to hold himself back and pulling both of them into his arms and getting away from this hellish place.

He was glad they both stayed where they were.

"You're right." He started, much to everyone's surprise but continued on once again before anyone could intervene. "I belong to the league as much as you do. That means that neither of us belong to the league."

He leaned a bit closer, putting his hand on Damian's shoulder who was frozen at Jason's words.

"I was always loyal to you little prince, I still am." He allowed himself to look back at Dick and Bruce.

"I brought our family here to prove it."

He could see Damian gasp while he heard Bruce move forward behind him, not looking away from Damian's gaze as he felt his father his dad Bruce crouch down beside him.

"Hello Damian, I'm your father. I am so glad I can finally meet you." Jason could tell he put every emotion that he was feeling into his voice.

Damian looked away from Jason, now looking at Bruce who had removed his cowl.

The boy kept rapidly blinking, a sign Jason recognized from himself of a side-effect from trying to think beyond the training that the league enforces like programming. Jason hated that Damian has that look.

"Father… you're bigger than I thought you'd be."

Bruce couldn't help but chuckle softly, a small sad smile on his face while looking at his son. "So are you."

"Damian," Bruce tasted the name on his tongue, now finally -finally- within arms reach. Dick was giving Jason a hand in getting upright. They're quietly whispering to each other as they give Bruce and Damian some space. "I am here to get you home. You can live with me."

"Does that mean that you deem me ready?" The boy asked, his voice sounded shocked and his eyes were wider than normal. Bruce used everything in his power to keep his face level.

"Ready? Could you tell me what you mean by that Damian?" That made Damian huff. "Mother told me you would collect me when you would deem me ready, is this now?"

Bruce took a deep breath in, and blew it out slowly.

Talia.

Of course she would do something like this. It surprises him that he was surprised.

"Damian," He started slowly. "I went to get you the moment I knew of you, Ja- Ghost," Jason couldn't help but wince at the name, Dick quickly went back to rubbing his back. "helped me get here, he told me about you." At Damian's questioning eyes he continued.

"I want you for you Damian, I am glad that you survived your training and I am proud of you for getting this far but I want to be your father regardless of anything else."

Damian's lip wobbled, just slightly before he managed to cover it up again.

"You do?"

Gods.

He sounded so fragile, so much like his age that it hurt.

"Of course I do, now how would you feel about coming home with us?" Bruce asked as he held out his hand.

Damian took it.

Damian sat across from them, stiff-backed, hands folded in his lap like he was still under the League’s watchful eye. His eyes, though, they flicked between Bruce, Jason, and Dick with sharp suspicion, not trust.

Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The cowl was off now, revealing the face Damian had only glimpsed in flashes. The lines were harsher, older, but the voice… the voice was the same.

“…Guess I should start over,” Jason said, and for once, his tone wasn’t biting. It was softer, careful. “Back in the League, you knew me as Ghost.”

Damian’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing, searching his face.

Jason held the look, steady. “But my name’s Jason. Jason Todd. And I…” He hesitated, glanced at Bruce for half a second, then pushed through. “…I’m your brother.”

The words landed heavy in the small cabin. Damian blinked, his composure cracking just a fraction, his lips parting like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right.

Before he could respond, Dick shifted closer, his voice warm and steady, the way he spoke to Peter when the boy was having trouble sleeping. “He’s telling the truth, Damian. My name’s Dick. Dick Grayson. I’m your big brother too.”

Damian’s brow furrowed, his little chest rising and falling faster, though he tried to hide it. Brothers. Plural. He turned his gaze to Bruce, who hadn’t said a word yet, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

Jason noticed the silence stretching, the weight threatening to crush the boy across from him. So he leaned forward again, his voice low, steady, almost like it had been back in the League when he’d shown Damian drawings in secret.

“No one’s gonna hurt you here, little prince,” he said. “Not anymore. Not while we’re around.”

For the first time, Damian’s mask slipped, just a little. His lips pressed tight, his eyes suspiciously bright, and though he didn’t speak, he didn’t look away either.

But then his shoulders straightened, his chin lifted. They were all small motions, subtle but practiced. The League’s tells. Jason knew them. The boy was pulling the mask back on, folding into the armor they’d drilled into him.

Damian’s voice came out flat, too controlled for someone his age. “If this is a trick, I’ll know. I’ll expose it. The League has eyes everywhere.” His hands twitched, like he was calculating how fast he could reach for a blade that wasn’t there.

Jason’s gut twisted. Christ, he’s me. He’s exactly what I was.

