Archive of Our Own

Somewhere far away, in a very different Gotham, Batman resists the urge to punch a wall. They don’t have magic here. They don’t even have particularly bad crime statistics here. Simply put, there is no way for Batman to get home on his own.

He is sure that Red Robin is already working on a solution, and he trusts Nightwing to keep everyone in line while he’s gone. But he doesn’t know how long it will take Red Robin. Last time it took him a year.

Batman cannot wait a year. He can’t stay in a universe where his counterpart is signed up for three different yoga classes.

So he goes to the only person who might be able to help.

He goes to Drake Manor next door. But the Tim Drake of this universe fails Batman. He’s weak. He hasn’t suffered like the other one has. It makes him useless for Batman’s purpose.

He has not even attempted to track down this universe’s Dick Grayson or Jason Todd. They are of no use to him as civilians.

So instead, Batman is holed up in the manor, and he waits. He waits for Red Robin to hurry up. As soon as he’s back, they can have a conversation about what timing is and is not acceptable for a rescue mission.

As soon as he’s back.

*

It takes Tim maybe ten seconds to realise that this man he is talking to is not Bruce Wayne. He looks like Bruce Wayne, but he doesn’t sound like him, doesn’t even move like him. This man holds himself like a soldier, and he talks like one, too.

Judging by their conversation, it seems like he expects Tim to be a soldier as well.

Tim doesn’t know what’s going on, but he tightens his grip on the door. “I’m sorry,” he interrupts, smiling pleasantly, “but I’m afraid I don’t understand what, exactly, it is that you want from me.”

The man who’s wearing Bruce Wayne’s face frowns at him. As soon as Tim had opened the door, he had launched into a speech about duty, about helping people in need. He has yet to say anything of consequence.

Now, the man seems to search for something in Tim’s carefully bland expression before his mouth tightens, and his voice is rough with displeasure when he says, “This may sound strange, but I have been transported here from another universe and switched places with my counterpart. I need to get back as soon as possible. You can help.”

It's not phrased as a question, and from the way the man says it, it sounds like an order.

Tim does not take well to being ordered around.

“Maybe if you’d asked nicely,” he says, and attempts to shut the door in the man’s face. He’s stopped by a foot wedged into the frame, acting as a barrier.

“This conversation is not over,” says the man who looks like Bruce Wayne.

“You’re standing on my property, so it’s over when I say it’s over,” Tim informs him. “I don’t know what the laws are like wherever you come from, but here, that means you leave before I make you.”

The man does not remove his foot. Instead, he stands there, head tilted slightly, like he’s considering whether Tim is bluffing. “My universe is a dark place,” he says eventually. “An evil place. It needs people like me to protect it.”

Tim can’t be sure, but he’s guessing the guy is not talking about special ops.

“Every minute I’m gone from that world, another mindless crime happens,” the man continues. “It’s imperative that I return immediately.” He looks intense, serious in a way Tim has never seen Bruce Wayne. And Tim- well. Tim is not in the habit of believing in fairy tales, but he can see that this man believes every word of what he’s saying. Every single one.

Is this simply a case of Bruce Wayne having lost his mind?

But there is the way he talks, the way he moves, the way he holds himself. At the very least, it’s strange.

It still doesn’t make it Tim’s business – or his problem.

“Why come to me?”

“In my universe, your counterpart is one of my soldiers. Not the best fighter or the best team player. But you have one key advantage. You’re like me. You look at problems and know what must be done, and you don’t stop until you’ve achieved that. Nothing could stop you.” The man pauses, then says, “You haven’t had the necessary training in this universe, but you and Red Robin still share the same DNA. Your counterpart trusts me, so that’s what I’m asking of you. Trust me.”

Tim thinks this over. He looks at the man who is not Bruce Wayne, replays his words in his mind.

Then, he shrugs.

“If you’d wanted my help, you should have asked for it. I don’t take orders from anyone.” With that, he shuts the door again, right into the man’s foot, over and over again, until the guy winces and pulls away. Tim watches him through the kitchen window as he leaves.

*

Maybe someone else would have let it go. But Tim is physically incapable of letting anything go, ever. He knows this about himself. And he knows from the minute that this strange version of Bruce Wayne leaves his property that this is going to haunt him until he figures out the truth.

So he starts watching him. Well, pays someone to watch him. What’s he going to do, put an old-fashioned camera around his neck, get up on the roof and take pictures of Bruce Wayne through his bedroom window? Of course not. Tim is smarter than that. What does he have a money for if he can’t spend it on this?

Within a week, he’s got people around the Wayne manor every hour of the day. There’s the obvious ones: the boy who brings the newspaper, the mailman, the cab driver, the trash collector. There is also the elderly couple who are going for a walk every evening that conveniently takes them past the manor, the kids going to and from school, the birdwatcher. All of them are now on Tim’s payroll, and he pays them well.

At first, nothing of interest comes up. Bruce Wayne, or his lookalike, doesn’t leave the manor, not during the day, not at night, not ever. Google searches of his name confirm that he has not shown up to any social event and has, in fact, taken time off work. That’s odd and out of character, so Tim keeps going, keeps watching.

Six weeks after Tim’s doorbell first rang, he is busy doing his chemistry homework when his phone buzzes. It’s the birdwatcher, alerting him that Bruce just left the house, stood on the lawn for ten minutes, started crying, then went back inside.

Strange.

The next day, Tim walks past the Wayne manor just in time for Bruce to collect the newspaper. Bruce spots him and pales.

Tim lifts a hand. “Good morning, Mr Wayne.”

Bruce waves at him. “Good morning,” he says, but his voice sounds weird, subdued. When Tim, the back of his neck prickling, walks a bit and then turns around, he finds that Bruce is still staring at him.

Strange.

Bruce starts doing yoga in the garden again. He greets neighbours and passers-by, he goes grocery-shopping instead of just having food delivered to him, he goes for a run in the morning. He picks up every single habit he’d had six weeks ago, and he never looks Tim’s way again, not even when Tim, curious, “incidentally” passes him by on his morning run.

Strange. Did he start taking antipsychotics? Or is something else going on?

And then something even stranger happens.