He leaned forward, careful to keep his tone even, not pitying, not sharp. Just steady. “Hey, easy. I know what they put in your head. The whispers, the paranoia, the way they make you think everyone’s waiting to use you, betray you.” His jaw clenched, and he forced himself to ease it. “I lived it too, remember?”

Damian froze. His eyes flicked up at Jason, searching, almost accusing.

Jason nodded once. “Yeah. Ghost. I wasn’t born that way, kid. They made me into it. Just like they’re trying with you.”

That landed. Damian’s breath hitched, though he tried to hide it, hands curling into fists in his lap.

Jason didn’t move closer, didn’t crowd him, instead he just let his voice do the work. “But you’re not there anymore. You don’t have to look over your shoulder here. Not with me. Not with him” he flicked a glance at Dick, who gave Damian the softest nod he could manage, “and not with him either.”

Bruce swallowed hard, every muscle in his body screaming to cross the distance, to grab his sons and never let go. But he stayed rooted, hands flexing against his knees. Jason had it handled, and Bruce knew one wrong move could shatter the fragile trust forming.

Damian’s lip trembled for half a second before he clenched his jaw again, eyes darting between them all like he was waiting for the trap to spring.

Jason recognized the look because it had been his.

And so, softer this time, he added, “You don’t have to believe me yet. Just… don’t shut me out. That’s all I’m asking.”

The hum of the Batplane filled the silence again, but the air felt different now. Tense, fragile, but no longer suffocating.

Bruce’s fingers curled tight. He’d wait. He’d wait as long as it took.

He expected to wait for eternity, but eternity passed faster than he could ever expect.

Jason turned towards him, a small smile on his face. "Get over here B."

Bruce couldn't, wouldn't hold himself back any longer, with careful strides he stepped forward until he was in front of both of them. Slowly, he reached out his hands, both of them in order for each to land on one of their shoulders. One on Damian's, one on Jason's. He looked carefully at each of their faces. He noticed the way Jason's shoulders unconsciously relaxed while Damian stiffened. Both reactions hurt him for different reasons.

Jason automatically relaxed at his presence, that means that he constantly consciously puts himself on edge. It means that Jason doesn't want to feel safe, even though he does.

Meanwhile Damian was far too young to react in such a manner. Bruce could see the training, the harsh words drilled into his soul as he automatically reacts to the way people move around him.

His cowl was already off, so he smiled at both of them.

"We're going home."

He was pleasantly surprised at how Jason gently guided both himself and Damian into Bruce's arms. He held them tight.

"We're going home."

Chapter Text

They talked, for a long time.

The ride back to Gotham was long, filled with voices from the passengers as they slowly explained to their newest family member how their family works, how the world works. That violence isn't the first resort, that kindness is given instead of earned.

It all threw Damian for a loop.

Everything they were explaining was foreign to him, he found himself looking at Shadow, now Jason, for reassurance. That this wasn't a trick or a punishment. A way to let his hope up only for Grandfather to tear it all down again.

The look he received in return allowed him to relax his muscles again and again.

Meanwhile he noticed that his father, he had a father now he wasn't abandoned to slowly lose his humanity, couldn't even look away. Almost as if the moment he did Damian would disappear. Damian wasn't sure what to make of that. Richard -he refused to call him Dick, it was improper- has not yet stopped talking. He talked about everything. It was unnerving as well as soothing.

He was almost falling asleep, only kept awake by his own willpower fueled vigilance, when they landed.

The door to the jet opened with a hiss and outside stood a butler, he was old in age but clearly still fit. A bit further back stood a teenager with black hair holding a…

That must be Peter then.

Damian has never seen a person that small before.

He almost didn't startle when he felt a hand on his back. Looking up, he found father looking down at him with a smile.

Was that a smile? Damian would count it as a smile for now.

"Welcome home lad."

For some odd reason, Damian felt the need to blink away a pricking in his eyes. He ignored that and nodded, allowing himself to be guided down the stairs back onto the stable ground.

Richard went forward with fast steps, greeting the teenager with a smile before taking the small child into his arms. Peter, Damian was sure his name was Peter his memory was astounding, made a happy sound that Damian couldn't place but considering no one looked concerned he let it slide.

Putting Peter on his hip, Richard ruffled (?) the teens hair with his free hand. "Thank you for watching him Timmy."

The teen, surely his name wasn't that, swatted his hand away. "He was all rainbows and sunshine, don't even worry about it."

Slowly walking closer with father he could see him swallow and watch his eyes shift.

"Tim." He heard Richard say -so that's his name- in the most unimpressed voice Damian has ever heard, something that says a lot considering his Grandfather. Damian tilted his head, curious how this would go.