Bruce Wayne disappears. Just like that. One day, he’s there, and the next, he’s gone, and no one knows where he went. The police, when they come to investigate, find that some clothes are missing, as are the yoga mat and a few personal items. It seems that Bruce has packed a bag and left Gotham.

Except that Tim, who has been watching the man for almost two months, knows that this is not true.

Or, if he did leave Gotham, he didn’t do it by any known method of transportation.

Tim investigates, and he investigates longer and more thoroughly than the police ever could, and still he finds nothing. The only thing he can come up with is an explanation that’s too insane to say out loud, so he doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t tell anyone – not that there is someone to tell. If what he suspects is true, there is no one to help, anyway. What was it that man with Bruce Wayne’s face said about Tim’s alleged counterpart? Not a team player? He was right about that.

He's right about something else, too.

Tim looks at problems and knows what must be done. So that’s what he’ll do here. He’s got no choice.

*

Batman has been sleeping on Clark’s couch for three months, and it is time for him to go. Lois has been saying it, and the neighbours have been saying it, and Clark is saying it right now, albeit gently.

“Why don’t we look at some apartments together?” he suggests. “Find something you feel comfortable in?”

“I never feel comfortable in Metropolis,” Batman answers. “I’m waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For the impostor to leave town. He’s bound to leave it eventually, and when he does, I will hunt him down.”

Clark doesn’t need to ask why Batman is not hunting him down anyway. Magic protection circles aren’t to be messed with. He doesn’t think any of the Justice League expected Tim to be vindictive enough to get Constantine involved.

That’s got to sting. Batman hates magic.

“Look,” he says, trying to be supportive, “you know I have your back. We all do. But you can’t stay here forever. It’s not healthy.”

Batman glares at him. He is, all things considered, not the best roommate Clark has ever had, but he’s also not the worst. At least he showers regularly, and he does help out with patrol, even though that’s led to all kinds of speculation by the media. One more reason for them not to room together.

“Just one hour,” Clark says. “One hour and then we leave immediately. Besides, what if any of your children come to Metropolis to see you? You want them to see that you’ve got your life together, right?”

“These people,” Batman says, even as he gets up and puts on a coat, “are not my children. They lost the right to call themselves that when they chose him over me.”

Clark, who does not have any kids of his own, can’t say he understands, but he does sympathise. He wasn’t lying earlier – he is on Batman’s side. The past three months have been hard for him. But at some point, you need to move on, like they all move on from tragedies. Like Clark moved on when he realised that a clone of him and his worst enemy exists. That was a real blow, but he got over it.

It’s time for Batman to get over it, too, at least for now. He can’t get into Gotham, and he can’t access the majority of his accounts, either. The impostor Bruce Wayne has cut him out from most of them, just like he’s cut the Justice League funding down to only financing body armour, which most of them don’t even need. He is also, essentially, giving Batman an allowance. That must sting, just like the entire League feels the loss of that money keenly, but Batman knows better than anyone when it’s time to strike, and when it’s time to lay back. Right now, he can’t do much.

Except, hopefully, find an apartment and get off Clark’s couch.

*

The first thing Tim does is convince his parents to let him access his trust fund eight years early. The rest is child’s play compared to that.

*

Zatanna wakes up in the middle of the night, feeling something shifting. Not an earthquake. This is something else. She’s felt this before, but never like this. Before, it’d been gentle, barely noticeable, like a drop of water hitting the surface of a lake.

This feels more like a tidal wave. And it’s hitting the fabric of the universe with all its force.

*

It’s Dick’s turn to pick the movie for Friday movie night, which means they just spent several hours watching cartoon animals, some of which are singing. Bruce is the only one who appears to be truly enjoying it, although the small mountain of tissues at his feet is also steadily growing. Bruce, it turns out, does not like movies where families get ripped apart.

“Next week, we’re watching Fast and Furious,” Tim says when the last movie has ended and the credits are rolling. “All of them.”

Jason lifts his head from Dick’s shoulder to stare at him. “You realise those all have the exact same plot, right?”

“Yeah,” Tim says. “They’re awesome. I wish I could drive a car like that.”

Bruce is already half-asleep in his armchair, has been for hours, but he still manages to say, “No street-racing before you’re old enough to drink” before slumping back into unconsciousness.

“That seems really unfair,” Tim says. Then he taps Jason’s arm to get his attention and points first at Bruce, then at Damian, who is curled up on the other end of the couch. “Who’s carrying who to bed?”

“I get Damian,” Jason and Dick say at the same time.

Damian blinks up at them, clearly tired, but still managing to scowl. “I don’t need assistance.”

Jason shrugs. “Assistance is what you’re getting, so suck on it.”

“Then I wish Timothy to carry me,” Damian says decisively. “He is the third-most trustworthy family member. Timothy, lift me up.”

Tim does as he’s told, his face still feeling warm from the unexpected compliment. He leaves Dick and Jason playing Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine who’s responsible for Bruce, and takes the flight of stairs up to Damian’s room. Alfred the cat is already sleeping on the bed, as are Emma (named by Jason), Fluffy (named by Dick) and John McClane (named by Tim). Luckily, Damian’s bed is so large that he fits in seamlessly next to the four cats. He’s fallen asleep again, but he wakes up when Tim sets him down.

“Will we run together in the morning?” he asks.

“Sure,” Tim says. “I’ll text Bruce, see if he wants to join.” Bruce does that sometimes, foregoing yoga to join them on their morning run. He’s been doing it more now that summer has finally given way to autumn and it’s gotten cold enough that he can no longer practice yoga in the garden.

Damian nods, accepting this, his eyes already falling shut again. Tim smiles, pets John McClane, ignores Alfred’s hiss, and, after thinking about it for a second, ruffles Damian’s hair, just briefly, before he leaves.

Outside, Jason is waiting for him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Left Dick with the old man,” he explains. “Up for something fun?”

“Sure,” Tim says, although he’s not certain what Jason’s idea of fun entails. But Bruce has forbidden Dick and Jason from taking him on any vigilante-related activities, so it’s probably not that. Maybe they’ll commit a crime instead. Bruce has not explicitly banned crimes.

“I got a new shipment of firearms,” Jason says, “and I think we should go up to the roof and try them out.”

“No guns,” Tim says immediately, instinctively.