"Okay, I lied. Sue me he's a menace! I don't know how but he found the peanut butter, opened it and then ate it. On the ceiling!" A loud sigh could be heard while a gleeful giggle mingled with soft clapping hands. Richard turned towards the young boy in his arms.

"Since when do you like peanut butter?" He sounded strangely defeated. Strange in the matter that this is a strange object to feel defeated about.

Damian had a feeling that this family had less structure than he was used to. His interest is piqued, not that anyone had to know that.

The butler, who his father called Alfred, guided them upstairs after they all changed.

Damian didn't.

He wouldn't even know what he could change into.

Father, Jason and Richard were all dressed in some sort of strange attire. It looked loose, in no way practical. It looked warm, impossibly soft.

He couldn't help the way he grabbed onto the League attire still dressing his body, couldn't help himself from flinching slightly at the sight of droplets of blood on the fabric from training earlier that day.

That felt like an eternity ago.

He follows his family, with the softly pointing things out and telling him what they are. Gentle whispers of: "This is the living room, where we can relax." and: "The kitchen is over there, that's where Alfred makes anything we want. If there's anything you want at all you can let any of us know okay?"

He felt kinda dizzy with how… soft everything is. For the lack of a better word.

It seems like his father realized his less-than-normal composure as he gently -everything is done so gently here- redirects him to upstairs.

After walking the hallways for a while they stop in a room. It was a decent sized room, with a big bed, a desk as well as a desk chair, and a wardrobe.

Bruce slowly opened the drawers within the desk to show paper and pencils. "Jason told us you enjoyed drawing, if you want anything else to use please let us know and we will make sure to get everything you need."

Damian couldn't respond, his eyes slightly widened as he looked at the art supplies within the drawer. It felt like his heart was jumping out of his throat but not in the way fear makes it do so. He wasn't sure what to feel but what he felt wasn't bad. Just new.

Bruce noticed the way he froze, staring at this simple set of paper and pencils and for a moment he felt under prepared. For a second he feared that it wasn't even close to enough to make up for all the time they lost. Then he looked just a bit further and he quickly realized that, oh, Damian was shocked that he got anything at all.

Slowly, unwilling to startle his son, he knelt down in front of him.

Bruce wouldn't bring attention to it, he would let Damian set the pace. However at the same time he could tell: Damian was exhausted. Something completely logical, he had refused to let himself rest the entire time on the jet and they had arrived late in the day. It makes sense that he is so tired.

So, instead of opening the can of worms that is what is possibly going through his sons head, he instead tries to help him get some rest.

"Let's change into some pajamas and sleep huh? How does that sound?" He would never take a choice from his son, more than enough choices have already been taken from him.

The voice that spoke up was small and slightly confused. "Pajamas?"

Oh, poor child.

"Clothes that are soft and nice to sleep in, you'll have a great nights sleep." Bruce reassured, slowly grabbing hold of Damian's arm to help him not fall over. The kid is swaying on the spot.

"But… It won't be safe…" He murmured in response. Bruce pressed his eyes shut for the smallest of moments, quietly wondering how it took him so long to get to this boy but deciding to berate himself later instead of in the moment where his son needed him.

Making sure he was on eye level, Damian's bright green eyes meeting his, he placed his other hand on his shoulder. "Damian, I promise you this: I will protect you. Your family will protect you. Nothing will harm you here." He gave his shoulder a slight squeeze. "You're safe here. You can sleep without worry."

Damian bit on his lip, clearly worried as he looked away for a second. "And no one will come after me for vengeance?" Bruce immediately shook his head. "I swear it."

After a long second, the boy nodded. Bruce gave a small smile and a nod in return. "Thank you Damian, that is very brave of you." He slowly stood up, walking over to the wardrobe and opening it. There weren't many clothes inside but those that were all looked similar to what the rest were wearing.

"We weren't sure of your size but Tim's clothes are the closest. They will still be a bit big on you." Bruce explained while grabbing a set of pajamas. Damian waited on the spot where he left him, arms behind his back while trying desperately to remain standing straight. Bruce noticed when he looks over.

"Damian, it's safe. You can sit down and rest now. I swear, no harm will fall upon you." Despite the clear emotions warring in his eyes, the boy slowly walked over to the bed and sat down. Bruce set the nightclothes down next to him, kneeling in front of him once more.

He could clearly see that, now Damian has sat down, he was having more and more trouble with staying awake. He was blinking furiously and was having trouble focusing. It would have been cute if not for the reason behind it.

One problem at a time, lets get him out of that blood spattered uniform first.

Bruce gestured towards Damian's League robes. "Can I help you?" After a couple seconds of hesitation, the boy miraculously nods. Bruce had to hold himself back from letting out a sigh of relief.

Slowly, clearly showing how he'll move before he does it, he helps Damian out of his old uniform and into the soft slightly-too-big nightclothes. Bruce couldn't help but notice how much younger he looks now.

He looks like his age.

It's an awfully heartbreaking, awfully true thought.

Damian attempts to hide a yawn but Bruce could clearly still see it. He helps Damian under the covers and he sees the slight sparkle in the boy's eyes. His voice, sounding terribly young mutters under his breath. "The covers are so warm here…"

Bruce can't help but tuck him in with extra care. "I'm glad to hear that. Go ahead and rest chum, you deserve it."

The father sits beside his son's bed until long after he's fallen asleep.

When Damian wakes up, he does so slowly.

At least, at first.

When he realizes how slowly he's waking up he jumps upwards while reaching for the dagger normally underneath his bed.

He cannot reach underneath his bed.

Forcing himself to open his eyes, he takes stock of the situation. Looking around the room that he's in, realization slowly dawns on him as memories start flowing in.

Right.

Getting up with care, only minor wrestling with the blanket involved -why was it heavy what was this- he managed to get up. The first thing his eyes caught was the still open drawer of his new desk, where a brand new set of pencils was waiting for him.

He walked forward slowly, touching them with careful hands as if afraid that they would break.

Perhaps he was afraid of that.

He has only been a weapon of destruction so far, after all.

However, the pencils didn't break. He grabbed one with his right hand, trying to get used to the feeling. He has only ever had charcoal sticks so this felt strange to him. But not unpleasant.

Damian grabbed the sketchbook that was also in the drawer, together with a small white block that felt strange. He would ask about that later.

He sat down in the desk chair and drew until he didn't know how much time had passed.

This is how Dick found him, Peter in his arms as he wanted to check on the newest family member. He goes and leans against the doorway, peter on his hip once more as he watches Damian draw.

All he could see was a kid, who's brow was furrowed in concentration as he let the pencil over the paper.

"I know that you're there Richard." The kid never even looked up. Interesting.

"Good thing I wasn't hiding then." He answered with a smile.

Damian looks up then and sees him put Peter on the floor so that he can crawl around if he wants to. Damian's eyes remain on the younger. Feeling the sudden urge, he swallows. He didn't know why he was trusted around someone so small, so helpless.

"Perhaps." He merely states instead. Unsure where the line is in this new dynamic. He watched as Peter slowly started standing up by holding onto Richards leg. "How did you sleep?" The man asks Damian with an incredible amount of patience in his voice.

"Perfectly well." Damian says before adding: "Are you certain it is smart to let him freely around?" Dick gave him a kind but questioning glance. "Why do you say that?"

Damian looks down. "I am, not good. He is. I wouldn't want to-" He looked up again.

Peter was walking.

He heard Dick gasp.

Peter was walking towards him.

He was wearing a face that could only be described as stubborn, poking out his tongue as he puts one foot in front of the other. Damian felt frozen in place. He didn't know what to do, what to say. This was uncharted territory.

Peter reached his leg and leans against it. He seemed to… pat Damian's leg. The child started babbling but Damian could make out one of the words.

Good.

Dick swept Peter up to pepper his face with kisses, whispering to Peter about how proud he was. After a moment he turned to Damian and brushed his hair out of his face.

"I agree with Pete you know? I also think that you are good."

Chapter Text

Peter was in kindergarten now. Dick is pretty sure Tim has multiple pictures and video's of him crying about it. It felt so strange, to feel so much pride and joy in a person. And yet, Dick couldn't imagine it any other way.

Peter wasn't the most social kid, which was fine. He had some friends and no one was pestering him on anything so Dick was very happy with how things were going.

While Peter was growing, Everyone quickly became aware of just how smart he was. He picked up writing incredibly quickly, though the scribbles were hard to read from time to time it was clear that there was more intent behind it than that from a normal toddler. One time Tim swore to Dick that he caught Peter doing calculus before tearing up the paper.

Dick almost laughed, with Peter you could never be too sure.

As he was growing up, his speech improved dramatically. The kid was speaking full sentences, though he struggled with the pronunciation of some of the words. It almost seemed like he knew all the words, he just couldn't figure out how to say them.

The nightmares also became worse.

Dick was baffled by it every time. Sure, kids had nightmares. He himself had them when he was little but this felt different. Whenever he managed to get Peter to talk about what he dreamed of he got the strangest answers.

"The building was too heavy and it crushed me."

"I don't wanna turn to dust-"

"The goblin hurt her."

To be completely honest, Dick himself got pretty scared by what it sounds like too.