Jason scowls. “Is that your opinion or Batman’s opinion?”

“Mine,” Tim says after considering this question for a moment. “I think.”

Jason shrugs. They don’t talk about Batman a lot. But whenever they do, it’s times like this: checking in with each other about whether they’re parroting his beliefs or actually expressing convictions of their own. Not all of the answers are what one would expect.

“Suit yourself,” Jason says. “Let’s still go up, though. I think the poison cloud has finally disappeared, so we’ll be able to see the stars again.”

“Sure,” Tim says again, following Jason up the stairs. There is not actually a direct way to the roof, so they have to go to the attic and then climb through the window. They’ve done this a number of times already. None of them have dared to tell Bruce yet.

Jason goes first, then takes Tim by the hand and hauls him upwards. “Gonna have to learn to do this by yourself,” he says as he sets Tim to his feet. “I won’t be around forever.”

Tim stares at him. “I can do it by myself,” he points out. “I was the one who realised we could climb up here. I showed you how it’s done.”

Jason, clearly warming up to the idea of aggressive parenting, chooses to ignore him. “One day,” he says tragically, “you’ll be all alone with no more help from me, and then how what will you do?”

“Probably kill myself immediately,” Tim says, shoving at Jason forcefully enough that he would have fallen off the roof if he hadn’t caught himself. “Hey, do you think if we got my skateboard-“ he starts, eying the tiles and the angle of the roof critically.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Jason says, “and the answer is yes. Go get your skateboard immediately.”

Tim throws him a grin and readies himself to run back downstairs, when suddenly, there’s a bright green light flashing over all of Gotham. It’s gone as quick as it came, but then it appears again, just as quickly. Again and again and again.

“What the hell?” Jason says. “Did you see that? I thought the poison cloud had dissipated.”

And the thing is, it could be nothing. It could just be another alien invasion or new supervillain or mutated birds, or that dumb fucking poison cloud back again for another round.

Could be.

But Tim spent several weeks this year trying to swap the consciousnesses of two alternate versions of each other, and then to bring someone over completely. He solved it one way. But he’s not stupid enough to think that there aren’t other ways.

“I have to go,” he tells Jason, and takes off before Jason can ask any follow-up questions.

He doesn’t go to the Cave. He worked on this matter from his room once, and all the equipment is still there, part of the ever-present mess of clothes, cat hair, actual garbage, and experiments that has overtaken his bedroom. He finds what he needs underneath a large pile of dirty laundry, and gets to work.

His phone buzzes several times, and soon enough, there’s a knock on his door. “Tim,” Jason yells, “I just want you to know that the lightshow is still going on, and since you seemed to have some idea on why, you better share with the class right about fucking now.”

“Go away, Jason,” Tim yells back. “I’m busy.”

The door rattles with Jason’s attempt to break it down. Tim ignores him. He’s almost done, anyway. He came in here looking for an answer, and finding it didn’t take much effort. Not when he knew what to look for.

When he finally sees the truth of what he’d already suspected, he feels the blood drain from his face. At the same time, there is a bang, and a second later, Jason walks through the ruined entrance.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

Tim swallows. “Someone is trying to break in.”

“What? Break in where?”

“When I did it,” Tim says, “all I had to do is find the key. But this person isn’t looking for that. They’re doing it like you. They’ll break down the door instead.”

“Who?” Jason asks loudly, panicked. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know yet. Someone from Bruce’s universe. They’re not here yet, but they’re getting closer. They just need enough power.”

“But who would-“

Another flash outside the window, this one stronger than all the others put together.

Tim gives Jason a faint smile. “I guess we’re about to find out.”

*

The first thing Tim notices about this universe is the air. It’s thick with smog, making it hard to breathe. It’s honestly a miracle not everyone here has asthma. The alley Tim just left in his home universe was dark, yes, but not disgusting. This alley has what he’s pretty sure is a corpse bleeding out in the corner.

The second thing he notices is the guy in a trench coat who just stepped out behind the dumper and is pointing a shotgun at him.

“You made quite the entrance, mate,” the guy says. “I could hear you all the way back in London. Woke me up.”

“Sorry, mate,” Tim says. He’s not even trying to sound sincere. “Perhaps you should go back there. Get some more sleep.”

“Not before I take care of this.” The guy steps closer, the barrel of the shotgun pointed straight at Tim’s face. Now that he’s not half-hidden by the dumpster, Tim can see that it’s not a normal gun. It’s been modified. “Universe-hopping is dangerous for both universes involved. I’ll cut you a deal, though. Either you go back to where you came from, or I pull the trigger.”

“It’s been a pain in the ass to get here,” Tim says. “When I go back, it’ll be when I’m ready.”

“In that case-“

Tim ducks as a shot rings out, tackles the guy, wrestles the shotgun away from him, then grabs the taser from his coat pocket and sends 50,000 volts running through him. “If you’re going to use a gun, learn how to use it. Listen, I don’t suppose you could tell me where I can find the nearest library, right?”

“Go to hell,” the guy groans from the ground. Tim shrugs and turns to go. This is no longer his problem. He stops when the guy shouts, “Tim Drake!”

Tim slowly turns around.

The guy grins despite the coat of sweat shining on his forehead. “Word of advice for you, mate. Don’t stick around too long. Lots of people here who know your face, in and out of mask.”

“Good,” Tim says coldly. “If my counterpart is anything like me, then that’s enough to keep people away.”

He leaves the guy lying in the alley. His phone, naturally, has no reception, so Tim pockets it. For now, he has a mission. Find somewhere with internet access and then find out everything he can about this world. He’ll go from there.

*

Bruce doesn’t miss his own universe. This is partly because the two universes are so similar, if you ignore the magic and the superheroes and the lack of universal healthcare in this version of America, and partly because he has gained so much here that everything else pales in comparison.

He still wakes up some days and just has to lie in bed for a while, thinking about how lucky he is. He got four amazing, beautiful, clever children, and he got Alfred back on top of that. Is anyone even allowed to be this happy?

That’s not to say there aren’t some bumps on the road. Like when he has dinner with his sons – now that school has started again, this is often the first meal a day that all five of them share – and realises two of them have stopped speaking to each other.

“Dick, ask Jason to pass the potatoes,” Tim says, delicately dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.