He never let Peter know though, instead trying to remain a steady presence for Peter to cling to as he comforted him. But, while he whispered comforting words and held him tight, his mind kept going.

Where the hell did these dreams come from?

This sounded like more than just a strong imagination. This sounded like memories turned into nightmares.

He has talked about it with Jason, having moved to Blüdhaven together where he became a cop and Jason went to collage. While they didn't live together anymore they were neighbors and they moved in and out of each other place as they wished.

On one of the nights Jason stayed over, Peter had one of the worse nightmares. He was screaming and kicking against his blankets. Dick, already used to it, held him tight as he talked him into waking up. Jason however, was stuck at the doorframe. Shocked still.

Sure, they'd talked about it. It was just different to see it in person.

Dick tried a therapist, she couldn't find anything either. He does still have a drawing Peter had made during an appointment hung up on the fridge, it was a nice drawing.

It was hard, but it became routine. It was slowly, incredibly slowly, becoming less. Dick would count that as a win.

So, Peter was in a kindergarten that specialized in gifted children and still gave them the change to be kids. After looking into it -with help of the bat computer- Dick decided to try it out, it was the best possible choice.

Peter was flourishing. Coming home every day with stories and homework that he thoroughly enjoyed. Dick couldn't believe how he had become this lucky.

But of course, like all things in life, it doesn't last.

Peter was confused, he was pulled out of class. He couldn't think of anything that he did wrong and he was actually enjoying this class. It was practice for memorization. He liked it because it was actually challenging sometimes. But now he was pulled out.

He tried to ask what was wrong but they just told him he was being picked up.

Normally dad would let him know if he was being picked up early.

Peter didn't like this feeling.

When they arrived at the reception desk he saw a woman standing there. Brown hair and eyes, average length and seemed fit for her age. Still, his danger sense buzzed with anticipation. Then the woman spoke up.

"Thank you so much for bringing my son. I've been on a work trip for so long, I wanted to surprise him." Her voice was smooth, carefully cheerful. Peter tried his best to hide his confusion.

He never heard anything about his mother, his family avoided the topic like the plague. But he remembered everything from this life.

He couldn't remember her.

His family loved him, so much it could be overwhelming at times. It was no secret that they wanted the best for him. They wanted him to have everything life had to offer and more, surely that would mean that he had his mother in his life?

So, it would only be logical that there was a very good reason as to why she isn't.

Thinking quickly, he tugged on the sleeve of the teacher who brought him here. The lady, was her name Sharon? Leaned down so Peter could whisper in her ear.

"I forgot my pencil case in class, can I grab it?" He spoke softly, trying to sound calm. The lady nodded with a gentle smile and he ran back to his classroom. He entered and closed the door behind him, leaning against it while catching his breath.

The teacher looked up from her lesson with concern and walked over to Peter, worry on her face. "Hey there Peter," She started, kneeling down so Peter didn't have to crane his neck to look at her. "What's going on?" Her voice was soft and imploring, clearly trying to scope the situation. Peter never acted up, in fact he was one of the most polite students she's ever had. So, to see him behave like this was strange.

Peter leaned close to her to whisper. "I don't have a mommy."

He could see her face drain of color, though she still clearly tried to remain looking calm and collected. "What do you mean honey?"

Peter took another deep breath, panic clouding his eyes and voice. "I don't have a mommy, daddy never talks about her and I've never met her before." His tone was hurried, as if he was scared that, if he didn't get everything out as quickly as possible, she wouldn't believe him. "Please, you've gotta believe me."

His teacher nodded and put her hand on his shoulder. "Okay Peter, thank you for telling me. You were really smart. I'll go and call your daddy, okay?"

Peter couldn't help his sigh of relief. Dad would be here soon, it'll be alright.

His teacher put him in the reading corner, where he picked up a book while she gave him a soft blanket. Thanks to his enhanced hearing he could hear his teachers voice while she called his dad, though he tried to block it out some sentences still registered.

"Peter seemed pretty off so I decided to call you."

"Said she was his mother-" The teacher paused, his dad clearly interrupting her. She nodded. "I understand, how far away are you? I'll let Peter know he will be picked up early today."

Another minute and the teacher put down the phone, walking over to where Peter was doing a not so great job of reading. He thinks he gets a pass this time.

"I just spoke with your daddy Peter, he will be here in around 15 minutes. I know it may have been scary but you were really brave buddy." Peter looked up at her, his eyes big. "Thank you." He said, but his voice was barely audible.

The teachers were being too gentle, not that they normally wouldn't but Peter could notice the difference in their tone of voice. Besides, normally it would take his dad at least half an hour to get to school from his work. How could he be here in 15 minutes?

He figured it was bad but he didn't think it was this bad.

The 15 minutes passed slowly, Peter's body slowly filling with nerves. He wasn't sure what was about to happen but it couldn't be good.

His instincts were proven right when he heard police sirens riding towards his school. Then saw two police cars drive onto the school grounds.

Before the teacher could stop him, he ran out of the classroom.

He wouldn't be held back from reaching his dad.

He did however, stop before he could round the corner. Looking beyond it, he could see his dad, in his uniform, tell the woman who said she was his mother to put her hands behind her back.

The woman was screaming in protest but his dad wasn't having it. Looking closer however, he could see clear rage and… was that fear?

"You are hereby arrested for attempted kidnapping, recklessly endangering a child, child abandonment and further issues stated while in holding. Anything you say can and will be hold against you in the court of law. You have the right to remain silent." On and on he went, but Peter couldn't hear it.

His dad looked scared.

For years, up until this moment, he thought that wasn't possible. Sure, he knew he scared his dad when he would scurry himself across the ceiling or when he did something more spider-like than human but he never looked like this.

This wasn't a fear of what could happen.

This is a fear of what did happen.

His dad handed her over to his colleague, who went and brought her to the police car while his dad started walking towards Peters classroom. Peter, unable to wait any longer, ran towards him. His dad leaned down on his knee and opened his arms wide right before encircling them around Peter with a soft sigh. He carded his hand through Peter's curls while he hid his face in them, Peter could feel the soft tremble of his jaw.

"You're okay, you're okay." Dick mutters, interrupting himself only to press kisses to his sons crown. "You did really good Pete, I'm so proud of you." The words had the automatic effect of relaxing Peter's muscles as he sags in his fathers hold. Dick only held him tighter.

"We'll handle the rest Grayson, take care of your boy." One of his colleagues said, Dick could only nod to show his thanks.

They went home. Peter doesn't know how but uncle Jason also shows up, gives his dad a hug and him a ruffle of the hair before he goes to prepare hot chocolate.

They always have hot chocolate after a hard day.

Right now, Peter is on his dad's lap while his dad is picking out a channel on the television. Peter somehow had the feeling that they wouldn't exactly be watching any of it but it served as a nice background noise.

Peter tried to keep his questions to himself, but he has always been too curious for his own good. When uncle Jason sat down beside them on the couch, he turned around to his dad.

"That lady… was she really my mom?" He asked slowly, with slight hesitance.

His dad sighed,the thought alone clearly carrying weight, not at Peter but at the memories.

"She is, yes."

Peter swallowed, not sure what to make of that as his thoughts thundered in his head. There were far too many, it was normally hard enough already to keep up but right now it seemed downright impossible.

There was one thought that kept going in his mind, one that was by far the loudest.

"Did she," his voice was small. "did she hurt you?"

Uncle Jason looked away sharply, while his dad's eyes glazed over momentarily before he closed them in attempt to clear his head.

It didn't work.

He opened them again and looked down at Peter. At his son, who he loved more than the air he breathed.

He has never lied to him. He wouldn't start now.

"She did." Dicks voice was heavy no matter how much he tried to make it soft and safe for him.

Peter's eyes widen before he hugs his father tight. A hug that his father gladly returns. "I'm sorry." The boy whispers into his broad chest.

Dick had to bite his lip to suppress the tears.

Slowly, he leans back. Making sure to cup Peter's face as he angles his face so that they can look into each others eyes. Giving his son a sad smile, he speaks to him.

"Oh baby, I would bear a thousand lifetimes of pain in order to be able to hold you now. Being your dad, it's the best thing that has ever happened to me." Tears were springing into both their eyes, Peter distantly registered uncle Jason rubbing his back but he was more focused on his dad's face. The pure devastation, love, hurt and joy all wrapped into one.

"I love you so so much Peter, you're worth everything to me. Today was tough, but you did everything right. You were smart, going back to the classroom and telling your teacher, you did amazing sweetheart."

Peter goes back to hug his dad tight and spoke through the brick in his throat. "I'm really happy that you're my daddy."

His dad chuckled softly.

"Me too buddy, me too."

Peter has fallen asleep, only rational considering the day he's had. Dick puts him to bed for a nap, he'd wake him up before dinner.

Walking back into the living room, he looks at Jason. Jason looks back at him, eyes far more knowing than they have any right to be.

Peter wasn't here, he was safely asleep in his room below the glow in the dark stars on his ceiling.

Peter was asleep, Peter was safe.

Dick crumpled.