Dick, looking stressed, starts, “Jason, Tim wants you to-“

“I heard,” Jason says. “Dick, tell Tim that we’re out.”

“But-“ Dick says, falling silent when Jason takes the potato dish and scoops its entire contents onto his plate.

Bruce sighs. “Boys,” he says. This, at least, makes them all look at him. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Jason says, or at least Bruce thinks that’s what he says. It’s hard to understand him with his mouth full of potatoes. “Ask Tim. He’s got it all figured out.”

“It’s nothing,” Tim says immediately, which is Tim-speak for something. Probably something Bruce is not going to like. “Where’s Damian?”

“Eating dinner at a friend’s,” Bruce replies easily. “I’m driving him home later. Let’s focus back on you. Care to elaborate on Nothing?”

Jason chews, swallows, and says, “Yeah, Tim, elaborate on Nothing. I’m genuinely dying to know.”

“I told you it’s nothing,” Tim snaps, irritated now. “And I told you that last night, too. Look, I don’t know what’s going on either, okay? I told you everything I know, which is barely anything, so I’d appreciate if we could all stop pretending like I’m some kind of secret genius evil mastermind.”

Jason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Why don’t you stop behaving like one then.”

Finally, they’re getting somewhere. Bruce puts a gentle hand on Dick’s arm to stop him from interfering, and says, “Tim, no one thinks you’re a secret genius evil mastermind. But unless you kids tell me what happened last night, I can’t help.”

Jason, tone loud and accusing, says, “Tim thinks someone from your universe is invading us, but he won’t elaborate on fucking anything.”

“What,” Dick says, “Tim thinks what?”

Tim puts down his fork, either having lost his appetite or trying to signal how done with all of them he is. Bruce privately thinks that they’re probably three more invasive questions away from a full-on teenage meltdown.

“I don’t think this, I know it,” Tim snaps, “but that still doesn’t mean I have the details. If I was allowed to leave dinner early, I might be able to figure it out, but-“

“No leaving the table until everyone is finished,” Bruce says immediately. “And no working on universe-related matters until you’ve done your homework.”

Tim slumps back in his chair. “I hate homework,” he mutters. “My English Lit teacher is the worst.”

“Jason, after dinner, help your brother with his English Lit homework,” Bruce orders. “Dick, you can help me wash up. It’s Alfred’s night off.”

They own a dishwasher – actually, they own three –, but Bruce has always liked the simple act of washing dishes. It’s meditative. Helps him think, too. He has tried to imprint this on his sons, but so far, none of them have been very appreciative, although they indulge him sometimes, on the nights that Alfred is gone.

Now, Dick dutifully dries every dish that Bruce hands him, silent when usually, he’d be chattering away by now. He’s been quiet all evening. First, Bruce suspected it was because Tim and Jason were fighting, but now, he thinks something else might be worrying his oldest.

“Something on your mind?” he asks.

Dick is drying the plate with unusually careful motions. “Who do you think it is?” he finally asks. “That person from your universe. Do you think it’s someone you know? Someone who’s looking for you?”

“I genuinely don’t know who would be,” Bruce answers honestly. “Except maybe my board of investors. I did kind of leave them hanging. But I don’t think any of them have the ability to travel between dimensions. I think that plate is dry now, son.”

Dick puts it down with a rueful smile, accepts the next one, and says, “Or maybe that person is not interested in you at all. Maybe it’s someone evil.”

“Maybe my board of investors after all, then,” Bruce says, just to see Dick laugh. Dick doesn’t, though. He’s in one of his rare serious moods tonight.

“We’d protect you,” Dick says suddenly, and Bruce thinks, ah, there it is. “If it was some supervillain from your universe. We’d make sure you’re safe.”

“I know you would,” Bruce says. “I trust you. All of you.” He waits until Dick smiles hesitantly, before he adds, “I do feel that I need to point something out, though. My universe doesn’t have supervillains. Just regular ones, and they’re usually busy trying to get elected to office. It’s one of its main benefits, I like to think.”

“Personally,” Jason drawls from the door, “I think our weekly blood rain is what makes Gotham liveable. Dick, when you’re done with that, Tim wants to talk to you. Bruce, I’m supposed to make sure you don’t go to his room, but I’ve got an appointment, so do what you want, I guess.”

“Be safe,” Bruce calls after him.

Dick, to his credit, stays behind to help him clean up, even though Bruce is sure that all he wants to do is question Tim on whatever new crisis has arisen. It’s why, when there’s only a few more dishes to wash up, Bruce tells him, “Go on then. I’ll finish up by myself. If Tim asks, you can say that I’m downstairs watching TV, with no intention of checking up on him in the next, let’s say two hours. After that it’s bedtime.”

He wasn’t lying to Dick, he thinks, once his son has left and he’s on his own washing the last few glasses. He does trust them. He does know that they’d all do their best to protect him – him, the outsider, the civilian.

But he hopes they know that, should anything happen, he, too, despite his shortcomings, would do his best to protect them.

*

Tim is being followed, but that’s okay. Red Hood is being so obvious about it that it’s honestly a little sad. Of all the villains Tim has spent today researching, this one is clearly one of the less competent ones. Then again, from what he’s seen, none of them seem to be very competent. Tim could do so much better.

He adjusts the hood of the black sweater he bought, making sure that Red Hood can’t see his face, and steps into the back door of the restaurant he discovered earlier. Red Hood follows him, of course. Tim smiles.

The explosion isn’t big enough to do much more but damage the storage room, and if Red Hood’s helmet is as sturdy as all the reports say it is, then he’ll be fine. But he’ll be distracted long enough for Tim to slip away and get to the subway station. He’s been in this dark, shitty version of Gotham for less than a day, and already he feels dirty somehow. Clearly, it’s time to move up the plan. And

Tim is not interested in some B-list villain.

He's going to talk to some of the real players.

*

News travel fast. Within twelve hours of his arrival, every single one of the magic users knows that there’s a new player on the field. A player who, however temporarily, has taken out John Constantine.

Zatanna sends a message to the League. 

Constantine sends a message to Red Robin.

*

Tim feels bad about sneaking out like this, he does. Bruce always tells them that trust is the most important thing.

But right now, they’ve got an intruder in this universe, and he can’t trust other people to take care of it. He trusts in himself.

So he waits until everybody is in bed for the night before getting the Red Robin suit out of the closet and climbing out the window. It’s okay, he tells himself. He informed Dick what he was doing earlier – well, he informed Dick that he’d be secretly meeting up with Superboy, and asked Dick to cover for him in case anything happens.

He's not meeting up with Conner, but, like, he totally could be. Dick doesn’t need to know his personal life. It’s none of his business how often Tim meets up with his boyfriend.

As soon as Tim’s grappled his way into Crime Alley, someone behind him says, “And I thought I was the black sheep in this family.”

“Hey, Hood,” Tim says, wearily, because Jason is in his Red Hood getup, albeit looking somewhat worse for wear. “Are you going to rat me out?”

“Rat you out?” Jason repeats. “Of course not. I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I don’t even know where I’m going yet, so, no, you’re not.”

“Yes, I-“

“My god,” a new, strangely familiar voice interrupts, “are all your conversations this repetitive?”

Tim and Jason whirl around. There, sauntering into the alley, is a guy, slim, about Tim’s height. He’s wearing all black, his hood deep enough to cover his face, but even so, Tim can tell that he’s smiling.

“It’s you,” Jason says. “You’re the guy who thought he could break into our universe and fuck around.”

“Red Hood,” the guy says coldly. “Here I thought I’d gotten rid of you earlier.”

“Yeah, well,” Jason replies, “I’m like a cockroach. I tend to come back.”

“And Red Robin,” the guy continues, as though Jason hasn’t spoken. “I’ve heard about you. Do you know what Batman calls you?”

“You’ve spoken to Batman?” Jason asks sharply. “That fucker can go to hell.”

Tim tilts his head, curious despite himself. “What does he call me?”

“He calls you one of his soldiers. And you know what else he’s said? He said you’re the only one who does what needs to be done. So I thought to myself, that sounds like a guy worth talking to.” With that, the guy finally steps out into the light and lowers his hood.

Jason mutters a curse, but Tim stays silent. It would be wrong to say he expected this, exactly, but he did consider it a serious possibility. Thirty per cent, he thought. He knows himself well. He definitely knows what he can be like.

“So you talked to Batman,” Tim says, raising an eyebrow. “I’m assuming this was before you decided to mess with the fabric of time and space.”

“Hey, you messed with it first,” his counterpart says. “I just followed the blueprint.” He smiles again, and it strikes Tim how similar they really look. But there’s something off about this version of him, like seeing a photo and then looking at the negative.

“Great,” Tim deadpans. “You followed the blueprint, then came over here and the first thing you did was taser Constantine.”

“He did what?”

“Only a little,” his counterpart says, shrugging. “He’ll be fine.”

“He’ll be pissed,” Tim corrects. “Trust me, that’s not an enemy you’ll want to make.”

His counterpart looks amused. “I think I’ll be just fine. Thanks for the heads up, though. That’s really sweet. If you’re done lecturing me, though, can we have a real talk for a minute? I didn’t come here just to chat.”

Jason tilts his helmet-covered head in Tim’s direction. He doesn’t say anything, but Tim still understands what he’s asking, although to be fair, you don’t need to be a mind reader to get that Jason wants to know whether he should kill Tim’s counterpart. That’s basically Jason’s go-to solution to every problem, probably because he’s too lazy to come up with alternate plans.

Tim gives a tiny shake of his head, barely noticeable. Then he turns his attention back to his counterpart and squares his shoulders. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Can we lose the minion first?”

“Who- oh, Red Hood?”

“Excuse me,” Jason says coldly. “A, I’m not a fucking minion, and B, I ain’t going anywhere. If you think I’m just leaving you alone with my little brother, you’re more delusional than I thought.”

Tim winces. “Actually, it might be helpful if I talked to him alone.”
“Fuck no. What the fuck? Is this you self-destructing again? Because if it is, I’m going to snitch to B.”
“What? Why?!”

“Oh, I’m sorry for giving a shit about you-“

“-pretend to care now of all times-“

“-fucking arrogant asshole-“

“-never once said anything when I actually needed-“

“-expected me to help you with your booty-call, like, are you for-“

“-unbelievable, you’re seriously-“

“For the record,” a familiar (way, way too familiar) voice says loudly, “I was going to do this another way, but you two just wouldn’t shut the fuck up.” Then smoke suddenly fills the alley, and the last thing Tim thinks before he loses consciousness is that he cannot believe he’s being kidnapped because Jason couldn’t stop talking.

*

The emergency meeting is taking place in the Watchtower despite the fact that several pipes burst a last week and it’s slowly filling with water on every floor, since they haven’t had the money for repairs yet.

“This is what Zatanna said.” Superman hands the message to Wonder Woman, who reads it, then passes it on, until everyone gathered around the table has been made aware of the news. A contemplative silence settles, which the Flash is the first to break.

“So, what’s the plan here? We go in guns blazing?”

“We can’t,” Wonder Woman points out. “Gotham is being protected. None of us can enter it.”

For a moment, everyone pauses, waiting for Batman to speak up, which he doesn’t.

“We could send one of the Titans,” Green Lantern suggests. “Ask them to get a read on the situation for us.”

Another pause, this one more awkward.

“They’ve mostly stopped speaking to us,” the Flash eventually says. “I mean, we can always ask, but I’m just not sure the response wouldn’t be a massive ‘go fuck yourself’.”

“So, we’re just supposed to do nothing and let our universe be invaded? Again?”

“Yes.” It’s the first thing Batman has said since they got here. “Zatanna believes this invader is from the same universe as my impostor. With any luck, they’ll tear each other apart. We’ll be ready to pick up the pieces.”

“But what about Gotham? What about-“ The Flash hesitates. “What about your family?”

Batman slowly turns his head in his direction. “My family is dead.”

*

Bruce wakes because someone shoves, harshly, at his shoulder.

“Father. Father, wake up.”

It’s the urgency in the tone rather than the shove that makes him sit up at once, turning on the lamp on the nightstand to see his youngest son looking at him with frantic green eyes.

“Damian? What’s wrong?”