He fell to his knees, hugging his torso as he finally let his tears escape, trying to remain silent as to not wake his son but he couldn't stop the tears or his hiccuping breaths. Jason ran towards him, sliding onto his knees and holding him close. It only made his chest constrict tighter.

"Tell me it isn't what I think it is Dickie, please." Jason asked, almost begged.

Dick not responding said enough in and of itself. Jason swore.

"I'll kill her, I'll shoot her in her cell. Fucking hell," He held him tighter. "I'm so sorry Dickie."

He shook his head. "I said no- I couldn't move-"

Jason held his brother tighter. Comforting him best he could he decided something.

He has a kill to make.

One he would make sure was as painful as could be.

No one hurts his family.

Chapter Text

"How could this even have happened?!"

Jason was still seething when he arrived at the bat-cave. Logically, he knew that the rest felt the same way as he did. But they didn't see Dick break down, they didn't hold him while he cried tears that he should have been able to be let out years ago.

Sure, Jason had found it weird that Peter's mother wasn't in his life but what did he know? Maybe she lived far away, maybe it was a one night stand. He didn't like making assumptions about his brother's life. He couldn't, considering he's been absent for years of it. Sure, he had his reasons -including but not limited to death- but he was still absent.

Then, to find out that his brother has been… he couldn't even think about it.

So, after holding his brother through it, he went to the bat-cave to get some fucking answers.

Bruce was behind the bat-computer while he consciously had to keep his hands from curling into fists instead of typing at the thought of what happened to his son, of what almost happened to his grandson.

His voice was a low growl, clearly still caring for Jason but filled with anger and unmet justice.

"It appears she used a DNA test to bribe an old college friend of hers to get the password. I've already messaged Gordon, the police is on their way to arrest her now."

Jason clenched his jaw but nodded. "What of the woman, what was her name?"

"Catalina Flores, also known as Tarantula. DNA test confirmed it, she's currently in a holding cell and I've already put my best lawyers on it to make sure that she goes to jail and stays there. Permanently." Jason scowled.

Sure, his and Bruce's bond has improved dramatically, they still disagreed on a lot of things. It's one of the reasons he moved to Blüdhaven with Dick. Sometimes a bit of space did wonders to help maintain a stable relationship.

At least, his therapist says so. She's smart so he assumes it works like that.

He was about to open his mouth, ready to make sure Bruce gets a piece of his mind when Bruce spoke before him. "I know what you want to do, I understand it but it's not your choice to make." Jason's jaw clicked shut while Bruce continued. "This happened to Dick, without his say so in any matter." The man took a deep breath before continuing. "The least we could do is give him the choice now."

Bruce stepped forward while he attempted to keep his face open for his son. He couldn't just say that he has already considered many times to visit her himself, that he broke down himself when he realized what has happened to his son, his baby boy, his first child. He couldn't admit that because he had to be strong for all his kids. So, instead of joining Jason in his path of wrath, he put his hand on his shoulder.

No matter how long it's been, it will forever be strange to not have to look down to look him in the eyes.

His son's throat bobbed as his jaw quivered. Bruce in turn moved slowly, still making sure he wouldn't startle him as he moved him closer for a hug.

Jason collapsed.

"How could this have happened?" He asks again, though his voice sounds different this time around. This time? It is filled with devastation, chocked on tears as the words are slightly muffled with Jason pressing his face against his fathers chest.

Bruce held him tight, feeling a tear of his own slide down his cheek.

They were talking about Dick, about his son. They were talking about the little boy he took in because he had no one. The little boy who he got the honor of watching as he grew into an amazing man and hero. Dick was the brightest of them all, he grew out of his anger and instead found hope.

The fact that something like this happened to him, Bruce couldn't bear it.

"I don't know," He whispered instead, lips pressed against Jason's temple as he held him tightly. "but I do know that we, along with everyone in our family will help him get the justice he deserves." To that Jason nodded, leaning back slightly to look at his father. His eyes were slightly red and damp from tears made from sorrow of what happened to his brother, then they shifted to that determined glint Bruce would forever love no matter the circumstance. That glint made Jason more alive than anything else.

"Yeah, we will."

Bruce squeezed his shoulder, helping him stand up straight once more and let him over to the bat-computer.

"My main thought is, why now? Why wait years and then confess to being his mother? She must have known that she'd get into trouble when she went there. So why did she?"

Jason looked at the screen, at all the information they had. His hand rested on his chin in a motion similar to what Bruce does, not that he would ever admit such a thing. He leans forward.

"It does seem odd." He says before he is rudely interrupted by a younger voice.

"It does seem odd," Tim repeated in a mocking voice, high and pitchy. "He says like he's in the Victorian era, just say it's weird you nerd."

Ah, little brothers, how wonderful.