His alarm clock reads 5:57 am, a time that might seen random if he didn’t know that Damian and Tim go running together at 5:30, even on Sundays. It makes him smile sometimes, remembering how Tim had slept in until noon when he’d first gotten here. But Damian is an early riser who likes to run before school starts, and so Tim has adapted.

Which makes the fact that Damian’s here, in his bedroom, dressed in running gear but fundamentally not running, very alarming indeed.

Damian’s next words confirm all of Bruce’s worst fears. “Timothy is gone. He did not meet me downstairs at our usual meeting time. I have checked everywhere. He is not home.” Damian pauses. “Jason is not home, either.”

That stops Bruce’s next question – asking if perhaps Tim, who is young and in a relationship, could have forgotten the plans he made with his little brother in favour of meeting up with his boyfriend – in its tracks. One son not being where he’s supposed to be is strange. Two sons gone cannot be a coincidence.

He tries Tim’s cell first, then Jason’s, and is not really surprised when neither of them picks up. Damian’s face has lost all colour.

“We need to tell Richard,” he says. “If it’s my grandfather- or the Court- or-“ His breath hitches.

Bruce puts a gentle hand on his youngest son’s shoulder. His own heart has started beating fast, but he reminds himself that while, yes, it’s not great that two of his children have apparently gone missing, his youngest child is right in front of him, working himself into a panic attack.

“You did the right thing in informing me immediately,” he says. “And you’re also right to suggest we get Dick. I won’t pretend to know as much about this universe’s rules and problems as the two of you, so I will ask Dick to take the lead on this. But I know neither Dick nor myself are going to be able to help anyone if we’re worried about you, too, okay? Can we trust you to not run off into danger?”

Damian looks away. “You just want me out of the way. I’m not a child.”

“You are a child,” Bruce says gently. “You’re my child. But more importantly, you’re my other children’s brother, and I need you by my side for this. You know Tim’s routine better than Dick and I do. If you and Dick don’t work together on this, neither of you may be able to find them on time.”

At last, Damian’s eyes flit back to him, deeply suspicious. “You also think something is wrong,” he realises.

“I do,” Bruce says. “But we can’t be sure until we start investigating. So I’m going to ask again: can I count on your help for this?”

After what feels like an eternity, Damian nods. “You can count on me.”

“Good.” Bruce smiles at him, and tries not to think of a clock slowly ticking down. “In that case, let’s go wake up your big brother.”

*

When Tim wakes up, he finds that he’s been tied to a chair, which is not unusual, and that someone has taken off his domino mask, which is. The dominos aren’t impossible to remove by non-Bats, not really, but it definitely takes some time, brains and effort.

Then again, he supposes meeting those requirements wasn’t a challenge for the person who removed him.

“Where’s Red Hood?” he asks, because he can’t see Jason anywhere. The room he’s in is strangely familiar, though he can’t quite put his finger on why. It looks like an empty basement, but that’s not saying much. All empty basements are similar.

Doesn’t that water stain on the ceiling look kind of familiar, though?

His counterpart stops whatever he’s been doing with the makeshift lab he set up in the corner and sits down on the chair opposite him, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his thighs, his chin propped up in his hands, peering at him with naked curiosity.

“He’s fine,” he says dismissively. “Though it’s interesting that you’d ask about him. I’ve done some more research while you were unconscious. You two have quite the history.”

“We’ve made up. We’re cool now.”

Two cold fingers suddenly press against Tim’s exposed throat, exactly where Jason had slashed at him a batarang. Where a pale scar sits even now. “Are you?” his counterpart muses. He pulls back, but the icy memory of his touch lingers. Tim’s got circulation problems, too. “What about the rest of your little gang of Robins? I thought my family had baggage, but man, yours is a complete shitshow.”

My family. “Are your parents still alive?” Tim blurts out. It’s a beginner’s mistake – never give kidnappers even a hint of weakness –, but he can’t help himself. He just. He can’t not ask.

His counterpart doesn’t even dignify this with an answer, although there’s a strange flicker in his eyes that might, with some good will, be interpreted as pity. Instead, he says the last thing Tim expected. “I need your help.”

Tim tilts his head. “What? Why?”

“As far as I can tell, there are very few people here who know anything about alternate realities. Even fewer who’re actually able to reach those realities, one way or another. Most of them are magic users. And you.”

“And me,” Tim agrees miserably. He knew the whole Bruce thing couldn’t be this easy. When’s a single good thing ever happened in his life that didn’t then end in catastrophe? “So, what, you want him back? Because I can tell you right now, he’s not coming with you without a fight.”

His counterpart frowns slightly, the first break in his composure. “I’m sorry, are you talking about Bruce Wayne?”

“You’re not?”

“Keep him, I don’t give a shit,” his counterpart says. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to return to my universe. But first, you’re going to help me figure out a way to build a barrier. Our world isn’t like yours. Our Gotham isn’t like yours. One unwanted visitor was enough. There won’t be any more. You and I will make sure of that.”

Tim stares at him. “Hold on. That’s why you came here?”

“I had to assess the situation first-hand. Besides, I figured there’d be someone in this place able to help me, especially after Batman vouched for you. Anyway, I want to go home as soon as possible. If I untie you, are you going to cooperate, or am I going to need to get the taser and start back on square one with you?”

Obviously, Tim should fight his way out of here. That is the only sane answer. His counterpart is smart and has a taser, sure, but Tim’s the one with years of combat training. He knows he could gain the upper hand here, overpower the other Tim, find Jason and get them both back to Wayne Manor. 

But.

This is the most intrigued he’s been since he tried to find a way to connect two minds from two different universes and swap their consciousnesses. He can’t help it – his toxic trait is probably that he’s always enjoyed a good riddle.

He leans back in his chair as far as his restraints will allow. Wherever Jason is, he can wait a bit longer. Some rest will do him some good. “What kind of barrier were you picturing?”

*

Constantine is halfway to getting gloriously drunk when Red Robin calls.

As always, Red Robin is succinct and to the point, and, also as always, he’s asking for something crazy – not because it’s undoable, but because he expects Constantine to help someone who tasered him not even 48 hours ago.

“If I do this for you, you’ll owe me a massive favour,” he warns.

“Didn’t you once exhume the body of a former pope, grind the bones into dust and snort it like cocaine?”

“It was Saint Nicholas,” Constantine says, annoyed, “and if you think you can blackmail me on that-“

There’s a brief scuffle on the other end of the line, before someone who sounds almost like Red Robin recites a seemingly random string of numbers at him. Random, except they’re sounding like Constantine’s National Insurance number, followed by his bank account number, then followed by the address of Zatanna’s apartment.

“I’m not going to do anything with that information,” the other Red Robin informs him pleasantly. “Do you want to know why not?”

“I suspect you’re about to tell me,” Constantine grits out.

“Because you’re going to help me, and once I return to my own universe, you’ll never see me again. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“What a relief,” Constantine says sourly. “I’ll be there in an hour.” Christ. He’d forgotten how much he despises teenagers.

*

Jason is going to murder Tim.

He’s going to start with the kid’s counterpart, who’s tied him up so efficiently that he hasn’t managed anything except dislocate his thumb in an attempt to escape, and who’s also left him in the Drakes’ old house, of all places, which is creepy as fuck. Then, when that little problem is taken care of, he’s going to move on to his idiot brother, who seriously tried to deal with this on his own without alerting anyone and who now caused them both to get kidnapped.

As soon as he’s escaped.

The other Tim is clearly some sort of sociopath, which honestly shouldn’t surprise Jason. He always knew Tim was about two breakdowns and a drug habit away from moving to the woods and building bombs. This all feels exactly on brand.

He’s also not surprised by the kid’s obsession with himself. Of course the first person Tim would seek out in an alternate universe would be himself, the little narcissist. He probably thinks this is the only smart person he can have a conversation with, or some bullshit like that.

The thing that he truly, genuinely did not expect is how hard it is not to care for this version of Tim. Jason woke up just briefly earlier, still weakened by whatever drug the other Tim gave him, unable to prevent himself from being tied up in the Drakes’ living room. But he did watch this Tim’s movements, as confident and graceful as the ones from Jason’s Tim, and he saw his eyes, the exact same shade of blue as his brother’s.

It’s kind of funny, in a really messed up way: when Batman got replaced by Bruce, it took everyone a while to learn how to trust him. With Tim, the exact opposite is happening. Jason’s actively having to remind himself that this kid is not his little brother, that there’s no reason for him to feel worried about him. Fucking ridiculous.

Clearly, he needs to get out of here. He’s just trying to wriggle himself free again, dislocated thumb be damned, when he hears a noise that’s definitely coming from the front door. He freezes, then relaxes once he recognises the voices.

“-shouldn’t be here, B.”

“Two of my sons are missing. This is exactly where I need to be.”

“Hey,” Jason shouts. “I’m in here!”

Silence, then the sound of hurrying footsteps. A few seconds later, Bruce and Dick burst inside. Dick’s in his Nightwing suit, but Bruce looks just like he always does, wearing jeans and a sweater that offends the senses.

Dick kneels next to him at once, doing fast work of the knots, but it’s Bruce who Jason focuses on. He’s never seen him look so pale.

“I am so glad to see you, son,” Bruce says.

As soon as Jason is freed, Bruce hugs him, and Jason’s a little embarrassed by how little he protests, how eagerly he falls into those arms, allowing himself to be crushed against Bruce’s broad chest. He feels like he’s twelve again, thirteen, fourteen, when Batman would offer comfort freely, without conditions.

After a long moment, Jason steps back and frowns at Bruce. “What are you doing here?” He zeroes in on Dick. “What the hell were you thinking, bringing him along? He’s a civilian.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Dick says. “He insisted.”

“He can hear you,” Bruce reminds them. “Jason, I’ll tell you what I told Dick: I promise not to be in your way. But I couldn’t not come, not when we’ve all been so worried.”

“Where’s Red Robin?” Dick asks, like using any of their aliases still matters with Bruce literally standing there in jeans. “Does this have anything to do with that invader from B’s original universe?”

Jason barks out a laugh. He’s just realised that Dick and Bruce don’t know yet. They’ve found him, but they don’t know. “Oh, man,” he says, “you’re not going to believe this. They’re downstairs, I think – who knows what those two assholes got up to while I was out of it. With any luck, Tim won’t have been corrupted yet. Let’s go get him.”

“They?” Dick echoes, at the same time that Bruce says, “two?”

“You’ll see,” Jason says. Now that he’s no longer tied up, he’s able to think a little more clearly.

Probably Tim is okay. Tim’s counterpart struck him as a sociopath who tried to blow him up, yes, but he also didn’t seem like he was trying to kill Tim or anything. Probably they’re just in the basement playing the world’s most fucked up game of chess, or quizzing each other on crime statistics, or whatever activity Tim enjoys doing when he’s not watching Fast and Furious. 

But he does walk a little faster, just in case. And he does make sure to walk ahead of Bruce, and notices Dick doing the same. Just in case.

*

For the second time in his life, a door opens to reveal a version of Bruce Wayne standing in front of Tim. This time around, though, he’s arrived with Red Hood and Nightwing, and his worried expression is miles away from the grim look he’d worn months ago when seeking Tim out in his house. Which means that this isn’t Batman.

This universe’s Tim hasn’t noticed yet. He’s typing on a laptop while simultaneously monitoring Constantine, who is sitting in a chair with his eyes closed and his hands glowing. He’d taken some of their blood earlier, two samples, and then this universe’s Tim had pulled up his original research on universe hopping and explained their basic idea. So now, after chugging their blood samples in one go, Constantine is sitting there, glowing and using some form of dimension magic that Tim doesn’t understand and doesn’t really care about.

He can see himself, in another reality, needing to learn more, needing to become a part of this strange world of magic and crime fighting and adventure. It would be so easy to get caught up in all this, so easy to turn his back on everything he’s ever known to learn just a little bit more, to do just a little bit more.

Not in his own reality, though. Because he can see how that would play out, too. Has seen how it played out here.

Are your parents still alive? this universe’s Tim had asked.

Tim’s relationship with his parents isn’t always great. He knows, rationally, that they aren’t home a lot, that they don’t answer his calls a lot, that they could probably do a lot more parenting if they wanted to.

But they’re still his parents. Just like it’s still his Gotham. His universe.