Is he like this all the time to Dick? Maybe he should get him a gift basket.

Jason rolled his eyes in response, gently pushing the teens head away.

"Ha-ha" He said sarcastically. "Very funny. Wanna know what's also very funny? You being out of bed at this time on a school night." Jason turned towards Tim, a smug grin on his face.

Bruce had to hide the fond smile as he leans against the table, watching his sons bicker.

"You also have school!" "I go to collage gremlin I start at like 1 PM tomorrow."

A very loud groan echoes throughout the cave before a yelp.

"Put! Me! Down!" Jason only laughed as he hauled Tim towards the staircase like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. "Jason!"

"Little birdies gotta sleep Timbo, c'mon, upstairs you get."

Bruce could only smile to himself as their voices faded away towards the manor proper.

Dick had kept Peter home for a day after the incident, to reassure both Peter and himself that everything was alright.

Peter was alright. Peter was happy.

It was all Dick could focus on, all that mattered to him really. His son was by his side and nothing would change that, not even-

Nope, not thinking about that.

He and his son were playing games and watching shows. Right now they were watching some child-friendly adaptation of star-wars, which Peter absolutely loves. The boy was tucked against his fathers side under a warm blanket that his uncle Wally had made while on bed-rest. His eyes were shining with wonder and excitement as he was leaning forward slightly without leaving the comforting warmth of his dad at his side.

It was all Dick could do to soak in the moment. This devastatingly domestic and gentle moment he knew he will recall when times were hard because everything was alright right now. He was barely paying attention to the show, instead his gaze was on his son. On the sparkle in his eyes and his minute reactions to the events within the show.

Secretly, a part so deep within him that he never wanted to admit existed, he tried to compare Peter to Catalina. Anything at all.

Besides the hair that was more brown than black and those gorgeous Bambi eyes Dick absolutely adored and has since he was a baby looking at him for the first time? There was nothing.

Peter was kind.

He was so, so kind. The other day he asked Dick for dog treats in case he came across a stray one or the owner would allow him to give them.

Peter was gentle.

He made sure each and every plushy had equal amounts of affection, he was always open for hugs but made sure it was alright with the other person first. Dick didn't even have to explain it to him, Peter had just picked it up from him and Jason.

Peter was funny.

He had jokes for days, loved puns just like Dick himself did as a child. He always had one at the ready, always prepared for the opportunity of laughter and joy.

He hated himself for even having to make that comparison, for the fact that his brain goes there without his permission. Peter was his son through and through, how dare he even think about any of this, how dare he even have the slightest hint of doubt that Peter could be anything but a good kid.

Because Peter was good.

Dick saw it every day and every day he questioned how he ended up earning the honor of getting to be the parent of this wonderful kid.

His thoughts get disrupted with Peter laughing at a joke on screen, body shaking slightly while making that wonderful sound that Dick loves so much.

So, instead of thinking more about terrible things, he looks at his son and smiles.

Peter looks up at him, a questioning tilt of his head betraying his upcoming question. Dick decides to answer before its asked.

"I just love you so much baby." Peter's face brightened impossibly more before smiling at him and leaning more against him, eyes still sparkling.

"I love you too!" He answered in that bright voice of his. Dick held him softly, pressing a kiss on top of his head.

Yeah, this was all that he needed.

Following the man through the halls, was a young girl. She was nimble and on the shorter side, compared to the man you could perhaps even call her tiny. Her posture was straighter than that of most military men, her movement with more purpose with fluidity than dancers are aware exists.

She wears no weapons on her person currently, not that such things are required for her.

She is the weapon, after all.

She follows behind the man, always one step behind slightly to his left. They walked into a brightly lit room, with people sitting at a desk facing the door they just came through.

She didn't waver.

There were sounds being made, the people were communication with the man. She couldn't understand fully, the words escaping her as she tries to keep up.

Until she hears "At attention."

Her back went straight, feet positioned at she's been trained to. It was instinct.

"Replicate- -training- -want- -done-" Are what she picks up.

She is unsure as to what this means, she decides to stay at attention. She has to stay at attention.

She's so tired please let her rest, please she's so tired. She can barely keep standing why does she have to keep standing, keep fighting, keep killing. It was unfair unfair unfair.

She stays at attention.

She wishes she could stop.

She has to stay at attention.

She has no choice either way.

Catalina Flores, also known as Tarantula, sat in her cell.

Wrists cuffed together as well as in an isolation cell, padded walls and all. It was quite the scene.

Her employers will have a field day.

She knew the risk very well, attempting that which she did.

She'd accepted it, it was part of the job.

And she has always been rather successful in getting what she wants.