He’s identified a problem here. He knows what must be done, and has done some friendly bit of delegation to accomplish it. And he’s almost finished fixing it when the door opens.

*

Dimension travel is hard for most people, but not to someone like Constantine. Creating a barrier, it turns out, isn’t hard, either. He’s already built one around Gotham. With those two creepy horror twins’ help, he was quick to figure out how to build one around an entire universe.

It’s just like closing a door instead of opening it, then locking it and throwing away the key.

*

Bruce walks into that basement, sees two versions of his third-youngest son, and stops short.

Still, he knows exactly which one of them is his Tim. It’s the one not holding up a taser.

“Don’t come any closer,” he warns. “Or I’m going to use this on Tim.”

Bruce holds up his hands. “Tim,” he calls out to the Tim who is typing furiously on a laptop. “Are you okay?”

Tim glances up. “Oh,” he says, “hey, Bruce. Sorry, I’m almost done here.”

‘Almost done’. With what? Would Bruce understand if Tim explained it to him? He doesn’t always, partly because this universe has different rules than the one he’s used to, and partly because Tim in particular has such a sharp mind that it’s not always easy to keep up with that.

He can feel Dick vibrating with the need to do something, to somehow take charge of this situation and fix it, but he puts a hand on his eldest son’s shoulder, holding him back. He focuses on the other Tim, who looks exactly like his Tim and who’s looking back at him with the gaze of someone trying really hard to keep it together.

“We know each other, don’t we?” Bruce asks, keeping his voice light. “You used to be my neighbour.”

The other Tim nods warily.

“I remember you well. You used to pass by my house when you went running in the morning. Our Tim runs, too, I don’t know if he mentioned that. He’s going to run a half-marathon in the spring.”

His Tim blushes and gives Bruce a withering glare, like the mere mention of him having a hobby is embarrassing. “Bruce, stop.”

The other Tim frowns, looking from Bruce to Tim and back to Bruce. “Okay?”

“Anyway, I know we haven’t interacted all that much, but I distinctly recall running into your mother when she was pregnant with you. Now, Janet Drake isn’t always an easy person, but she was so happy about you.”

“Oh my god,” the other Tim says, his eyes now flitting to Bruce’s Tim. “Is this how he got you all to play happy family? Just- being incredibly nice?”

“Pretty much,” Dick offers.

“It was annoying at first,” Jason says, “but he really wears you down. Timbo fell first, by the way. Folded like a cheap suit.”

“Got it,” Tim says loudly, at the same time that the strange man’s hands stop glowing. The man opens his eyes and gives the two Tims a thumbs up.

The other Tim immediately joins his counterpart at the laptop, his eyes on the screen while Bruce’s Tim explains something and the other man uses the last spark of his hands to light a cigarette. And it suddenly occurs to Bruce, looking at these two almost identical boys, that in a way, the other Tim could be considered his Tim, since they’re from the same universe.

It doesn’t work like that, though. These past few months have more than proven that. What was it he once told Damian? Family isn’t about blood or paperwork. It’s not about universes, either.

If things had turned out differently, he may have ended up loving this Tim as much as he loves the other one. But what use is there in speculation? If things had turned out differently, Bruce wouldn’t be here, Batman would. If things had turned out differently, things would be different, simple as that. One doesn’t have to be as smart as Tim to understand that.

For now, Bruce watches his Tim point emphatically at the screen, and he watches the other Tim nod along, and he can’t help but think to himself how lucky he is, that he got even one version of Tim. That he got even one version of Dick and Jason and Damian. All things considered, he really could not be any luckier.

*

“-won’t be able to get in,” this universe’s Tim is saying. “As soon as you go home, your timeline is going to be removed from the main string.”

“Which also means you won’t be able to get out,” Constantine interrupts. “Good fucking riddance. Are we about done here, lads? Because if so, I’m going back to the bar.”

Tim and his counterpart both wave a hand at him, and Constantine pushes past Nightwing and Red Hood and walks out. Immediately, the atmosphere in the room becomes a little less sleazy.

“You can just use this to go home, by the way.” The other Tim holds out a vial filled with a clear liquid. “In case, you know, you want to make less of an entrance.”

Tim takes it. For a second, neither of them says anything, although he can feel three pairs of eyes boring into the back of his head.

“My parents are fine, by the way,” he says at last.

“Oh. Good.”

More silence.

“Also,” Tim adds, “just so you know, I’ve hacked into the Justice League’s files and I think they’ve assumed I’m going to murder all of you, so, you know, you might want to tell them that I haven’t.”

At the other end of the room, Red Hood snorts. “If we tell the Justice League anything, it’ll be to go fuck themselves.”

“Language,” Nightwing and Bruce say at the same time.

Tim toys with the vial. Looking into his counterpart’s eyes is almost like looking into a mirror. It took him a while to figure out what the difference is – he’d suspected something on the roof, but only when Nightwing and Bruce Wayne entered the room and he saw this Tim’s face light up had he realised what it is.

This universe’s version of himself is happy.

A part of Tim is so jealous of that he could burst. But a much larger part of him understands how irrational that is. Besides, he’s only seventeen. He’s got plenty of time to find happiness.

Perhaps he’ll start by running a half-marathon.

“Thanks for your help,” he says, and doesn’t say anything more. They’re done here. Problem solved.

“Tim?” Bruce says, and somehow, Tim can tell from his tone that he means him. He turns.

Bruce smiles at him. “Save travels, son.”

Tim swallows. Before the lump in his throat can grow any heavier, he downs the vial, and goes home.

*

And somewhere far away, in a very different Gotham, a very different Tim arrives back in his house at the same time that, here, in this Gotham, a man and three of his sons return to Wayne Manor, where they meet up with his fourth son.

And meanwhile, without anyone except Zatanna and Constantine noticing, a door is shut and locked, and a key is thrown away.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Dick asks a little later, when everyone else has gone to bed and he is, once again, helping Bruce wash the dishes.

Of course, Bruce has no way of knowing this. But he hadn’t been lying earlier. He does remember a dark-haired boy passing his house on his morning runs. He does remember Janet Drake glowing with happiness. He has a new memory now: watching the other universe’s Tim work as hard to protect his universe as his Tim had once worked to get Batman back.

He smiles at his oldest son. “I think he’s going to be fine.”